).—Ed.The park of the Emperor of China at Gehol, is called Van-shoo-yuen, "the paradise of ten thousand trees." Lord Macartney concludes his description of that "wonderful garden" by saying,
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"Several years ago, when the Author retired to his native mountains with the hope of being enabled to construct a literary work that might live, it was a reasonable thing that he should take a review of his own mind, and examine how far Nature and Education had qualified him for such an employment.Such was the Author's language in the year 1814.
"As subsidiary to this preparation, he undertook to record, in verse, the origin and progress of his own powers, as far as he was acquainted with them.
"That work, addressed to a dear friend, most distinguished for his knowledge and genius, and to whom the author's intellect is deeply indebted, has been long finished; and the result of the investigation which gave rise to it, was a determination to compose a philosophical Poem, containing views of Man, Nature, and Society, and to be entitled 'The Recluse;' as having for its principal subject the sensations and opinions of a poet living in retirement.
"The preparatory poem is biographical, and conducts the history of the Author's mind to the point when he was emboldened to hope that his faculties were sufficiently matured for entering upon the arduous labour which he had proposed to himself; and the two works have the same kind of relation to each other, if he may so express himself, as the Ante-chapel has to the body of a Gothic Church. Continuing this allusion, he may be permitted to add, that his minor pieces, which have been long before the public, when they shall be properly arranged, will be found by the attentive reader to have such connection with the main work as may give them claim to be likened to the little cells, oratories, and sepulchral recesses, ordinarily included in those edifices."
"The seventh was begun in the opening of that year; ... and the remaining seven were written before the end of June 1805, when his friend Coleridge was in the island of Malta, for the restoration of his health."(The late Bishop of Lincoln.)
"I am engaged in writing a poem on my own earlier life, which will take five parts or books to complete, three of which are nearly finished."The late Bishop of Lincoln supposed that this letter to Wrangham was written "at the close of 1803, or beginning of 1804." (See Memoirs of Wordsworth, vol. i. p. 303.) There is evidence that it belongs to 1804. At the commencement of the seventh book, p. 247, he says:
Six changeful years have vanished since I firstI have italicised the clauses which give some clue to the dates of composition. From these it would appear that the "glad preamble," written on leaving Goslar in 1799 (which, I think, included only the first two paragraphs of book first), was a "short-lived transport"; but that "soon" afterwards "a less impetuous stream" broke forth, which, after the settlement at Grasmere, "flowed awhile with unabating strength," and then "stopped for years." Now the above passage, recording these things, was written in 1805, and in the late autumn of that year; (as is evident from the reference which immediately follows to the "choir of redbreasts" and the approach of winter). We must therefore assign the flowing of the "less impetuous stream," to 1802; in order to leave room for the intervening "years," in which it ceased to flow, till it was audible again in the spring of 1804, "last primrose-time."
Poured out (saluted by that quickening breeze
Which met me issuing from the City's walls)
A glad preamble to this Verse: I sang
Aloud, with fervour irresistible
Of short-lived transport, like a torrent bursting,
From a black thunder-cloud, down Scafell's side
To rush and disappear. But soon broke forth
(So willed the Muse) a less impetuous stream,
That flowed awhile with unabating strength,
Then stopped for years; not audible again
Before last primrose-time.
Four years and thirty, told, this very week,This fixes definitely enough the date of the composition of that part of the work, viz. April 1804, which corresponds exactly to the "last primrose-time" of the previous extract from the seventh book, in which he tells us that after its long silence, his Muse was heard again. So far Wordsworth's own allusions to the date of The Prelude.
Have I been now a sojourner on earth.
"I am now writing a poem on my own earlier life: I have just finished that part of it in which I speak of my residence at the University." ... It is "better than half complete, viz. four books, amounting to about 2500 lines."AOn the 24th of March, Dorothy wrote to Mrs. Clarkson, that since Coleridge left them (which was in January 1804), her brother had added 1500 lines to the poem on his own life. On the 29th of April 1804, Wordsworth wrote to Richard Sharpe,
"I have been very busy these last ten weeks: having written between two and three thousand lines—accurately near three thousand—in that time; namely, four books, and a third of another. I am at present at the Seventh Book."On the 25th December 1804, he wrote to Sir George Beaumont,
"I have written upwards of 2000 verses during the last ten weeks."We thus find that Books I. to IV. had been written by the 6th of March 1804, that from the 19th February to the 29th of April nearly 3000 lines were written, that March and April were specially productive months, for by the 29th April he had reached Book VII. while from 16th October to 25th December he wrote over 2000 lines.
Grasmere, Dec. 25, 1804.These letters explain the delay in the publication of The Prelude. They show that what led Wordsworth to write so much about himself was not self-conceit, but self-diffidence. He felt unprepared as yet for the more arduous task he had set before himself. He saw its faults as clearly, or more clearly, than the critics who condemned him. He knew that its length was excessive. He tried to condense it; he kept it beside him unpublished, and occasionally revised it, with a view to condensation, in vain. The text received his final corrections in the year 1832.
"My dear Sir George,—You will be pleased to hear that I have been advancing with my work: I have written upwards of 2000 verses during the last ten weeks. I do not know if you are exactly acquainted with the plan of my poetical labour: It is twofold; first, a Poem, to be called The Recluse; in which it will be my object to express in verse my most interesting feelings concerning man, nature, and society; and next, a poem (in which I am at present chiefly engaged) on my earlier life, or the growth of my own mind, taken up upon a large scale. This latter work I expect to have finished before the month of May; and then I purpose to fall with all my might on the former, which is the chief object upon which my thoughts have been fixed these many years. Of this poem, that of The Pedlar, which Coleridge read to you, is part; and I may have written of it altogether about 2000 lines. It will consist, I hope, of about ten or twelve thousand."
Grasmere, May 1, 1805.
"Unable to proceed with this work,B I turned my thoughts again to the Poem on my own Life, and you will be glad to hear that I have added 300 lines to it in the course of last week. Two books more will conclude it. It will not be much less than 9000 lines,—not hundred but thousand lines long,—an alarming length! and a thing unprecedented in literary history that a man should talk so much about himself. It is not self-conceit, as you will know well, that has induced me to do this, but real humility. I began the work because I was unprepared to treat any more arduous subject, and diffident of my own powers. Here, at least, I hoped that to a certain degree I should be sure of succeeding, as I had nothing to do but describe what I had felt and thought, and therefore could not easily be bewildered. This might have been done in narrower compass by a man of more address; but I have done my best. If, when the work shall be finished, it appears to the judicious to have redundancies, they shall be lopped off, if possible; but this is very difficult to do, when a man has written with thought; and this defect, whenever I have suspected it or found it to exist in any writings of mine, I have always found it incurable. The fault lies too deep, and is in the first conception."
Grasmere, June 3, 1805.
"I have the pleasure to say that I finished my poem about a fortnight ago. I had looked forward to the day as a most happy one; ... But it was not a happy day for me; I was dejected on many accounts: when I looked back upon the performance, it seemed to have a dead weight about it,—the reality so far short of the expectation. It was the first long labour that I had finished; and the doubt whether I should ever live to write The Recluse, and the sense which I had of this poem being so far below what I seemed capable of executing, depressed me much; above all, many heavy thoughts of my poor departed brother hung upon me, the joy which I should have had in showing him the manuscript, and a thousand other vain fancies and dreams. I have spoken of this, because it was a state of feeling new to me, the occasion being new. This work may be considered as a sort of portico to The Recluse, part of the same building, which I hope to be able, ere long, to begin with in earnest; and if I am permitted to bring it to a conclusion, and to write, further, a narrative poem of the epic kind, I shall consider the task of my life as over. I ought to add, that I have the satisfaction of finding the present poem not quite of so alarming a length as I apprehended."
"If, as you say, The Waggoner, in some sort, came at my call, oh for a potent voice to call forth The Recluse from his profound dormitory, where he sleeps forgetful of his foolish charge—the world!"(The Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. ii. p. 26.)
"This defect" (of redundancy) "whenever I have suspected it or found it to exist in any writings of mine, I have always found incurable. The fault lies too deep, and is in the first conception."The actual result—in the Poem he had at length committed to writing—was so far inferior to the ideal he had tried to realise, that he could never be induced to publish it. He spoke of the MS. as forming a sort of portico to his larger work—the poem on Man, Nature, and Society—which he meant to call The Recluse, and of which one portion only, viz. The Excursion, was finished. It is clear that throughout the composition of The Prelude, he felt that he was experimenting with his powers. He wished to find out whether he could construct "a literary work that might live," on a larger scale than his Lyrics; and it was on the writing of a "philosophical poem," dealing with Man and Nature, in their deepest aspects, that his thoughts had been fixed for many years. From the letter to Sir George Beaumont, December 25, 1804, it is evident that he regarded the autobiographical poem as a mere prologue to this larger work, to which he hoped to turn "with all his might" after The Prelude was finished, and of which he had already written about a fifth or a sixth (see Memoirs, vol. i. p. 304). This was the part known in the Grasmere household as "The Pedlar," a title given to it from the character of the Wanderer, but afterwards happily set aside. He did not devote himself, however, to the completion of his wider purpose, immediately after The Prelude was finished. He wrote one book of The Recluse which he called "Home at Grasmere"; and, though detached from The Prelude, it is a continuation of the narrative of his own life at the point where it is left off in the latter poem. It consists of 733 lines. Two extracts from it were published in the Memoirs of Wordsworth in 1851 (vol. i. pp. 151 and 155), beginning [Volume 2 links:],
'On Nature's invitation do I come,'and
'Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak.'These will be found in vol. ii. of this edition, pp. 118 and 121 respectively.
"I cannot help regretting that Wordsworth did not first publish his thirteen (fourteen) books on the growth of an individual mind—superior, as I used to think, upon the whole to The Excursion. You may judge how I felt about them by my own Poem upon the occasion. Then the plan laid out, and, I believe, partly suggested by me, was, that Wordsworth should assume the station of a man in mental repose, one whose principles were made up, and so prepared to deliver upon authority a system of philosophy. He was to treat man as man,—a subject of eye, ear, touch, and taste in contact with external nature, and informing the senses from the mind, and not compounding a mind out of the senses; then he was to describe the pastoral and other states of society, assuming something of the Juvenalian spirit as he approached the high civilisation of cities and towns, and opening a melancholy picture of the present state of degeneracy and vice; thence he was to infer and reveal the proof of, and necessity for, the whole state of man and society being subject to, and illustrative of a redemptive process in operation, showing how this idea reconciled all the anomalies, and promised future glory and restoration. Something of this sort was, I think, agreed on. It is, in substance, what I have been all my life doing in my system of philosophy.The following are Coleridge's Lines addressed to Wordsworth:
"I think Wordsworth possessed more of the genius of a great Philosopher than any man I ever knew, or, as I believe, has existed in England since Milton; but it seems to me that he ought never to have abandoned the contemplative position which is peculiarly—perhaps, I might say exclusively—fitted for him. His proper title is Spectator ab extra."
To William WordsworthIt was at Coleorton, in Leicestershire,—where the Wordsworths lived during the winter of 1806-7, in a farm-house belonging to Sir George Beaumont, and where Coleridge visited them,—that The Prelude was read aloud by its author, on the occasion which gave birth to these lines.—Ed.
Composed on the Night after his Recitation of a Poem on rhe Growth of an Individual Mind
Friend of the wise! and teacher of the good!
Into my heart have I received that lay
More than historic, that prophetic lay
Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright)
Of the foundations and the building up
Of a Human Spirit thou hast dared to tell
What may be told, to the understanding mind
Revealable; and what within the mind
By vital breathings secret as the soul
Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the heart
Thoughts all too deep for words!—
Theme hard as high,
Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears
(The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth),
Of tides obedient to external force,
And currents self-determined, as might seem,
Or by some inner power; of moments awful,
Now in thy inner life, and now abroad,
When power streamed from thee, and thy soul received
The Light reflected, as a light bestowed—
Of fancies fair, and milder hours of youth,
Hyblean murmurs of poetic thought
Industrious in its joy, in vales and glens,
Native or outland, lakes and famous hills!
Or on the lonely high-road, when the stars
Were rising; or by secret mountain-streams,
The guides and the companions of thy way!
Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense
Distending wide, and man beloved as man,
Where France in all her towns lay vibrating
Like some becalmed bark beneath the burst
Of Heaven's immediate thunder, when no cloud
Is visible, or shadow on the main.
For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded,
Amid the tremor of a realm aglow,
Amid a mighty nation jubilant,
When from the general heart of humankind
Hope sprang forth like a full-born Deity!
—Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down,
So summoned homeward, thenceforth calm and sure,
From the dread watch-tower of man's absolute self,
With light unwaning on her eyes, to look
Far on—herself a glory to behold.
The Angel of the vision! Then (last strain)
Of Duty, chosen laws controlling choice,
Action and joy!—An Orphic song indeed,
A song divine of high and passionate thoughts
To their own music chanted!
O great Bard!
Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air,
With stedfast eye I viewed thee in the choir
Of ever-enduring men. The truly great
Have all one age, and from one visible space
Shed influence! They, both in power and act,
Are permanent, and Time is not with them,
Save as it worketh for them, they in it.
Nor less a sacred roll, than those of old,
And to be placed, as they, with gradual fame
Among the archives of mankind, thy work
Makes audible a linked lay of Truth,
Of Truth profound a sweet continuous lay,
Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes!
Ah! as I listened with a heart forlorn,
The pulses of my being beat anew:
And even as life returns upon the drowned,
Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of pains—
Keen pangs of Love, awakening as a babe
Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart;
And fears self-willed, that shunned the eye of hope;
And hope that scarce would know itself from fear;
Sense of past youth, and manhood come in vain,
And genius given, and knowledge won in vain;
And all which I had culled in wood-walks wild,
And all which patient toil had reared, and all,
Commune with thee had opened out—but flowers
Strewed on my corse, and borne upon my bier,
In the same coffin, for the self-same grave!
... Eve following eve,
Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of Home
Is sweetest! moments for their own sake hailed,
And more desired, more precious for thy song,
In silence listening, like a devout child,
My soul lay passive, by thy various strain
Driven as in surges now beneath the stars,
With momentary stars of my own birth,
Fair constellated foam, [C] still darting off
Into the darkness; now a tranquil sea,
Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the moon.
And when—O Friend! my comforter and guide!
Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength!—
Thy long-sustained Song finally closed,
And thy deep voice had ceased—yet thou thyself
Wert still before my eyes, and round us both
That happy vision of beloved faces—
Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close
I sate, my being blended in one thought
(Thought was it? or aspiration? or resolve?)
Absorbed, yet hanging still upon the sound—
And when I rose I found myself in prayer.
Contents—The Prelude
Main Contents
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| O there is blessing in this gentle breeze, A visitant that while it fans my cheek Doth seem half-conscious of the joy it brings From the green fields, and from yon azure sky. Whate'er its mission, the soft breeze can come To none more grateful than to me; escaped From the vast city, where I long had pined A discontented sojourner: now free, Free as a bird to settle where I will. What dwelling shall receive me? in what vale Shall be my harbour? underneath what grove Shall I take up my home? and what clear stream Shall with its murmur lull me into rest? The earth is all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about; and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way. I breathe again! Trances of thought and mountings of the mind Come fast upon me: it is shaken off, That burthen of my own unnatural self, The heavy weight of many a weary day Not mine, and such as were not made for me. Long months of peace (if such bold word accord With any promises of human life), Long months of ease and undisturbed delight Are mine in prospect; whither shall I turn, By road or pathway, or through trackless field, Up hill or down, or shall some floating thing Upon the river point me out my course? Dear Liberty! Yet what would it avail But for a gift that consecrates the joy? For I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven Was blowing on my body, felt within A correspondent breeze, that gently moved With quickening virtue, but is now become A tempest, a redundant energy, Vexing its own creation. Thanks to both, And their congenial powers, that, while they join In breaking up a long-continued frost, Bring with them vernal promises, the hope Of active days urged on by flying hours,— Days of sweet leisure, taxed with patient thought Abstruse, nor wanting punctual service high, Matins and vespers of harmonious verse! Thus far, O Friend! did I, not used to make A present joy the matter of a song, Pour forth that day my soul in measured strains That would not be forgotten, and are here Recorded: to the open fields I told A prophecy: poetic numbers came Spontaneously to clothe in priestly robe A renovated spirit singled out, Such hope was mine, for holy services. My own voice cheered me, and, far more, the mind's Internal echo of the imperfect sound; To both I listened, drawing from them both A cheerful confidence in things to come. Content and not unwilling now to give A respite to this passion, I paced on With brisk and eager steps; and came, at length, To a green shady place, where down I sate Beneath a tree, slackening my thoughts by choice, And settling into gentler happiness. 'Twas autumn, and a clear and placid day, With warmth, as much as needed, from a sun Two hours declined towards the west; a day With silver clouds, and sunshine on the grass, And in the sheltered and the sheltering grove A perfect stillness. Many were the thoughts Encouraged and dismissed, till choice was made Of a known Vale, whither my feet should turn, Nor rest till they had reached the very door Of the one cottage which methought I saw. No picture of mere memory ever looked So fair; and while upon the fancied scene I gazed with growing love, a higher power Than Fancy gave assurance of some work Of glory there forthwith to be begun, Perhaps too there performed. Thus long I mused, Nor e'er lost sight of what I mused upon, Save when, amid the stately groves of oaks, Now here, now there, an acorn, from its cup Dislodged, through sere leaves rustled, or at once To the bare earth dropped with a startling sound. From that soft couch I rose not, till the sun Had almost touched the horizon; casting then A backward glance upon the curling cloud Of city smoke, by distance ruralised; Keen as a Truant or a Fugitive, But as a Pilgrim resolute, I took, Even with the chance equipment of that hour, The road that pointed toward the chosen Vale. It was a splendid evening, and my soul Once more made trial of her strength, nor lacked Æolian visitations; but the harp Was soon defrauded, and the banded host Of harmony dispersed in straggling sounds, And lastly utter silence! "Be it so; Why think of any thing but present good?" So, like a home-bound labourer I pursued My way beneath the mellowing sun, that shed Mild influence; nor left in me one wish Again to bend the Sabbath of that time To a servile yoke. What need of many words? A pleasant loitering journey, through three days Continued, brought me to my hermitage, I spare to tell of what ensued, the life In common things—the endless store of things, Rare, or at least so seeming, every day Found all about me in one neighbourhood— The self-congratulation, and, from morn To night, unbroken cheerfulness serene. But speedily an earnest longing rose To brace myself to some determined aim, Reading or thinking; either to lay up New stores, or rescue from decay the old By timely interference: and therewith Came hopes still higher, that with outward life I might endue some airy phantasies That had been floating loose about for years, And to such beings temperately deal forth The many feelings that oppressed my heart. That hope hath been discouraged; welcome light Dawns from the east, but dawns to disappear And mock me with a sky that ripens not Into a steady morning: if my mind, Remembering the bold promise of the past, Would gladly grapple with some noble theme, Vain is her wish; where'er she turns she finds Impediments from day to day renewed. And now it would content me to yield up Those lofty hopes awhile, for present gifts Of humbler industry. But, oh, dear Friend! The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times; His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts: his mind, best pleased While she as duteous as the mother dove Sits brooding, lives not always to that end, But like the innocent bird, hath goadings on That drive her as in trouble through the groves; With me is now such passion, to be blamed No otherwise than as it lasts too long. When, as becomes a man who would prepare For such an arduous work, I through myself Make rigorous inquisition, the report Is often cheering; for I neither seem To lack that first great gift, the vital soul, Nor general Truths, which are themselves a sort Of Elements and Agents, Under-powers, Subordinate helpers of the living mind: Nor am I naked of external things, Forms, images, nor numerous other aids Of less regard, though won perhaps with toil And needful to build up a Poet's praise. Time, place, and manners do I seek, and these Are found in plenteous store, but nowhere such As may be singled out with steady choice; No little band of yet remembered names Whom I, in perfect confidence, might hope To summon back from lonesome banishment, And make them dwellers in the hearts of men Now living, or to live in future years. Sometimes the ambitious Power of choice, mistaking Proud spring-tide swellings for a regular sea, Will settle on some British theme, some old Romantic tale by Milton left unsung; More often turning to some gentle place Within the groves of Chivalry, I pipe To shepherd swains, or seated harp in hand, Amid reposing knights by a river side Or fountain, listen to the grave reports Of dire enchantments faced and overcome By the strong mind, and tales of warlike feats, Where spear encountered spear, and sword with sword Fought, as if conscious of the blazonry That the shield bore, so glorious was the strife; Whence inspiration for a song that winds Through ever changing scenes of votive quest Wrongs to redress, harmonious tribute paid To patient courage and unblemished truth, To firm devotion, zeal unquenchable, And Christian meekness hallowing faithful loves. Sometimes, more sternly moved, I would relate How vanquished Mithridates northward passed, And, hidden in the cloud of years, became Odin, the Father of a race by whom Perished the Roman Empire: how the friends And followers of Sertorius, out of Spain Flying, found shelter in the Fortunate Isles, And left their usages, their arts and laws, To disappear by a slow gradual death, To dwindle and to perish one by one, Starved in those narrow bounds: but not the soul Of Liberty, which fifteen hundred years Survived, and, when the European came With skill and power that might not be withstood, Did, like a pestilence, maintain its hold And wasted down by glorious death that race Of natural heroes: or I would record How, in tyrannic times, some high-souled man, Unnamed among the chronicles of kings, Suffered in silence for Truth's sake: or tell, How that one Frenchman, through continued force Of meditation on the inhuman deeds Of those who conquered first the Indian Isles, Went single in his ministry across The Ocean; not to comfort the oppressed, But, like a thirsty wind, to roam about Withering the Oppressor: how Gustavus sought Help at his need in Dalecarlia's mines: How Wallace fought for Scotland; left the name Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower, All over his dear Country; left the deeds Of Wallace, like a family of Ghosts, To people the steep rocks and river banks, Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul Of independence and stern liberty. Sometimes it suits me better to invent A tale from my own heart, more near akin To my own passions and habitual thoughts; Some variegated story, in the main Lofty, but the unsubstantial structure melts Before the very sun that brightens it, Mist into air dissolving! Then a wish, My best and favourite aspiration, mounts With yearning toward some philosophic song Of Truth that cherishes our daily life; With meditations passionate from deep Recesses in man's heart, immortal verse Thoughtfully fitted to the Orphean lyre; But from this awful burthen I full soon Take refuge and beguile myself with trust That mellower years will bring a riper mind And clearer insight. Thus my days are past In contradiction; with no skill to part Vague longing, haply bred by want of power, From paramount impulse not to be withstood, A timorous capacity from prudence, From circumspection, infinite delay. Humility and modest awe themselves Betray me, serving often for a cloak To a more subtle selfishness; that now Locks every function up in blank reserve, Now dupes me, trusting to an anxious eye That with intrusive restlessness beats off Simplicity and self-presented truth. Ah! better far than this, to stray about Voluptuously through fields and rural walks, And ask no record of the hours, resigned To vacant musing, unreproved neglect Of all things, and deliberate holiday. Far better never to have heard the name Of zeal and just ambition, than to live Baffled and plagued by a mind that every hour Turns recreant to her task; takes heart again, Then feels immediately some hollow thought Hang like an interdict upon her hopes. This is my lot; for either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling toward the grave, Like a false steward who hath much received And renders nothing back. Was it for this That one, the fairest of all rivers, loved To blend his murmurs with my nurse's song, And, from his alder shades and rocky falls, And from his fords and shallows, sent a voice That flowed along my dreams? For this, didst thou, O Derwent! winding among grassy holms Where I was looking on, a babe in arms, Make ceaseless music that composed my thoughts To more than infant softness, giving me Amid the fretful dwellings of mankind A foretaste, a dim earnest, of the calm That Nature breathes among the hills and groves? When he had left the mountains and received On his smooth breast the shadow of those towers That yet survive, a shattered monument Of feudal sway, the bright blue river passed Along the margin of our terrace walk; A tempting playmate whom we dearly loved. Oh, many a time have I, a five years' child, In a small mill-race severed from his stream, Made one long bathing of a summer's day; Basked in the sun, and plunged and basked again Alternate, all a summer's day, or scoured The sandy fields, leaping through flowery groves Of yellow ragwort; or when rock and hill, The woods, and distant Skiddaw's lofty height, Were bronzed with deepest radiance, stood alone Beneath the sky, as if I had been born On Indian plains, and from my mother's hut Had run abroad in wantonness, to sport A naked savage, in the thunder shower. Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up Fostered alike by beauty and by fear: Much favoured in my birth-place, and no less In that beloved Vale to which erelong We were transplanted—there were we let loose For sports of wider range. Ere I had told Ten birth-days, when among the mountain slopes Frost, and the breath of frosty wind, had snapped The last autumnal crocus, 'twas my joy With store of springes o'er my shoulder hung To range the open heights where woodcocks run Along the smooth green turf. Through half the night, Scudding away from snare to snare, I plied That anxious visitation;—moon and stars Were shining o'er my head. I was alone, And seemed to be a trouble to the peace That dwelt among them. Sometimes it befel In these night wanderings, that a strong desire O'erpowered my better reason, and the bird Which was the captive of another's toil Became my prey; and when the deed was done I heard among the solitary hills Low breathings coming after me, and sounds Of undistinguishable motion, steps Almost as silent as the turf they trod. Nor less when spring had warmed the cultured Vale, Moved we as plunderers where the mother-bird Had in high places built her lodge; though mean Our object and inglorious, yet the end Was not ignoble. Oh! when I have hung Above the raven's nest, by knots of grass And half-inch fissures in the slippery rock But ill sustained, and almost (so it seemed) Suspended by the blast that blew amain, Shouldering the naked crag, oh, at that time While on the perilous ridge I hung alone, With what strange utterance did the loud dry wind Blow through my ear! the sky seemed not a sky Of earth—and with what motion moved the clouds! Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music; there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society. How strange that all The terrors, pains, and early miseries, Regrets, vexations, lassitudes interfused Within my mind, should e'er have borne a part, And that a needful part, in making up The calm existence that is mine when I Am worthy of myself! Praise to the end! Thanks to the means which Nature deigned to employ; Whether her fearless visitings, or those That came with soft alarm, like hurtless light Opening the peaceful clouds; or she may use Severer interventions, ministry More palpable, as best might suit her aim. One summer evening (led by her) I found A little boat tied to a willow tree Within a rocky cave, its usual home. Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on; Leaving behind her still, on either side, Small circles glittering idly in the moon, Until they melted all into one track Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows, Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point With an unswerving line, I fixed my view Upon the summit of a craggy ridge, The horizon's utmost boundary; far above Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky. She was an elfin pinnace; lustily I dipped my oars into the silent lake, And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat Went heaving through the water like a swan; When, from behind that craggy steep till then The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge, As if with voluntary power instinct Upreared its head. I struck and struck again, And growing still in stature the grim shape Towered up between me and the stars, and still, For so it seemed, with purpose of its own And measured motion like a living thing, Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned, And through the silent water stole my way Back to the covert of the willow tree; There in her mooring-place I left my bark,— And through the meadows homeward went, in grave And serious mood; but after I had seen That spectacle, for many days, my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being; o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes Remained, no pleasant images of trees, Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields; But huge and mighty forms, that do not live Like living men, moved slowly through the mind By day, and were a trouble to my dreams. Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! Thou Soul that art the eternity of thought, That givest to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion, not in vain By day or star-light thus from my first dawn Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me The passions that build up our human soul; Not with the mean and vulgar works of man, But with high objects, with enduring things— With life and nature, purifying thus The elements of feeling and of thought, And sanctifying, by such discipline, Both pain and fear, until we recognise A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me With stinted kindness. In November days, When vapours rolling down the valley made A lonely scene more lonesome, among woods At noon, and 'mid the calm of summer nights, When, by the margin of the trembling lake, Beneath the gloomy hills homeward I went In solitude, such intercourse was mine; Mine was it in the fields both day and night, And by the waters, all the summer long. And in the frosty season, when the sun Was set, and visible for many a mile The cottage windows blazed through twilight gloom, I heeded not their summons: happy time It was indeed for all of us—for me It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud The village clock tolled six,—I wheeled about, Proud and exulting like an untired horse That cares not for his home. All shod with steel, We hissed along the polished ice in games Confederate, imitative of the chase And woodland pleasures,—the resounding horn, The pack loud chiming, and the hunted hare. So through the darkness and the cold we flew, And not a voice was idle; with the din Smitten, the precipices rang aloud; The leafless trees and every icy crag Tinkled like iron; while far distant hills Into the tumult sent an alien sound Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the west The orange sky of evening died away. Not seldom from the uproar I retired Into a silent bay, or sportively Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng, To cut across the reflex of a star That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed Upon the glassy plain; and oftentimes, When we had given our bodies to the wind, And all the shadowy banks on either side Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still The rapid line of motion, then at once Have I, reclining back upon my heels, Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs Wheeled by me—even as if the earth had rolled With visible motion her diurnal round! Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep. Ye Presences of Nature in the sky And on the earth! Ye Visions of the hills! And Souls of lonely places! can I think A vulgar hope was yours when ye employed Such ministry, when ye through many a year Haunting me thus among my boyish sports, On caves and trees, upon the woods and hills, Impressed upon all forms the characters Of danger or desire; and thus did make The surface of the universal earth With triumph and delight, with hope and fear, Work like a sea? Not uselessly employed, Might I pursue this theme through every change Of exercise and play, to which the year Did summon us in his delightful round. We were a noisy crew; the sun in heaven Beheld not vales more beautiful than ours; Nor saw a band in happiness and joy Richer, or worthier of the ground they trod. I could record with no reluctant voice The woods of autumn, and their hazel bowers With milk-white clusters hung; the rod and line, True symbol of hope's foolishness, whose strong And unreproved enchantment led us on By rocks and pools shut out from every star, All the green summer, to forlorn cascades Among the windings hid of mountain brooks. —Unfading recollections! at this hour The heart is almost mine with which I felt, From some hill-top on sunny afternoons, The paper kite high among fleecy clouds Pull at her rein like an impetuous courser; Or, from the meadows sent on gusty days, Beheld her breast the wind, then suddenly Dashed headlong, and rejected by the storm. Ye lowly cottages wherein we dwelt, A ministration of your own was yours; Can I forget you, being as you were So beautiful among the pleasant fields In which ye stood? or can I here forget The plain and seemly countenance with which Ye dealt out your plain comforts? Yet had ye Delights and exultations of your own. Eager and never weary we pursued Our home-amusements by the warm peat-fire At evening, when with pencil, and smooth slate In square divisions parcelled out and all With crosses and with cyphers scribbled o'er, We schemed and puzzled, head opposed to head In strife too humble to be named in verse: Or round the naked table, snow-white deal, Cherry or maple, sate in close array, And to the combat, Loo or Whist, led on A thick-ribbed army; not, as in the world, Neglected and ungratefully thrown by Even for the very service they had wrought, But husbanded through many a long campaign. Uncouth assemblage was it, where no few Had changed their functions; some, plebeian cards[l] Which Fate, beyond the promise of their birth, Had dignified, and called to represent The persons of departed potentates. Oh, with what echoes on the board they fell! Ironic diamonds,—clubs, hearts, diamonds, spades, A congregation piteously akin! Cheap matter offered they to boyish wit, Those sooty knaves, precipitated down With scoffs and taunts, like Vulcan out of heaven: The paramount ace, a moon in her eclipse, Queens gleaming through their splendour's last decay, And monarchs surly at the wrongs sustained By royal visages. Meanwhile abroad Incessant rain was falling, or the frost Raged bitterly, with keen and silent tooth; And, interrupting oft that eager game, From under Esthwaite's splitting fields of ice The pent-up air, struggling to free itself, Gave out to meadow grounds and hills a loud Protracted yelling, like the noise of wolves Howling in troops along the Bothnic Main. Nor, sedulous as I have been to trace How Nature by extrinsic passion first Peopled the mind with forms sublime or fair, And made me love them, may I here omit How other pleasures have been mine, and joys Of subtler origin; how I have felt, Not seldom even in that tempestuous time, Those hallowed and pure motions of the sense Which seem, in their simplicity, to own An intellectual charm; that calm delight Which, if I err not, surely must belong To those first-born affinities that fit Our new existence to existing things, And, in our dawn of being, constitute The bond of union between life and joy. Yes, I remember when the changeful earth, And twice five summers on my mind had stamped The faces of the moving year, even then I held unconscious intercourse with beauty Old as creation, drinking in a pure Organic pleasure from the silver wreaths Of curling mist, or from the level plain Of waters coloured by impending clouds. The sands of Westmoreland, the creeks and bays Of Cumbria's rocky limits, they can tell How, when the Sea threw off his evening shade, And to the shepherd's hut on distant hills Sent welcome notice of the rising moon, How I have stood, to fancies such as these A stranger, linking with the spectacle No conscious memory of a kindred sight, And bringing with me no peculiar sense Of quietness or peace; yet have I stood, Even while mine eye hath moved o'er many a league Of shining water, gathering as it seemed Through every hair-breadth in that field of light New pleasure like a bee among the flowers. Thus oft amid those fits of vulgar joy Which, through all seasons, on a child's pursuits Are prompt attendants, 'mid that giddy bliss Which, like a tempest, works along the blood And is forgotten; even then I felt Gleams like the flashing of a shield;—the earth And common face of Nature spake to me Rememberable things; sometimes, 'tis true, By chance collisions and quaint accidents (Like those ill-sorted unions, work supposed Of evil-minded fairies), yet not vain Nor profitless, if haply they impressed Collateral objects and appearances, Albeit lifeless then, and doomed to sleep Until maturer seasons called them forth To impregnate and to elevate the mind. —And if the vulgar joy by its own weight Wearied itself out of the memory, The scenes which were a witness of that joy Remained in their substantial lineaments Depicted on the brain, and to the eye Were visible, a daily sight; and thus By the impressive discipline of fear, By pleasure and repeated happiness, So frequently repeated, and by force Of obscure feelings representative Of things forgotten, these same scenes so bright, So beautiful, so majestic in themselves, Though yet the day was distant, did become Habitually dear, and all their forms And changeful colours by invisible links Were fastened to the affections. I began My story early—not misled, I trust, By an infirmity of love for days Disowned by memory—ere the breath of spring Planting my snowdrops among winter snows: Nor will it seem to thee, O Friend! so prompt In sympathy, that I have lengthened out With fond and feeble tongue a tedious tale. Meanwhile, my hope has been, that I might fetch Invigorating thoughts from former years; Might fix the wavering balance of my mind, And haply meet reproaches too, whose power May spur me on, in manhood now mature To honourable toil. Yet should these hopes Prove vain, and thus should neither I be taught To understand myself, nor thou to know With better knowledge how the heart was framed Of him thou lovest; need I dread from thee Harsh judgments, if the song be loth to quit Those recollected hours that have the charm Of visionary things, those lovely forms And sweet sensations that throw back our life, And almost make remotest infancy A visible scene, on which the sun is shining? One end at least hath been attained; my mind Hath been revived, and if this genial mood Desert me not, forthwith shall be brought down Through later years the story of my life. The road lies plain before me;—'tis a theme Single and of determined bounds; and hence I choose it rather at this time, than work Of ampler or more varied argument, Where I might be discomfited and lost: And certain hopes are with me, that to thee This labour will be welcome, honoured Friend! Contents—The Prelude Main Contents |
A B C D E F G F H I K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q |
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"A beautiful white cloud of foam at momentary intervals, coursed by the side of the vessel with a roar, and little stars of flame danced and sparkled and went out in it: and every now and then light detachments of this white cloud-like foam darted off from the vessel's side, each with its own small constellation, over the sea, and scoured out of sight like a Tartar troop over a wilderness."S. T. C. in Biographia Literaria, Satyrane's Letters, letter i. p. 196 (edition 1817).—Ed.
'The world was all before them, where to choose.'Ed.
"It is supposed that Odin was the chief of a tribe of barbarians, who dwelt on the banks of Lake Maeotis, till the fall of Mithridates, and the arms of Pompey menaced the north with servitude; that Odin, yielding with indignant fury to a power which he was unable to resist, conducted his tribe from the frontiers of Asiatic Sarmatia into Sweden."See also Mallet, Northern Antiquities, and Crichton and Wheaton's Scandinavia (Edinburgh Cabinet Library):
"Among the fugitive princes of Scythia, who were expelled from their country in the Mithridatic war, tradition has placed the name of Odin, the ruler of a potent tribe in Turkestan, between the Euxine and the Caspian."Ed.
"In the early part of the fifteenth century there arrived at Lisbon an old bewildered pilot of the seas, who had been driven by tempests he knew not whither, and raved about an island in the far deep upon which he had landed, and which he had found peopled, and adorned with noble cities. The inhabitants told him that they were descendants of a band of Christians who fled from Spain when that country was conquered by the Moslems."(See Washington Irving's Chronicles of Wolfert's Roost, etc.; and Baring Gould's Curious Myths of the Middle Ages.)—Ed.
"Passed two of Wallace's caves. There is scarcely a noted glen in Scotland that has not a cave for Wallace, or some other hero."Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland in 1803 (Sunday, August 21).—Ed.
'spreadEd.
Under a rock too steep for man to tread,
Where sheltered from the north and bleak north-west
Aloft the Raven hangs a visible nest,
Fearless of all assaults that would her brood molest.'
"When very many are skating together, the sounds and the noises give an impulse to the icy trees, and the woods all round the lake tinkle."The Friend, vol. ii. p. 325 (edition 1818).—Ed.
'Gained but one trump, and one plebeian card.'Ed.
'I was for that time lifted above earth,Ed.
And possess'd joys not promised in my birth.'
I tread the mazes of this argument, and paintEd.
How nature by collateral interest
And by extrinsic passion peopled first
My mind with beauteous objects: may I well
Forget what might demand a loftier song,
For oft the Eternal Spirit, He that has
His Life in unimaginable things,
And he who painting what He is in all
The visible imagery of all the World
Is yet apparent chiefly as the Soul
Of our first sympathies—O bounteous power
In Childhood, in rememberable days
How often did thy love renew for me
Those naked feelings which, when thou would'st form
A living thing, thou sendest like a breeze
Into its infant being! Soul of things
How often did thy love renew for me
Those hallowed and pure motions of the sense
Which seem in their simplicity to own
An intellectual charm: That calm delight
Which, if I err not, surely must belong
To those first-born affinities which fit
Our new existence to existing things,
And, in our dawn of being, constitute
The bond of union betwixt life and joy.
Yes, I remember, when the changeful youth
And twice five seasons on my mind had stamped
The faces of the moving year, even then
A child, I held unconscious intercourse
With the eternal beauty, drinking in
A pure organic pleasure from the lines
Of curling mist, or from the smooth expanse
Of waters coloured by the clouds of Heaven.
Contents—The Prelude
Main Contents
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| Thus far, O Friend! have we, though leaving much Unvisited, endeavoured to retrace The simple ways in which my childhood walked; Those chiefly that first led me to the love Of rivers, woods, and fields. The passion yet Was in its birth, sustained as might befal By nourishment that came unsought; for still From week to week, from month to month, we lived A round of tumult. Duly were our games Prolonged in summer till the day-light failed: No chair remained before the doors; the bench And threshold steps were empty; fast asleep The labourer, and the old man who had sate A later lingerer; yet the revelry Continued and the loud uproar: at last, When all the ground was dark, and twinkling stars Edged the black clouds, home and to bed we went, Feverish with weary joints and beating minds. Ah! is there one who ever has been young, Nor needs a warning voice to tame the pride Of intellect and virtue's self-esteem? One is there, though the wisest and the best Of all mankind, who covets not at times Union that cannot be;—who would not give, If so he might, to duty and to truth The eagerness of infantine desire? A tranquillising spirit presses now On my corporeal frame, so wide appears The vacancy between me and those days Which yet have such self-presence in my mind, That, musing on them, often do I seem Two consciousnesses, conscious of myself And of some other Being. A rude mass Of native rock, left midway in the square Of our small market village, was the goal Or centre of these sports; and when, returned After long absence, thither I repaired, Gone was the old grey stone, and in its place A smart Assembly-room usurped the ground That had been ours. There let the fiddle scream, And be ye happy! Yet, my Friends! I know That more than one of you will think with me Of those soft starry nights, and that old Dame From whom the stone was named, who there had sate, And watched her table with its huckster's wares Assiduous, through the length of sixty years. We ran a boisterous course; the year span round With giddy motion. But the time approached That brought with it a regular desire For calmer pleasures, when the winning forms Of Nature were collaterally attached To every scheme of holiday delight And every boyish sport, less grateful else And languidly pursued. When summer came, Our pastime was, on bright half-holidays, To sweep, along the plain of Windermere With rival oars; and the selected bourne Was now an Island musical with birds That sang and ceased not; now a Sister Isle Beneath the oaks' umbrageous covert, sown With lilies of the valley like a field; And now a third small Island, where survived In solitude the ruins of a shrine Once to Our Lady dedicate, and served Daily with chaunted rites. In such a race So ended, disappointment could be none, Uneasiness, or pain, or jealousy: We rested in the shade, all pleased alike, Conquered and conqueror. Thus the pride of strength, And the vain-glory of superior skill, Were tempered; thus was gradually produced A quiet independence of the heart; And to my Friend who knows me I may add, Fearless of blame, that hence for future days Ensued a diffidence and modesty, And I was taught to feel, perhaps too much, The self-sufficing power of Solitude. Our daily meals were frugal, Sabine fare! More than we wished we knew the blessing then Of vigorous hunger—hence corporeal strength Unsapped by delicate viands; for, exclude A little weekly stipend, and we lived Through three divisions of the quartered year In penniless poverty. But now to school From the half-yearly holidays returned, We came with weightier purses, that sufficed To furnish treats more costly than the Dame Of the old grey stone, from her scant board, supplied. Hence rustic dinners on the cool green ground, Or in the woods, or by a river side Or shady fountains, while among the leaves Soft airs were stirring, and the mid-day sun Unfelt shone brightly round us in our joy. Nor is my aim neglected if I tell How sometimes, in the length of those half-years, We from our funds drew largely;—proud to curb, And eager to spur on, the galloping steed; And with the courteous inn-keeper, whose stud Supplied our want, we haply might employ Sly subterfuge, if the adventure's bound Were distant: some famed temple where of yore The Druids worshipped, or the antique walls Of that large abbey, where within the Vale Of Nightshade, to St. Mary's honour built, Stands yet a mouldering pile with fractured arch, Belfry, and images, and living trees, A holy scene! Along the smooth green turf Our horses grazed. To more than inland peace Left by the west wind sweeping overhead From a tumultuous ocean, trees and towers In that sequestered valley may be seen, Both silent and both motionless alike; Such the deep shelter that is there, and such The safeguard for repose and quietness. Our steeds remounted and the summons given, With whip and spur we through the chauntry flew In uncouth race, and left the cross-legged knight, And the stone-abbot, and that single wren Which one day sang so sweetly in the nave Of the old church, that—though from recent showers The earth was comfortless, and touched by faint Internal breezes, sobbings of the place And respirations, from the roofless walls The shuddering ivy dripped large drops—yet still So sweetly 'mid the gloom the invisible bird Sang to herself, that there I could have made My dwelling-place, and lived for ever there To hear such music. Through the walls we flew And down the valley, and, a circuit made In wantonness of heart, through rough and smooth We scampered homewards. Oh, ye rocks and streams, And that still spirit shed from evening air! Even in this joyous time I sometimes felt Your presence, when with slackened step we breathed Along the sides of the steep hills, or when Lighted by gleams of moonlight from the sea We beat with thundering hoofs the level sand. Midway on long Winander's eastern shore, Within the crescent of a pleasant bay, A tavern stood; no homely-featured house, Primeval like its neighbouring cottages, But 'twas a splendid place, the door beset With chaises, grooms, and liveries, and within Decanters, glasses, and the blood-red wine. In ancient times, and ere the Hall was built On the large island, had this dwelling been More worthy of a poet's love, a hut, Proud of its own bright fire and sycamore shade. But—though the rhymes were gone that once inscribed The threshold, and large golden characters, Spread o'er the spangled sign-board, had dislodged The old Lion and usurped his place, in slight And mockery of the rustic painter's hand— Yet, to this hour, the spot to me is dear With all its foolish pomp. The garden lay Upon a slope surmounted by a plain Of a small bowling-green; beneath us stood A grove, with gleams of water through the trees And over the tree-tops; nor did we want Refreshment, strawberries and mellow cream. There, while through half an afternoon we played On the smooth platform, whether skill prevailed Or happy blunder triumphed, bursts of glee Made all the mountains ring. But, ere night-fall, When in our pinnace we returned at leisure Over the shadowy lake, and to the beach Of some small island steered our course with one, The Minstrel of the Troop, and left him there, And rowed off gently, while he blew his flute Alone upon the rock—oh, then, the calm And dead still water lay upon my mind Even with a weight of pleasure, and the sky, Never before so beautiful, sank down Into my heart, and held me like a dream! Thus were my sympathies enlarged, and thus Daily the common range of visible things Grew dear to me: already I began To love the sun; a boy I loved the sun, Not as I since have loved him, as a pledge And surety of our earthly life, a light Which we behold and feel we are alive; Nor for his bounty to so many worlds— But for this cause, that I had seen him lay His beauty on the morning hills, had seen The western mountain touch his setting orb, In many a thoughtless hour, when, from excess Of happiness, my blood appeared to flow For its own pleasure, and I breathed with joy. And, from like feelings, humble though intense, To patriotic and domestic love Analogous, the moon to me was dear; For I could dream away my purposes, Standing to gaze upon her while she hung Midway between the hills, as if she knew No other region, but belonged to thee, Yea, appertained by a peculiar right To thee and thy grey huts, thou one dear Vale! Those incidental charms which first attached My heart to rural objects, day by day Grew weaker, and I hasten on to tell How Nature, intervenient till this time And secondary, now at length was sought For her own sake. But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square? Who knows the individual hour in which His habits were first sown, even as a seed? Who that shall point as with a wand and say "This portion of the river of my mind Came from yon fountain?" Thou, my Friend! art one More deeply read in thy own thoughts; to thee Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity. No officious slave Art thou of that false secondary power By which we multiply distinctions; then, Deem that our puny boundaries are things That we perceive, and not that we have made. To thee, unblinded by these formal arts, The unity of all hath been revealed, And thou wilt doubt, with me less aptly skilled Than many are to range the faculties In scale and order, class the cabinet Of their sensations, and in voluble phrase Run through the history and birth of each As of a single independent thing. Hard task, vain hope, to analyse the mind, If each most obvious and particular thought, Not in a mystical and idle sense, But in the words of Reason deeply weighed, Hath no beginning. Blest the infant Babe, (For with my best conjecture I would trace Our Being's earthly progress,) blest the Babe, Nursed in his Mother's arms, who sinks to sleep Rocked on his Mother's breast; who with his soul Drinks in the feelings of his Mother's eye! For him, in one dear Presence, there exists A virtue which irradiates and exalts Objects through widest intercourse of sense. No outcast he, bewildered and depressed: Along his infant veins are interfused The gravitation and the filial bond Of nature that connect him with the world. Is there a flower, to which he points with hand Too weak to gather it, already love Drawn from love's purest earthly fount for him Hath beautified that flower; already shades Of pity cast from inward tenderness Do fall around him upon aught that bears Unsightly marks of violence or harm. Emphatically such a Being lives, Frail creature as he is, helpless as frail, An inmate of this active universe. For feeling has to him imparted power That through the growing faculties of sense Doth like an agent of the one great Mind Create, creator and receiver both, Working but in alliance with the works Which it beholds. Such, verily, is the first Poetic spirit of our human life, By uniform control of after years, In most, abated or suppressed; in some, Through every change of growth and of decay, Pre-eminent till death. From early days, Beginning not long after that first time In which, a Babe, by intercourse of touch I held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart, I have endeavoured to display the means Whereby this infant sensibility, Great birthright of our being, was in me Augmented and sustained. Yet is a path More difficult before me; and I fear That in its broken windings we shall need The chamois' sinews, and the eagle's wing: For now a trouble came into my mind From unknown causes. I was left alone Seeking the visible world, nor knowing why. The props of my affections were removed, And yet the building stood, as if sustained By its own spirit! All that I beheld Was dear, and hence to finer influxes The mind lay open to a more exact And close communion. Many are our joys In youth, but oh! what happiness to live When every hour brings palpable access Of knowledge, when all knowledge is delight, And sorrow is not there! The seasons came, And every season wheresoe'er I moved Unfolded transitory qualities, Which, but for this most watchful power of love, Had been neglected; left a register Of permanent relations, else unknown. Hence life, and change, and beauty, solitude More active even than "best society"— Society made sweet as solitude By silent inobtrusive sympathies— And gentle agitations of the mind From manifold distinctions, difference Perceived in things, where, to the unwatchful eye, No difference is, and hence, from the same source, Sublimer joy; for I would walk alone, Under the quiet stars, and at that time Have felt whate'er there is of power in sound To breathe an elevated mood, by form Or image unprofaned; and I would stand, If the night blackened with a coming storm, Beneath some rock, listening to notes that are The ghostly language of the ancient earth, Or make their dim abode in distant winds. Thence did I drink the visionary power; And deem not profitless those fleeting moods Of shadowy exultation: not for this, That they are kindred to our purer mind And intellectual life; but that the soul, Remembering how she felt, but what she felt Remembering not, retains an obscure sense Of possible sublimity, whereto With growing faculties she doth aspire, With faculties still growing, feeling still That whatsoever point they gain, they yet Have something to pursue. And not alone, 'Mid gloom and tumult, but no less 'mid fair And tranquil scenes, that universal power And fitness in the latent qualities And essences of things, by which the mind Is moved with feelings of delight, to me Came, strengthened with a superadded soul, A virtue not its own. My morning walks Were early;—oft before the hours of school I travelled round our little lake, five miles Of pleasant wandering. Happy time! more dear For this, that one was by my side, a Friend, Then passionately loved; with heart how full Would he peruse these lines! For many years Have since flowed in between us, and, our minds Both silent to each other, at this time We live as if those hours had never been. Nor seldom did I lift—our cottage latch Far earlier, ere one smoke-wreath had risen From human dwelling, or the vernal thrush Was audible; and sate among the woods Alone upon some jutting eminence, At the first gleam of dawn-light, when the Vale, Yet slumbering, lay in utter solitude. How shall I seek the origin? where find Faith in the marvellous things which then I felt? Oft in these moments such a holy calm Would overspread my soul, that bodily eyes Were utterly forgotten, and what I saw Appeared like something in myself, a dream, A prospect in the mind. 'Twere long to tell What spring and autumn, what the winter snows, And what the summer shade, what day and night, Evening and morning, sleep and waking, thought From sources inexhaustible, poured forth To feed the spirit of religious love In which I walked with Nature. But let this Be not forgotten, that I still retained My first creative sensibility; That by the regular action of the world My soul was unsubdued. A plastic power Abode with me; a forming hand, at times Rebellious, acting in a devious mood; A local spirit of his own, at war With general tendency, but, for the most, Subservient strictly to external things With which it communed. An auxiliar light Came from my mind, which on the setting sun Bestowed new splendour; the melodious birds, The fluttering breezes, fountains that run on Murmuring so sweetly in themselves, obeyed A like dominion, and the midnight storm Grew darker in the presence of my eye: Hence my obeisance, my devotion hence, And hence my transport. Nor should this, perchance, Pass unrecorded, that I still had loved The exercise and produce of a toil, Than analytic industry to me More pleasing, and whose character I deem Is more poetic as resembling more Creative agency. The song would speak Of that interminable building reared By observation of affinities In objects where no brotherhood exists To passive minds. My seventeenth year was come; And, whether from this habit rooted now So deeply in my mind; or from excess In the great social principle of life Coercing all things into sympathy, To unorganic natures were transferred My own enjoyments; or the power of truth Coming in revelation, did converse With things that really are; I, at this time, Saw blessings spread around me like a sea. Thus while the days flew by, and years passed on, From Nature and her overflowing soul, I had received so much, that all my thoughts Were steeped in feeling; I was only then Contented, when with bliss ineffable I felt the sentiment of Being spread O'er all that moves and all that seemeth still; O'er all that, lost beyond the reach of thought And human knowledge, to the human eye Invisible, yet liveth to the heart; O'er all that leaps and runs, and shouts and sings, Or beats the gladsome air; o'er all that glides Beneath the wave, yea, in the wave itself, And mighty depth of waters. Wonder not If high the transport, great the joy I felt, Communing in this sort through earth and heaven With every form of creature, as it looked Towards the Uncreated with a countenance Of adoration, with an eye of love. One song they sang, and it was audible, Most audible, then, when the fleshly ear, O'ercome by humblest prelude of that strain, Forgot her functions, and slept undisturbed. If this be error, and another faith Find easier access to the pious mind, Yet were I grossly destitute of all Those human sentiments that make this earth So dear, if I should fail with grateful voice To speak of you, ye mountains, and ye lakes And sounding cataracts, ye mists and winds That dwell among the hills where I was born. If in my youth I have been pure in heart, If, mingling with the world, I am content With my own modest pleasures, and have lived With God and Nature communing, removed From little enmities and low desires, The gift is yours; if in these times of fear, This melancholy waste of hopes o'erthrown, If, 'mid indifference and apathy, And wicked exultation when good men On every side fall off, we know not how, To selfishness, disguised in gentle names Of peace and quiet and domestic love, Yet mingled not unwillingly with sneers On visionary minds; if, in this time Of dereliction and dismay, I yet Despair not of our nature, but retain A more than Roman confidence, a faith That fails not, in all sorrow my support, The blessing of my life; the gift is yours, Ye winds and sounding cataracts! 'tis yours, Ye mountains! thine, O Nature! Thou hast fed My lofty speculations; and in thee, For this uneasy heart of ours, I find A never-failing principle of joy And purest passion. Thou, my Friend! wert reared In the great city, 'mid far other scenes; But we, by different roads, at length have gained The self-same bourne. And for this cause to thee I speak, unapprehensive of contempt, The insinuated scoff of coward tongues, And all that silent language which so oft In conversation between man and man Blots from the human countenance all trace Of beauty and of love. For thou hast sought The truth in solitude, and, since the days That gave thee liberty, full long desired, To serve in Nature's temple, thou hast been The most assiduous of her ministers; In many things my brother, chiefly here In this our deep devotion. Fare thee well! Health and the quiet of a healthful mind Attend thee! seeking oft the haunts of men, And yet more often living with thyself, And for thyself, so haply shall thy days Be many, and a blessing to mankind. Contents—The Prelude Main Contents |
A B C D E F G H I K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z a b |
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'When, on thy bosom, spacious Windermere!Ed.
A Youth, I practised this delightful art;
Tossed on the waves alone, or 'mid a crew
Of joyous comrades.'
'ruins of a shrinehave disappeared as completely as the shrine in St. Herbert's Island, Derwentwater. The third island:
Once to Our Lady dedicate'
'musical with birds,may have been House Holme, or that now called Thomson's Holme. It could hardly have been Belle Isle; since, from its size, it could not be described as a "Sister Isle" to the one where the lily of the valley grew "beneath the oaks' umbrageous covert."—Ed.
That sang and ceased not—'
"The moon, as it hung over the southernmost shore of Esthwaite, with Gunner's How, as seen from Hawkshead rising up boldly to the spectator's left hand, would be thus described."(H. D. Rawnsley.)—Ed.
'Where deep and low the hamlets lieEd.
Beneath their little patch of sky
And little lot of stars.'
'... those obstinate questioningsEd.
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings,' etc.
'I was rearedEd.
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim.'
Contents—The Prelude
Main Contents
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| It was a dreary morning when the wheels Rolled over a wide plain o'erhung with clouds, And nothing cheered our way till first we saw The long-roofed chapel of King's College lift Turrets and pinnacles in answering files, Extended high above a dusky grove, [A] Advancing, we espied upon the road A student clothed in gown and tasselled cap, Striding along as if o'ertasked by Time, Or covetous of exercise and air; He passed—nor was I master of my eyes Till he was left an arrow's flight behind. As near and nearer to the spot we drew, It seemed to suck us in with an eddy's force. Onward we drove beneath the Castle; caught, While crossing Magdalene Bridge, a glimpse of Cam; And at the Hoop alighted, famous Inn. [B] My spirit was up, my thoughts were full of hope; Some friends I had, acquaintances who there Seemed friends, poor simple school-boys, now hung round With honour and importance: in a world Of welcome faces up and down I roved; Questions, directions, warnings and advice, Flowed in upon me, from all sides; fresh day Of pride and pleasure! to myself I seemed A man of business and expense, and went From shop to shop about my own affairs, To Tutor or to Tailor, as befel, From street to street with loose and careless mind. I was the Dreamer, they the Dream; I roamed Delighted through the motley spectacle; Gowns, grave, or gaudy, doctors, students, streets, Courts, cloisters, flocks of churches, gateways, towers: Migration strange for a stripling of the hills, A northern villager. As if the change Had waited on some Fairy's wand, at once Behold me rich in monies, and attired In splendid garb, with hose of silk, and hair Powdered like rimy trees, when frost is keen. My lordly dressing-gown, I pass it by, With other signs of manhood that supplied The lack of beard.—The weeks went roundly on, With invitations, suppers, wine and fruit, Smooth housekeeping within, and all without Liberal, and suiting gentleman's array. The Evangelist St. John my patron was: Three Gothic courts are his, and in the first Was my abiding-place, a nook obscure; [C] Right underneath, the College kitchens made A humming sound, less tuneable than bees, But hardly less industrious; with shrill notes Of sharp command and scolding intermixed. Near me hung Trinity's loquacious clock, Who never let the quarters, night or day, Slip by him unproclaimed, and told the hours Twice over with a male and female voice. Her pealing organ was my neighbour too; And from my pillow, looking forth by light Of moon or favouring stars, I could behold The antechapel where the statue stood Of Newton with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind for ever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone. Of College labours, of the Lecturer's room All studded round, as thick as chairs could stand, With loyal students faithful to their books, Half-and-half idlers, hardy recusants, And honest dunces—of important days, Examinations, when the man was weighed As in a balance! of excessive hopes, Tremblings withal and commendable fears, Small jealousies, and triumphs good or bad, Let others that know more speak as they know. Such glory was but little sought by me, And little won. Yet from the first crude days Of settling time in this untried abode, I was disturbed at times by prudent thoughts, Wishing to hope without a hope, some fears About my future worldly maintenance, And, more than all, a strangeness in the mind, A feeling that I was not for that hour, Nor for that place. But wherefore be cast down? For (not to speak of Reason and her pure Reflective acts to fix the moral law Deep in the conscience, nor of Christian Hope, Bowing her head before her sister Faith As one far mightier), hither I had come, Bear witness Truth, endowed with holy powers And faculties, whether to work or feel. Oft when the dazzling show no longer new Had ceased to dazzle, ofttimes did I quit My comrades, leave the crowd, buildings and groves, And as I paced alone the level fields Far from those lovely sights and sounds sublime With which I had been conversant, the mind Drooped not; but there into herself returning, With prompt rebound seemed fresh as heretofore. At least I more distinctly recognised Her native instincts: let me dare to speak A higher language, say that now I felt What independent solaces were mine, To mitigate the injurious sway of place Or circumstance, how far soever changed In youth, or to be changed in manhood's prime; Or for the few who shall be called to look On the long shadows in our evening years, Ordained precursors to the night of death. As if awakened, summoned, roused, constrained, I looked for universal things; perused The common countenance of earth and sky: Earth, nowhere unembellished by some trace Of that first Paradise whence man was driven; And sky, whose beauty and bounty are expressed By the proud name she bears—the name of Heaven. I called on both to teach me what they might; Or turning the mind in upon herself Pored, watched, expected, listened, spread my thoughts And spread them with a wider creeping; felt Incumbencies more awful, visitings Of the Upholder of the tranquil soul, That tolerates the indignities of Time, And, from the centre of Eternity All finite motions overruling, lives In glory immutable. But peace! enough Here to record that I was mounting now To such community with highest truth— A track pursuing, not untrod before, From strict analogies by thought supplied Or consciousnesses not to be subdued. To every natural form, rock, fruit or flower, Even the loose stones that cover the high-way, I gave a moral life: I saw them feel, Or linked them to some feeling: the great mass Lay bedded in a quickening soul, and all That I beheld respired with inward meaning. Add that whate'er of Terror or of Love Or Beauty, Nature's daily face put on From transitory passion, unto this I was as sensitive as waters are To the sky's influence in a kindred mood Of passion; was obedient as a lute That waits upon the touches of the wind. Unknown, unthought of, yet I was most rich— I had a world about me—'twas my own; I made it, for it only lived to me, And to the God who sees into the heart. Such sympathies, though rarely, were betrayed By outward gestures and by visible looks: Some called it madness—so indeed it was, If child-like fruitfulness in passing joy, If steady moods of thoughtfulness matured To inspiration, sort with such a name; If prophecy be madness; if things viewed By poets in old time, and higher up By the first men, earth's first inhabitants, May in these tutored days no more be seen With undisordered sight. But leaving this, It was no madness, for the bodily eye Amid my strongest workings evermore Was searching out the lines of difference As they lie hid in all external forms, Near or remote, minute or vast, an eye Which from a tree, a stone, a withered leaf, To the broad ocean and the azure heavens Spangled with kindred multitudes of stars, Could find no surface where its power might sleep; Which spake perpetual logic to my soul, And by an unrelenting agency Did bind my feelings even as in a chain. And here, O Friend! have I retraced my life Up to an eminence, and told a tale Of matters which not falsely may be called The glory of my youth. Of genius, power, Creation and divinity itself I have been speaking, for my theme has been What passed within me. Not of outward things Done visibly for other minds, words, signs, Symbols or actions, but of my own heart Have I been speaking, and my youthful mind. O Heavens! how awful is the might of souls, And what they do within themselves while yet The yoke of earth is new to them, the world Nothing but a wild field where they were sown. This is, in truth, heroic argument, This genuine prowess, which I wished to touch With hand however weak, but in the main It lies far hidden from the reach of words. Points have we all of us within our souls Where all stand single; this I feel, and make Breathings for incommunicable powers; But is not each a memory to himself? And, therefore, now that we must quit this theme, I am not heartless, for there's not a man That lives who hath not known his god-like hours, And feels not what an empire we inherit As natural beings in the strength of Nature. No more: for now into a populous plain We must descend. A Traveller I am, Whose tale is only of himself; even so, So be it, if the pure of heart be prompt To follow, and if thou, my honoured Friend! Who in these thoughts art ever at my side, Support, as heretofore, my fainting steps. It hath been told, that when the first delight That flashed upon me from this novel show Had failed, the mind returned into herself; Yet true it is, that I had made a change In climate, and my nature's outward coat Changed also slowly and insensibly. Full oft the quiet and exalted thoughts Of loneliness gave way to empty noise And superficial pastimes; now and then Forced labour, and more frequently forced hopes; And, worst of all, a treasonable growth Of indecisive judgments, that impaired And shook the mind's simplicity.—And yet This was a gladsome time. Could I behold— Who, less insensible than sodden clay In a sea-river's bed at ebb of tide, Could have beheld,—with undelighted heart, So many happy youths, so wide and fair A congregation in its budding-time Of health, and hope, and beauty, all at once So many divers samples from the growth Of life's sweet season—could have seen unmoved That miscellaneous garland of wild flowers Decking the matron temples of a place So famous through the world? To me, at least, It was a goodly prospect: for, in sooth, Though I had learnt betimes to stand unpropped, And independent musings pleased me so That spells seemed on me when I was alone, Yet could I only cleave to solitude In lonely places; if a throng was near That way I leaned by nature; for my heart Was social, and loved idleness and joy. Not seeking those who might participate My deeper pleasures (nay, I had not once, Though not unused to mutter lonesome songs, Even with myself divided such delight, Or looked that way for aught that might be clothed In human language), easily I passed From the remembrances of better things, And slipped into the ordinary works Of careless youth, unburthened, unalarmed. Caverns there were within my mind which sun Could never penetrate, yet did there not Want store of leafy arbours where the light Might enter in at will. Companionships, Friendships, acquaintances, were welcome all. We sauntered, played, or rioted; we talked Unprofitable talk at morning hours; Drifted about along the streets and walks, Read lazily in trivial books, went forth To gallop through the country in blind zeal Of senseless horsemanship, or on the breast Of Cam sailed boisterously, and let the stars Come forth, perhaps without one quiet thought. Such was the tenor of the second act In this new life. Imagination slept, And yet not utterly. I could not print Ground where the grass had yielded to the steps Of generations of illustrious men, Unmoved. I could not always lightly pass Through the same gateways, sleep where they had slept, Wake where they waked, range that inclosure old, That garden of great intellects, undisturbed. Place also by the side of this dark sense Of noble feeling, that those spiritual men, Even the great Newton's own ethereal self, Seemed humbled in these precincts thence to be The more endeared. Their several memories here (Even like their persons in their portraits clothed With the accustomed garb of daily life) Put on a lowly and a touching grace Of more distinct humanity, that left All genuine admiration unimpaired. Beside the pleasant Mill of Trompington [D] I laughed with Chaucer in the hawthorn shade; Heard him, while birds were warbling, tell his tales Of amorous passion. And that gentle Bard, Chosen by the Muses for their Page of State— Sweet Spenser, moving through his clouded heaven With the moon's beauty and the moon's soft pace, I called him Brother, Englishman, and Friend! Yea, our blind Poet, who, in his later day, Stood almost single; uttering odious truth— Darkness before, and danger's voice behind, Soul awful—if the earth has ever lodged An awful soul—I seemed to see him here Familiarly, and in his scholar's dress Bounding before me, yet a stripling youth— A boy, no better, with his rosy cheeks Angelical, keen eye, courageous look, And conscious step of purity and pride. Among the band of my compeers was one Whom chance had stationed in the very room Honoured by Milton's name. O temperate Bard! Be it confest that, for the first time, seated Within thy innocent lodge and oratory, One of a festive circle, I poured out Libations, to thy memory drank, till pride And gratitude grew dizzy in a brain Never excited by the fumes of wine Before that hour, or since. Then, forth I ran From the assembly; through a length of streets, Ran, ostrich-like, to reach our chapel door In not a desperate or opprobrious time, Albeit long after the importunate bell Had stopped, with wearisome Cassandra voice No longer haunting the dark winter night. Call back, O Friend! [E] a moment to thy mind, The place itself and fashion of the rites. With careless ostentation shouldering up My surplice, [F] through the inferior throng I clove Of the plain Burghers, who in audience stood On the last skirts of their permitted ground, Under the pealing organ. Empty thoughts! I am ashamed of them: and that great Bard, And thou, O Friend! who in thy ample mind Hast placed me high above my best deserts, Ye will forgive the weakness of that hour, In some of its unworthy vanities, Brother to many more. In this mixed sort The months passed on, remissly, not given up To wilful alienation from the right, Or walks of open scandal, but in vague And loose indifference, easy likings, aims Of a low pitch—duty and zeal dismissed, Yet Nature, or a happy course of things Not doing in their stead the needful work. The memory languidly revolved, the heart Reposed in noontide rest, the inner pulse Of contemplation almost failed to beat. Such life might not inaptly be compared To a floating island, an amphibious spot Unsound, of spongy texture, yet withal Not wanting a fair face of water weeds And pleasant flowers. [G] The thirst of living praise, Fit reverence for the glorious Dead, the sight Of those long vistas, sacred catacombs, Where mighty minds lie visibly entombed, Have often stirred the heart of youth, and bred A fervent love of rigorous discipline.— Alas! such high emotion touched not me. Look was there none within these walls to shame My easy spirits, and discountenance Their light composure, far less to instil A calm resolve of mind, firmly addressed To puissant efforts. Nor was this the blame Of others, but my own; I should, in truth, As far as doth concern my single self, Misdeem most widely, lodging it elsewhere: For I, bred up 'mid Nature's luxuries, Was a spoiled child, and rambling like the wind, As I had done in daily intercourse With those crystalline rivers, solemn heights, And mountains, ranging like a fowl of the air, I was ill-tutored for captivity; To quit my pleasure, and, from month to month, Take up a station calmly on the perch Of sedentary peace. Those lovely forms Had also left less space within my mind, Which, wrought upon instinctively, had found A freshness in those objects of her love, A winning power, beyond all other power. Not that I slighted books, [H]—that were to lack All sense,—but other passions in me ruled, Passions more fervent, making me less prompt To in-door study than was wise or well, Or suited to those years. Yet I, though used In magisterial liberty to rove, Culling such flowers of learning as might tempt A random choice, could shadow forth a place (If now I yield not to a flattering dream) Whose studious aspect should have bent me down To instantaneous service; should at once Have made me pay to science and to arts And written lore, acknowledged my liege lord, A homage frankly offered up, like that Which I had paid to Nature. Toil and pains In this recess, by thoughtful Fancy built, Should spread from heart to heart; and stately groves, Majestic edifices, should not want A corresponding dignity within. The congregating temper that pervades Our unripe years, not wasted, should be taught To minister to works of high attempt— Works which the enthusiast would perform with love. Youth should be awed, religiously possessed With a conviction of the power that waits On knowledge, when sincerely sought and prized For its own sake, on glory and on praise If but by labour won, and fit to endure The passing day; should learn to put aside Her trappings here, should strip them off abashed Before antiquity and stedfast truth And strong book-mindedness; and over all A healthy sound simplicity should reign, A seemly plainness, name it what you will, Republican or pious. If these thoughts Are a gratuitous emblazonry That mocks the recreant age we live in, then Be Folly and False-seeming free to affect Whatever formal gait of discipline Shall raise them highest in their own esteem— Let them parade among the Schools at will, But spare the House of God. Was ever known The witless shepherd who persists to drive A flock that thirsts not to a pool disliked? A weight must surely hang on days begun And ended with such mockery. Be wise, Ye Presidents and Deans, and, till the spirit Of ancient times revive, and youth be trained At home in pious service, to your bells Give seasonable rest, for 'tis a sound Hollow as ever vexed the tranquil air; And your officious doings bring disgrace On the plain steeples of our English Church, Whose worship, 'mid remotest village trees, Suffers for this. Even Science, too, at hand In daily sight of this irreverence, Is smitten thence with an unnatural taint, Loses her just authority, falls beneath Collateral suspicion, else unknown. This truth escaped me not, and I confess, That having 'mid my native hills given loose To a schoolboy's vision, I had raised a pile Upon the basis of the coming time, That fell in ruins round me. Oh, what joy To see a sanctuary for our country's youth Informed with such a spirit as might be Its own protection; a primeval grove, Where, though the shades with cheerfulness were filled, Nor indigent of songs warbled from crowds In under-coverts, yet the countenance Of the whole place should bear a stamp of awe; A habitation sober and demure For ruminating creatures; a domain For quiet things to wander in; a haunt In which the heron should delight to feed By the shy rivers, and the pelican Upon the cypress spire in lonely thought Might sit and sun himself.—Alas! Alas! In vain for such solemnity I looked; Mine eyes were crossed by butterflies, ears vexed By chattering popinjays; the inner heart Seemed trivial, and the impresses without Of a too gaudy region. Different sight Those venerable Doctors saw of old, When all who dwelt within these famous walls Led in abstemiousness a studious life; When, in forlorn and naked chambers cooped And crowded, o'er the ponderous books they hung Like caterpillars eating out their way In silence, or with keen devouring noise Not to be tracked or fathered. Princes then At matins froze, and couched at curfew-time, Trained up through piety and zeal to prize Spare diet, patient labour, and plain weeds. O seat of Arts! renowned throughout the world! Far different service in those homely days The Muses' modest nurslings underwent From their first childhood: in that glorious time When Learning, like a stranger come from far, Sounding through Christian lands her trumpet, roused Peasant and king; when boys and youths, the growth Of ragged villages and crazy huts, Forsook their homes, and, errant in the quest Of Patron, famous school or friendly nook, Where, pensioned, they in shelter might sit down, From town to town and through wide scattered realms Journeyed with ponderous folios in their hands; And often, starting from some covert place, Saluted the chance comer on the road, Crying, "An obolus, a penny give To a poor scholar!" [I]—when illustrious men, Lovers of truth, by penury constrained, Bucer, Erasmus, or Melancthon, read Before the doors or windows of their cells By moonshine through mere lack of taper light. But peace to vain regrets! We see but darkly Even when we look behind us, and best things Are not so pure by nature that they needs Must keep to all, as fondly all believe, Their highest promise. If the mariner, When at reluctant distance he hath passed Some tempting island, could but know the ills That must have fallen upon him had he brought His bark to land upon the wished-for shore, Good cause would oft be his to thank the surf Whose white belt scared him thence, or wind that blew Inexorably adverse: for myself I grieve not; happy is the gownèd youth, Who only misses what I missed, who falls No lower than I fell. I did not love, Judging not ill perhaps, the timid course Of our scholastic studies; could have wished To see the river flow with ampler range And freer pace; but more, far more, I grieved To see displayed among an eager few, Who in the field of contest persevered, Passions unworthy of youth's generous heart And mounting spirit, pitiably repaid, When so disturbed, whatever palms are won. From these I turned to travel with the shoal Of more unthinking natures, easy minds And pillowy; yet not wanting love that makes The day pass lightly on, when foresight sleeps, And wisdom and the pledges interchanged With our own inner being are forgot. Yet was this deep vacation not given up To utter waste. Hitherto I had stood In my own mind remote from social life, (At least from what we commonly so name,) Like a lone shepherd on a promontory Who lacking occupation looks far forth Into the boundless sea, and rather makes Than finds what he beholds. And sure it is, That this first transit from the smooth delights And wild outlandish walks of simple youth To something that resembles an approach Towards human business, to a privileged world Within a world, a midway residence With all its intervenient imagery, Did better suit my visionary mind, Far better, than to have been bolted forth; Thrust out abruptly into Fortune's way Among the conflicts of substantial life; By a more just gradation did lead on To higher things; more naturally matured, For permanent possession, better fruits, Whether of truth or virtue, to ensue. In serious mood, but oftener, I confess, With playful zest of fancy did we note (How could we less?) the manners and the ways Of those who lived distinguished by the badge Of good or ill report; or those with whom By frame of Academic discipline We were perforce connected, men whose sway And known authority of office served To set our minds on edge, and did no more. Nor wanted we rich pastime of this kind, Found everywhere, but chiefly in the ring Of the grave Elders, men unsecured, grotesque In character, tricked out like aged trees Which through the lapse of their infirmity Give ready place to any random seed That chooses to be reared upon their trunks. Here on my view, confronting vividly Those shepherd swains whom I had lately left, Appeared a different aspect of old age; How different! yet both distinctly marked, Objects embossed to catch the general eye, Or portraitures for special use designed, As some might seem, so aptly do they serve To illustrate Nature's book of rudiments— That book upheld as with maternal care When she would enter on her tender scheme Of teaching comprehension with delight, And mingling playful with pathetic thoughts. The surfaces of artificial life And manners finely wrought, the delicate race Of colours, lurking, gleaming up and down Through that state arras woven with silk and gold; This wily interchange of snaky hues, Willingly or unwillingly revealed, I neither knew nor cared for; and as such Were wanting here, I took what might be found Of less elaborate fabric. At this day I smile, in many a mountain solitude Conjuring up scenes as obsolete in freaks Of character, in points of wit as broad, As aught by wooden images performed For entertainment of the gaping crowd At wake or fair. And oftentimes do flit Remembrances before me of old men— Old humourists, who have been long in their graves, And having almost in my mind put off Their human names, have into phantoms passed Of texture midway between life and books. 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, 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— 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 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, 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, (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 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 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 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, 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, 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. 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"There are still some remains of the mill here celebrated by Chaucer in his Reve's Tale."(Lewis' Topographical Dictionary of England, vol. iv. p. 390.)—Ed.
"His abilities, though not so great, perhaps, as his brother's, may be of more use to him, as he has not fixed his mind upon any particular species of reading or conceived an aversion to any. He is not fond of mathematics, but has resolution sufficient to study them; because it will be impossible for him to obtain a fellowship without them. William lost the chance, indeed the certainty, of a fellowship, by not combating his inclinations. He gave way to his natural dislike to studies so dry as many parts of the mathematics, consequently could not succeed in Cambridge. He reads Italian, Spanish, French, Greek, Latin, and English; but never opens a mathematical book.... Do not think from what I have said that he reads not at all; for he does read a great deal, and not only poetry, in these languages he is acquainted with, but History also," etc. etc.Ed.
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| Bright was the summer's noon when quickening steps Followed each other till a dreary moor Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose top [A] Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge, I overlooked the bed of Windermere, Like a vast river, stretching in the sun. With exultation, at my feet I saw Lake, islands, promontories, gleaming bays, A universe of Nature's fairest forms Proudly revealed with instantaneous burst, Magnificent, and beautiful, and gay. I bounded down the hill shouting amain For the old Ferryman; to the shout the rocks Replied, and when the Charon of the flood Had staid his oars, and touched the jutting pier, [B] I did not step into the well-known boat Without a cordial greeting. Thence with speed Up the familiar hill I took my way [C] Towards that sweet Valley [D] where I had been reared; 'Twas but a short hour's walk, ere veering round I saw the snow-white church upon her hill [E] Sit like a thronèd Lady, sending out A gracious look all over her domain. [F] Yon azure smoke betrays the lurking town; With eager footsteps I advance and reach The cottage threshold where my journey closed. Glad welcome had I, with some tears, perhaps, From my old Dame, so kind and motherly, [G] While she perused me with a parent's pride. The thoughts of gratitude shall fall like dew Upon thy grave, good creature! While my heart Can beat never will I forget thy name. Heaven's blessing be upon thee where thou liest After thy innocent and busy stir In narrow cares, thy little daily growth Of calm enjoyments, after eighty years, And more than eighty, of untroubled life, [H] Childless, yet by the strangers to thy blood Honoured with little less than filial love. What joy was mine to see thee once again, Thee and thy dwelling, and a crowd of things About its narrow precincts all beloved, [I] And many of them seeming yet my own! Why should I speak of what a thousand hearts Have felt, and every man alive can guess? The rooms, the court, the garden were not left Long unsaluted, nor the sunny seat Round the stone table under the dark pine, [K] Friendly to studious or to festive hours; Nor that unruly child of mountain birth, The famous brook, who, soon as he was boxed Within our garden, [L] found himself at once, As if by trick insidious and unkind, Stripped of his voice [M] and left to dimple down (Without an effort and without a will) A channel paved by man's officious care. [N] I looked at him and smiled, and smiled again, And in the press of twenty thousand thoughts, [O] "Ha," quoth I, "pretty prisoner, are you there!" Well might sarcastic Fancy then have whispered, "An emblem here behold of thy own life; In its late course of even days with all Their smooth enthralment;" but the heart was full, Too full for that reproach. My aged Dame Walked proudly at my side: she guided me; I willing, nay—nay, wishing to be led. —The face of every neighbour whom I met Was like a volume to me; some were hailed Upon the road, some busy at their work, Unceremonious greetings interchanged With half the length of a long field between. Among my schoolfellows I scattered round Like recognitions, but with some constraint Attended, doubtless, with a little pride, But with more shame, for my habiliments, The transformation wrought by gay attire. Not less delighted did I take my place At our domestic table: and, [P] dear Friend In this endeavour simply to relate A Poet's history, may I leave untold The thankfulness with which I laid me down In my accustomed bed, more welcome now Perhaps than if it had been more desired Or been more often thought of with regret; That lowly bed whence I had heard the wind Roar and the rain beat hard, where I so oft Had lain awake on summer nights to watch The moon in splendour couched among the leaves Of a tall ash, that near our cottage stood; [Q] Had watched her with fixed eyes while to and fro In the dark summit of the waving tree She rocked with every impulse of the breeze. Among the favourites whom it pleased me well To see again, was one by ancient right Our inmate, a rough terrier of the hills; By birth and call of nature pre-ordained To hunt the badger and unearth the fox Among the impervious crags, but having been From youth our own adopted, he had passed Into a gentler service. And when first The boyish spirit flagged, and day by day Along my veins I kindled with the stir, The fermentation, and the vernal heat Of poesy, affecting private shades Like a sick Lover, then this dog was used To watch me, an attendant and a friend, Obsequious to my steps early and late, Though often of such dilatory walk Tired, and uneasy at the halts I made. A hundred times when, roving high and low I have been harassed with the toil of verse, Much pains and little progress, and at once Some lovely Image in the song rose up Full-formed, like Venus rising from the sea; Then have I darted forwards to let My hand upon his back with stormy joy, Caressing him again and yet again. And when at evening on the public way I sauntered, like a river murmuring And talking to itself when all things Are still, the creature trotted on before; Such was his custom; but whene'er he met A passenger approaching, he would turn To give me timely notice, and straightway, Grateful for that admonishment, I My voice, composed my gait, and, with the air And mien of one whose thoughts are free, advanced To give and take a greeting that might save My name from piteous rumours, such as wait On men suspected to be crazed in brain. Those walks well worthy to be prized and loved— Regretted!—that word, too, was on my tongue, But they were richly laden with all good, And cannot be remembered but with thanks And gratitude, and perfect joy of heart— Those walks in all their freshness now came back Like a returning Spring. When first I made Once more the circuit of our little lake, If ever happiness hath lodged with man, That day consummate happiness was mine, Wide-spreading, steady, calm, contemplative. The sun was set, or setting, when I left Our cottage door, and evening soon brought on A sober hour, not winning or serene, For cold and raw the air was, and untuned; But as a face we love is sweetest then When sorrow damps it, or, whatever look It chance to wear, is sweetest if the heart Have fulness in herself; even so with me It fared that evening. Gently did my soul Put off her veil, and, self-transmuted, stood Naked, as in the presence of her God. While on I walked, a comfort seemed to touch A heart that had not been disconsolate: Strength came where weakness was not known to be, At least not felt; and restoration came Like an intruder knocking at the door Of unacknowledged weariness. I took The balance, and with firm hand weighed myself. —Of that external scene which round me lay, Little, in this abstraction, did I see; Remembered less; but I had inward hopes And swellings of the spirit, was rapt and soothed, Conversed with promises, had glimmering views How life pervades the undecaying mind; How the immortal soul with God-like power Informs, creates, and thaws the deepest sleep That time can lay upon her; how on earth, Man, if he do but live within the light Of high endeavours, daily spreads abroad His being armed with strength that cannot fail. Nor was there want of milder thoughts, of love Of innocence, and holiday repose; And more than pastoral quiet, 'mid the stir Of boldest projects, and a peaceful end At last, or glorious, by endurance won. Thus musing, in a wood I sate me down Alone, continuing there to muse: the slopes And heights meanwhile were slowly overspread With darkness, and before a rippling breeze The long lake lengthened out its hoary line, And in the sheltered coppice where I sate, Around me from among the hazel leaves, Now here, now there, moved by the straggling wind, Came ever and anon a breath-like sound, Quick as the pantings of the faithful dog, The off and on companion of my walk; And such, at times, believing them to be, I turned my head to look if he were there; Then into solemn thought I passed once more. A freshness also found I at this time In human Life, the daily life of those Whose occupations really I loved; The peaceful scene oft filled me with surprise Changed like a garden in the heat of spring After an eight-days' absence. For (to omit The things which were the same and yet appeared Fair otherwise) amid this rural solitude, A narrow Vale where each was known to all, 'Twas not indifferent to a youthful mind To mark some sheltering bower or sunny nook, Where an old man had used to sit alone, Now vacant; pale-faced babes whom I had left In arms, now rosy prattlers at the feet Of a pleased grandame tottering up and down; And growing girls whose beauty, filched away With all its pleasant promises, was gone To deck some slighted playmate's homely cheek. Yes, I had something of a subtler sense, And often looking round was moved to smiles Such as a delicate work of humour breeds; I read, without design, the opinions, thoughts, Of those plain-living people now observed With clearer knowledge; with another eye I saw the quiet woodman in the woods, The shepherd roam the hills. With new delight, This chiefly, did I note my grey-haired Dame; Saw her go forth to church or other work Of state, equipped in monumental trim; Short velvet cloak, (her bonnet of the like), A mantle such as Spanish Cavaliers Wore in old time. Her smooth domestic life, Affectionate without disquietude, Her talk, her business, pleased me; and no less Her clear though shallow stream of piety That ran on Sabbath days a fresher course; With thoughts unfelt till now I saw her read Her Bible on hot Sunday afternoons, And loved the book, when she had dropped asleep And made of it a pillow for her head. Nor less do I remember to have felt, Distinctly manifested at this time, A human-heartedness about my love For objects hitherto the absolute wealth Of my own private being and no more: Which I had loved, even as a blessed spirit Or Angel, if he were to dwell on earth, Might love in individual happiness. But now there opened on me other thoughts Of change, congratulation or regret, A pensive feeling! It spread far and wide; The trees, the mountains shared it, and the brooks, The stars of Heaven, now seen in their old haunts— White Sirius glittering o'er the southern crags, Orion with his belt, and those fair Seven, Acquaintances of every little child, And Jupiter, my own beloved star! Whatever shadings of mortality, Whatever imports from the world of death Had come among these objects heretofore, Were, in the main, of mood less tender: strong, Deep, gloomy were they, and severe; the scatterings Of awe or tremulous dread, that had given way In later youth to yearnings of a love Enthusiastic, to delight and hope. As one who hangs down-bending from the side Of a slow-moving boat, upon the breast Of a still water, solacing himself With such discoveries as his eye can make Beneath him in the bottom of the deep, Sees many beauteous sights—weeds, fishes, flowers. Grots, pebbles, roots of trees, and fancies more, Yet often is perplexed and cannot part The shadow from the substance, rocks and sky, Mountains and clouds, reflected in the depth Of the clear flood, from things which there abide In their true dwelling; now is crossed by gleam Of his own image, by a sun-beam now, And wavering motions sent he knows not whence, Impediments that make his task more sweet; Such pleasant office have we long pursued Incumbent o'er the surface of past time With like success, nor often have appeared Shapes fairer or less doubtfully discerned Than these to which the Tale, indulgent Friend! Would now direct thy notice. Yet in spite Of pleasure won, and knowledge not withheld, There was an inner falling off—I loved, Loved deeply all that had been loved before, More deeply even than ever: but a swarm Of heady schemes jostling each other, gawds, And feast and dance, and public revelry, And sports and games (too grateful in themselves, Yet in themselves less grateful, I believe, Than as they were a badge glossy and fresh Of manliness and freedom) all conspired To lure my mind from firm habitual quest Of feeding pleasures, to depress the zeal And damp those yearnings which had once been mine— A wild, unworldly-minded youth, given up To his own eager thoughts. It would demand Some skill, and longer time than may be spared, To paint these vanities, and how they wrought In haunts where they, till now, had been unknown. It seemed the very garments that I wore Preyed on my strength, and stopped the quiet stream Of self-forgetfulness. Yes, that heartless chase Of trivial pleasures was a poor exchange For books and nature at that early age. 'Tis true, some casual knowledge might be gained Of character or life; but at that time, Of manners put to school I took small note, And all my deeper passions lay elsewhere. Far better had it been to exalt the mind By solitary study, to uphold Intense desire through meditative peace; And yet, for chastisement of these regrets, The memory of one particular hour Doth here rise up against me. 'Mid a throng Of maids and youths, old men, and matrons staid, A medley of all tempers, I had passed The night in dancing, gaiety, and mirth, With din of instruments and shuffling feet, And glancing forms, and tapers glittering, And unaimed prattle flying up and down; [R] Spirits upon the stretch, and here and there Slight shocks of young love-liking interspersed, Whose transient pleasure mounted to the head, And tingled through the veins. Ere we retired, The cock had crowed, and now the eastern sky Was kindling, not unseen, from humble copse And open field, through which the pathway wound, And homeward led my steps. Magnificent The morning rose, in memorable pomp, Glorious as e'er I had beheld—in front, The sea lay laughing at a distance; near, The solid mountains shone, bright as the clouds, Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean light; And in the meadows and the lower grounds Was all the sweetness of a common dawn— Dews, vapours, and the melody of birds, [S] And labourers going forth to till the fields. Ah! need I say, dear Friend! that to the brim My heart was full; I made no vows, but vows Were then made for me; bond unknown to me Was given, that I should be, else sinning greatly, A dedicated Spirit. On I walked In thankful blessedness, which yet survives. [T] Strange rendezvous! My mind was at that time A parti-coloured show of grave and gay, Solid and light, short-sighted and profound; Of inconsiderate habits and sedate, Consorting in one mansion unreproved. The worth I knew of powers that I possessed, Though slighted and too oft misused. Besides, That summer, swarming as it did with thoughts Transient and idle, lacked not intervals When Folly from the frown of fleeting Time Shrunk, and the mind experienced in herself Conformity as just as that of old To the end and written spirit of God's works, Whether held forth in Nature or in Man, Through pregnant vision, separate or conjoined. When from our better selves we have too long Been parted by the hurrying world, and droop, Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, How gracious, how benign, is Solitude; How potent a mere image of her sway; Most potent when impressed upon the mind With an appropriate human centre—hermit, Deep in the bosom of the wilderness; Votary (in vast cathedral, where no foot Is treading, where no other face is seen) Kneeling at prayers; or watchman on the top Of lighthouse, beaten by Atlantic waves; Or as the soul of that great Power is met Sometimes embodied on a public road, When, for the night deserted, it assumes A character of quiet more profound Than pathless wastes. Once, when those summer months Were flown, and autumn brought its annual show Of oars with oars contending, sails with sails, Upon Winander's spacious breast, it chanced That—after I had left a flower-decked room (Whose in-door pastime, lighted up, survived To a late hour), and spirits overwrought Were making night do penance for a day Spent in a round of strenuous idleness—[U] My homeward course led up a long ascent, Where the road's watery surface, to the top Of that sharp rising, glittered to the moon And bore the semblance of another stream Stealing with silent lapse to join the brook That murmured in the vale. [V] All else was still; No living thing appeared in earth or air, And, save the flowing water's peaceful voice, Sound there was none—but, lo! an uncouth shape, Shown by a sudden turning of the road, So near that, slipping back into the shade Of a thick hawthorn, I could mark him well, Myself unseen. He was of stature tall, A span above man's common measure, tall, Stiff, lank, and upright; a more meagre man Was never seen before by night or day. Long were his arms, pallid his hands; his mouth Looked ghastly in the moonlight: from behind, A mile-stone propped him; I could also ken That he was clothed in military garb, Though faded, yet entire. Companionless, No dog attending, by no staff sustained, He stood, and in his very dress appeared A desolation, a simplicity, To which the trappings of a gaudy world Make a strange back-ground. From his lips, ere long, Issued low muttered sounds, as if of pain Or some uneasy thought; yet still his form Kept the same awful steadiness—at his feet His shadow lay, and moved not. From self-blame Not wholly free, I watched him thus; at length Subduing my heart's specious cowardice, I left the shady nook where I had stood And hailed him. Slowly from his resting-place He rose, and with a lean and wasted arm In measured gesture lifted to his head Returned my salutation; then resumed His station as before; and when I asked His history, the veteran, in reply, Was neither slow nor eager; but, unmoved, And with a quiet uncomplaining voice, A stately air of mild indifference, He told in few plain words a soldier's tale— That in the Tropic Islands he had served, Whence he had landed scarcely three weeks past: That on his landing he had been dismissed, And now was travelling towards his native home. This heard, I said, in pity, "Come with me." He stooped, and straightway from the ground took up An oaken staff by me yet unobserved— A staff which must have dropt from his slack hand And lay till now neglected in the grass. Though weak his step and cautious, he appeared To travel without pain, and I beheld, With an astonishment but ill suppressed, His ghostly figure moving at my side; Nor could I, while we journeyed thus, forbear To turn from present hardships to the past, And speak of war, battle, and pestilence, Sprinkling this talk with questions, better spared, On what he might himself have seen or felt. He all the while was in demeanour calm, Concise in answer; solemn and sublime He might have seemed, but that in all he said There was a strange half-absence, as of one Knowing too well the importance of his theme, But feeling it no longer. Our discourse Soon ended, and together on we passed In silence through a wood gloomy and still. Up-turning, then, along an open field, We reached a cottage. At the door I knocked, And earnestly to charitable care Commended him as a poor friendless man, Belated and by sickness overcome. Assured that now the traveller would repose In comfort, I entreated that henceforth He would not linger in the public ways, But ask for timely furtherance and help Such as his state required. At this reproof, With the same ghastly mildness in his look, He said, "My trust is in the God of Heaven, And in the eye of him who passes me!" The cottage door was speedily unbarred, And now the soldier touched his hat once more With his lean hand, and in a faltering voice, Whose tone bespake reviving interests Till then unfelt, he thanked me; I returned The farewell blessing of the patient man, And so we parted. Back I cast a look, And lingered near the door a little space, Then sought with quiet heart my distant home. Contents—The Prelude Main Contents |
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"Apart from poetic sentiment," wrote Dr. Cradock (the late Principal of Brasenose College, Oxford), "it may be doubted whether the pale colour, still preserved at Grasmere and other churches in the district, does not better harmonize with the scenery and atmosphere of the Lake country.".The most interesting feature in the interior is the private chapel of Archbishop Sandys.—Ed.
"Anne Tyson of Colthouse, widow, died May 25th buried 28th, in Churchyard, aged 83."Her removal to Colthouse is confirmed, in a curious way, by a reminiscence of William Wordsworth's (the poet's son), who told me that if asked where the dame's house was, he would have pointed to a spot on the eastern side of the valley, and out of the village altogether; his father having taken him from Rydal Mount to Hawkshead when a mere boy, and pointed out that spot. Doubtless Wordsworth took his son to the cottage at Colthouse, where Anne Tyson died, as the earlier abode in Hawkshead village is well known, and its site is indisputable.—Ed.
'sunny seatI am indebted to Dr. Cradock. He points out that in the prologue to [Volume 2 link: Peter Bell], vol. ii p.9, we have the lines,
Round the stone table under the dark pine,'
'To the stone-table in my garden,Ed.
Loved haunt of many a summer hour,'
"Persons have visited the cottage," wrote Dr. Cradock, "without discovering it; and yet it is not forty yards distant, and is still exactly as described. On the opposite side of the lane leading to the cottage, and a few steps above it, is a narrow passage through some new stone buildings. On emerging from this, you meet a small garden, the farther side of which is bounded by the brook, confined on both sides by larger flags, and also covered by flags of the same Coniston formation, through the interstices of which you may see and hear the stream running freely. The upper flags are now used as a footpath, and lead by another passage back into the village. No doubt the garden has been reduced in size, by the use of that part of it fronting the lane for building purposes. The stream, before it enters the area of buildings and gardens, is open by the lane side, and seemingly comes from the hills to the westwards. The large flags are extremely hard and durable, and it is probably that the very flags which paved the channel in Wordsworth's time may still be doing the same duty."The house adjoining this garden was not Dame Tyson's but a Mr. Watson's. Possibly, however, some of the boys had free access to the latter, so that Wordsworth could speak of it as "our garden;" or, Dame Tyson may have rented it. See Note II. in the Appendix to this volume, p. 386.—Ed.
'Beloved Vale!' I said, 'when I shall conThere can be little doubt that it is to the "famous brook" of The Prelude that reference is made in the later sonnet, and still more significantly in the earlier poem [Volume 2 link:The Fountain], vol. ii. p. 91. Compare the MS. variants of that poem, printed as footnotes, from Lord Coleridge's copy of the Poems:
...
By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost.'
'Down to the vale with eager speedwith the lines in The Prelude:
Behold this streamlet run,
From subterranean bondage freed,
And glittering in the sun.'
'The famous brook, who, soon as he was boxedThis is doubtless the streamlet called Town Beck; and it is perhaps the most interesting of all the spots alluded to by Wordsworth which can be traced out in the Hawkshead district, I am indebted to Mr. Rawnsley for the following note:
Within our garden, found himself at once,
...
Stripped of his voice and left to dimple down, etc.'
"From the village, nay, from the poet's very door when he lived at Anne Tyson's, a good path leads on, past the vicarage, quite to its upland place of birth. It has eaten its way deeply into the soil; in one place there is a series of still pools, that overflow and fall into others, with quiet sound; at other spots, it is bustling and busy. Fine timber is found on either side of it, the roots of the trees often laid bare by the passing current. In one or two places by the side of this beck, and beneath the shadow of lofty oaks, may be found boulder stones, grey and moss-covered. Birds make hiding-places for themselves in these oak and hazel bushes by the stream. Following it up, we find it receives, at a tiny ford, the tribute of another stream from the north-west, and comes down between the adjacent hills (well wooded to the summit) from meadows of short-cropped grass, and to these from the open moorland, where it takes its rise. Every conceivable variety of beauty of sound and sight in streamlet life is found as we follow the course of this Town Beck. We owe much of Wordsworth's intimate acquaintance with streamlet beauty to it."Compare [Volume 2 link: The Fountain] in detail with this passage in The Prelude.—Ed.
'Walks, and the melody of birds.'Ed.
"All that can be safely said as to the course of that memorable morning walk is that, in that neighbourhood, a view of the sea can only be obtained at a considerable elevation; also that if the words 'in front the sea lay laughing' are to be taken as rigidly exact, the poet's progress towards Hawkshead must have been in a direction mainly southerly, and therefore from the country north of that place. These and all other conditions of the description are answered in several parts of the range of hills lying between Elterwater and Hawkshead."See Appendix, Note III. p. 389.—Ed.
'This Lawn, a carpet all alive.'(1829.) And Horace, Epistolæ, lib. i. ep. xi. l. 28:
'Strenua nos exercet inertia.'Ed.
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| When Contemplation, like the night-calm felt Through earth and sky, spreads widely, and sends deep Into the soul its tranquillising power, Even then I sometimes grieve for thee, O Man, Earth's paramount Creature! not so much for woes That thou endurest; heavy though that weight be, Cloud-like it mounts, or touched with light divine Doth melt away; but for those palms achieved, Through length of time, by patient exercise Of study and hard thought; there, there, it is That sadness finds its fuel. Hitherto, In progress through this Verse, my mind hath looked Upon the speaking face of earth and heaven As her prime teacher, intercourse with man Established by the sovereign Intellect, Who through that bodily image hath diffused, As might appear to the eye of fleeting time, A deathless spirit. Thou also, man! hast wrought, For commerce of thy nature with herself, Things that aspire to unconquerable life; And yet we feel—we cannot choose but feel— That they must perish. Tremblings of the heart It gives, to think that our immortal being No more shall need such garments; and yet man, As long as he shall be the child of earth, Might almost "weep to have" what he may lose, Nor be himself extinguished, but survive, Abject, depressed, forlorn, disconsolate. A thought is with me sometimes, and I say,— Should the whole frame of earth by inward throes Be wrenched, or fire come down from far to scorch Her pleasant habitations, and dry up Old Ocean, in his bed left singed and bare, Yet would the living Presence still subsist Victorious, and composure would ensue, And kindlings like the morning—presage sure Of day returning and of life revived. But all the meditations of mankind, Yea, all the adamantine holds of truth By reason built, or passion, which itself Is highest reason in a soul sublime; The consecrated works of Bard and Sage, Sensuous or intellectual, wrought by men, Twin labourers and heirs of the same hopes; Where would they be? Oh! why hath not the Mind Some element to stamp her image on In nature somewhat nearer to her own? Why, gifted with such powers to send abroad Her spirit, must it lodge in shrines so frail? One day, when from my lips a like complaint Had fallen in presence of a studious friend, He with a smile made answer, that in truth 'Twas going far to seek disquietude; But on the front of his reproof confessed That he himself had oftentimes given way To kindred hauntings. Whereupon I told, That once in the stillness of a summer's noon, While I was seated in a rocky cave By the sea-side, perusing, so it chanced, The famous history of the errant knight Recorded by Cervantes, these same thoughts Beset me, and to height unusual rose, While listlessly I sate, and, having closed The book, had turned my eyes toward the wide sea. On poetry and geometric truth, And their high privilege of lasting life, From all internal injury exempt, I mused, upon these chiefly: and at length, My senses yielding to the sultry air, Sleep seized me, and I passed into a dream. I saw before me stretched a boundless plain Of sandy wilderness, all black and void, And as I looked around, distress and fear Came creeping over me, when at my side, Close at my side, an uncouth shape appeared Upon a dromedary, mounted high. He seemed an Arab of the Bedouin tribes: A lance he bore, and underneath one arm A stone, and in the opposite hand a shell Of a surpassing brightness. At the sight Much I rejoiced, not doubting but a guide Was present, one who with unerring skill Would through the desert lead me; and while yet I looked and looked, self-questioned what this freight Which the new-comer carried through the waste Could mean, the Arab told me that the stone (To give it in the language of the dream) Was "Euclid's Elements;" and "This," said he, "Is something of more worth;" and at the word Stretched forth the shell, so beautiful in shape, In colour so resplendent, with command That I should hold it to my ear. I did so, And heard that instant in an unknown tongue, Which yet I understood, articulate sounds, A loud prophetic blast of harmony; An Ode, in passion uttered, which foretold Destruction to the children of the earth By deluge, now at hand. No sooner ceased The song, than the Arab with calm look declared That all would come to pass of which the voice Had given forewarning, and that he himself Was going then to bury those two books: The one that held acquaintance with the stars, And wedded soul to soul in purest bond Of reason, undisturbed by space or time; The other that was a god, yea many gods, Had voices more than all the winds, with power To exhilarate the spirit, and to soothe, Through every clime, the heart of human kind. While this was uttering, strange as it may seem, I wondered not, although I plainly saw The one to be a stone, the other a shell; Nor doubted once but that they both were books, Having a perfect faith in all that passed. Far stronger, now, grew the desire I felt To cleave unto this man; but when I prayed To share his enterprise, he hurried on Reckless of me: I followed, not unseen, For oftentimes he cast a backward look, Grasping his twofold treasure.—Lance in rest, He rode, I keeping pace with him; and now He, to my fancy, had become the knight Whose tale Cervantes tells; yet not the knight, But was an Arab of the desert too; Of these was neither, and was both at once. His countenance, meanwhile, grew more disturbed; And, looking backwards when he looked, mine eyes Saw, over half the wilderness diffused, A bed of glittering light: I asked the cause: "It is," said he, "the waters of the deep Gathering upon us;" quickening then the pace Of the unwieldy creature he bestrode, He left me: I called after him aloud; He heeded not; but, with his twofold charge Still in his grasp, before me, full in view, Went hurrying o'er the illimitable waste, With the fleet waters of a drowning world In chase of him; whereat I waked in terror, And saw the sea before me, and the book, In which I had been reading, at my side. Full often, taking from the world of sleep This Arab phantom, which I thus beheld, This semi-Quixote, I to him have given A substance, fancied him a living man, A gentle dweller in the desert, crazed By love and feeling, and internal thought Protracted among endless solitudes; Have shaped him wandering upon this quest! Nor have I pitied him; but rather felt Reverence was due to a being thus employed; And thought that, in the blind and awful lair Of such a madness, reason did lie couched. Enow there are on earth to take in charge Their wives, their children, and their virgin loves, Or whatsoever else the heart holds dear; Enow to stir for these; yea, will I say, Contemplating in soberness the approach Of an event so dire, by signs in earth Or heaven made manifest, that I could share That maniac's fond anxiety, and go Upon like errand. Oftentimes at least Me hath such strong enhancement overcome, When I have held a volume in my hand, Poor earthly casket of immortal verse, Shakespeare, or Milton, labourers divine! Great and benign, indeed, must be the power Of living nature, which could thus so long Detain me from the best of other guides And dearest helpers, left unthanked, unpraised, Even in the time of lisping infancy; And later down, in prattling childhood even, While I was travelling back among those days, How could I ever play an ingrate's part? Once more should I have made those bowers resound, By intermingling strains of thankfulness With their own thoughtless melodies; at least It might have well beseemed me to repeat Some simply fashioned tale, to tell again, In slender accents of sweet verse, some tale That did bewitch me then, and soothes me now. O Friend! O Poet! brother of my soul, Think not that I could pass along untouched By these remembrances. Yet wherefore speak? Why call upon a few weak words to say What is already written in the hearts Of all that breathe?—what in the path of all Drops daily from the tongue of every child, Wherever man is found? The trickling tear Upon the cheek of listening Infancy Proclaims it, and the insuperable look That drinks as if it never could be full. That portion of my story I shall leave There registered: whatever else of power Or pleasure sown, or fostered thus, may be Peculiar to myself, let that remain Where still it works, though hidden from all search Among the depths of time. Yet is it just That here, in memory of all books which lay Their sure foundations in the heart of man, Whether by native prose, or numerous verse, That in the name of all inspirèd souls— From Homer the great Thunderer, from the voice That roars along the bed of Jewish song, And that more varied and elaborate, Those trumpet-tones of harmony that shake Our shores in England,—from those loftiest notes Down to the low and wren-like warblings, made For cottagers and spinners at the wheel, And sun-burnt travellers resting their tired limbs, Stretched under wayside hedge-rows, ballad tunes, Food for the hungry ears of little ones, And of old men who have survived their joys— 'Tis just that in behalf of these, the works, And of the men that framed them, whether known, Or sleeping nameless in their scattered graves, That I should here assert their rights, attest Their honours, and should, once for all, pronounce Their benediction; speak of them as Powers For ever to be hallowed; only less, For what we are and what we may become, Than Nature's self, which is the breath of God, Or His pure Word by miracle revealed. Rarely and with reluctance would I stoop To transitory themes; yet I rejoice, And, by these thoughts admonished, will pour out Thanks with uplifted heart, that I was reared Safe from an evil which these days have laid Upon the children of the land, a pest That might have dried me up, body and soul. This verse is dedicate to Nature's self, And things that teach as Nature teaches: then, Oh! where had been the Man, the Poet where, Where had we been, we two, beloved Friend! If in the season of unperilous choice, In lieu of wandering, as we did, through vales Rich with indigenous produce, open ground Of Fancy, happy pastures ranged at will, We had been followed, hourly watched, and noosed, Each in his several melancholy walk Stringed like a poor man's heifer at its feed, Led through the lanes in forlorn servitude; Or rather like a stalled ox debarred From touch of growing grass, that may not taste A flower till it have yielded up its sweets A prelibation to the mower's scythe. Behold the parent hen amid her brood, Though fledged and feathered, and well pleased to part And straggle from her presence, still a brood, And she herself from the maternal bond Still undischarged; yet doth she little more Than move with them in tenderness and love, A centre to the circle which they make; And now and then, alike from need of theirs And call of her own natural appetites, She scratches, ransacks up the earth for food, Which they partake at pleasure. Early died My honoured Mother, she who was the heart And hinge of all our learnings and our loves: She left us destitute, and, as we might, Trooping together. Little suits it me To break upon the sabbath of her rest With any thought that looks at others' blame; Nor would I praise her but in perfect love. Hence am I checked: but let me boldly say, In gratitude, and for the sake of truth, Unheard by her, that she, not falsely taught, Fetching her goodness rather from times past, Than shaping novelties for times to come, Had no presumption, no such jealousy, Nor did by habit of her thoughts mistrust Our nature, but had virtual faith that He Who fills the mother's breast with innocent milk, Doth also for our nobler part provide, Under His great correction and control, As innocent instincts, and as innocent food; Or draws for minds that are left free to trust In the simplicities of opening life Sweet honey out of spurned or dreaded weeds. This was her creed, and therefore she was pure From anxious fear of error or mishap, And evil, overweeningly so called; Was not puffed up by false unnatural hopes, Nor selfish with unnecessary cares, Nor with impatience from the season asked More than its timely produce; rather loved The hours for what they are, than from regard Glanced on their promises in restless pride. Such was she—not from faculties more strong Than others have, but from the times, perhaps, And spot in which she lived, and through a grace Of modest meekness, simple-mindedness, A heart that found benignity and hope, Being itself benign. My drift I fear Is scarcely obvious; but, that common sense May try this modern system by its fruits, Leave let me take to place before her sight A specimen pourtrayed with faithful hand. Full early trained to worship seemliness, This model of a child is never known To mix in quarrels; that were far beneath Its dignity; with gifts he bubbles o'er As generous as a fountain; selfishness May not come near him, nor the little throng Of flitting pleasures tempt him from his path; The wandering beggars propagate his name, Dumb creatures find him tender as a nun, And natural or supernatural fear, Unless it leap upon him in a dream, Touches him not. To enhance the wonder, see How arch his notices, how nice his sense Of the ridiculous; not blind is he To the broad follies of the licensed world, Yet innocent himself withal, though shrewd, And can read lectures upon innocence; A miracle of scientific lore, Ships he can guide across the pathless sea, And tell you all their cunning; he can read The inside of the earth, and spell the stars; He knows the policies of foreign lands; Can string you names of districts, cities, towns, The whole world over, tight as beads of dew Upon a gossamer thread; he sifts, he weighs; All things are put to question; he must live Knowing that he grows wiser every day Or else not live at all, and seeing too Each little drop of wisdom as it falls Into the dimpling cistern of his heart: For this unnatural growth the trainer blame, Pity the tree.—Poor human vanity, Wert thou extinguished, little would be left Which he could truly love; but how escape? For, ever as a thought of purer, birth Rises to lead him toward a better clime, Some intermeddler still is on the watch To drive him back, and pound him, like a stray, Within the pinfold of his own conceit. Meanwhile old grandame earth is grieved to find The playthings, which her love designed for him, Unthought of: in their woodland beds the flowers Weep, and the river sides are all forlorn. Oh! give us once again the wishing cap Of Fortunatus, and the invisible coat Of Jack the Giant-killer, Robin Hood, And Sabra in the forest with St. George! The child, whose love is here, at least, doth reap One precious gain, that he forgets himself. These mighty workmen of our later age, Who, with a broad highway, have overbridged The froward chaos of futurity, Tamed to their bidding; they who have the skill To manage books, and things, and make them act On infant minds as surely as the sun Deals with a flower; the keepers of our time, The guides and wardens of our faculties, Sages who in their prescience would control All accidents, and to the very road Which they have fashioned would confine us down, Like engines; when will their presumption learn, That in the unreasoning progress of the world A wiser spirit is at work for us, A better eye than theirs, most prodigal Of blessings, and most studious of our good, Even in what seem our most unfruitful hours? There was a Boy: ye knew him well, ye cliffs And islands of Winander!—many a time At evening, when the earliest stars began To move along the edges of the hills, Rising or setting, would he stand alone Beneath the trees or by the glimmering lake, And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands Pressed closely palm to palm, and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, That they might answer him; and they would shout Across the watery vale, and shout again, Responsive to his call, with quivering peals, And long halloos and screams, and echoes loud, Redoubled and redoubled, concourse wild Of jocund din; and, when a lengthened pause Of silence came and baffled his best skill, Then sometimes, in that silence while he hung Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise Has carried far into his heart the voice Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene Would enter unawares into his mind, With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received Into the bosom of the steady lake. This Boy was taken from his mates, and died In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. Fair is the spot, most beautiful the vale Where he was born; the grassy churchyard hangs Upon a slope above the village school, And through that churchyard when my way has led On summer evenings, I believe that there A long half hour together I have stood Mute, looking at the grave in which he lies! Even now appears before the mind's clear eye That self-same village church; I see her sit (The thronèd Lady whom erewhile we hailed) On her green hill, forgetful of this Boy Who slumbers at her feet,—forgetful, too, Of all her silent neighbourhood of graves, And listening only to the gladsome sounds That, from the rural school ascending, play Beneath her and about her. May she long Behold a race of young ones like to those With whom I herded!—(easily, indeed, We might have fed upon a fatter soil Of arts and letters—but be that forgiven)— A race of real children; not too wise, Too learned, or too good; but wanton, fresh, And bandied up and down by love and hate; Not unresentful where self-justified; Fierce, moody, patient, venturous, modest, shy; Mad at their sports like withered leaves in winds; Though doing wrong and suffering, and full oft Bending beneath our life's mysterious weight Of pain, and doubt, and fear, yet yielding not In happiness to the happiest upon earth. Simplicity in habit, truth in speech, Be these the daily strengtheners of their minds; May books and Nature be their early joy! And knowledge, rightly honoured with that name— Knowledge not purchased by the loss of power! Well do I call to mind the very week When I was first intrusted to the care Of that sweet Valley; when its paths, its shores, And brooks were like a dream of novelty To my half-infant thoughts; that very week, While I was roving up and down alone, Seeking I knew not what, I chanced to cross One of those open fields, which, shaped like ears, Make green peninsulas on Esthwaite's Lake: Twilight was coming on, yet through the gloom Appeared distinctly on the opposite shore A heap of garments, as if left by one Who might have there been bathing. Long I watched, But no one owned them; meanwhile the calm lake Grew dark with all the shadows on its breast, And, now and then, a fish up-leaping snapped The breathless stillness. The succeeding day, Those unclaimed garments telling a plain tale Drew to the spot an anxious crowd; some looked In passive expectation from the shore, While from a boat others hung o'er the deep, Sounding with grappling irons and long poles. At last, the dead man, 'mid that beauteous scene Of trees and hills and water, bolt upright Rose, with his ghastly face, a spectre shape Of terror; yet no soul-debasing fear, Young as I was, a child not nine years old, Possessed me, for my inner eye had seen Such sights before, among the shining streams Of faëry land, the forest of romance. Their spirit hallowed the sad spectacle With decoration of ideal grace; A dignity, a smoothness, like the works Of Grecian art, and purest poesy. A precious treasure had I long possessed, A little yellow, canvas-covered book, A slender abstract of the Arabian tales; And, from companions in a new abode, When first I learnt, that this dear prize of mine Was but a block hewn from a mighty quarry— That there were four large volumes, laden all With kindred matter, 'twas to me, in truth, A promise scarcely earthly. Instantly, With one not richer than myself, I made A covenant that each should lay aside The moneys he possessed, and hoard up more, Till our joint savings had amassed enough To make this book our own. Through several months, In spite of all temptation, we preserved Religiously that vow; but firmness failed, Nor were we ever masters of our wish. And when thereafter to my father's house The holidays returned me, there to find That golden store of books which I had left, What joy was mine! How often in the course Of those glad respites, though a soft west wind Ruffled the waters to the angler's wish For a whole day together, have I lain Down by thy side, O Derwent! murmuring stream, On the hot stones, and in the glaring sun, And there have read, devouring as I read, Defrauding the day's glory, desperate! Till with a sudden bound of smart reproach, Such as an idler deals with in his shame, I to the sport betook myself again. A gracious spirit o'er this earth presides, And o'er the heart of man: invisibly It comes, to works of unreproved delight, And tendency benign, directing those Who care not, know not, think not what they do. The tales that charm away the wakeful night In Araby, romances; legends penned For solace by dim light of monkish lamps; Fictions, for ladies of their love, devised By youthful squires; adventures endless, spun By the dismantled warrior in old age, Out of the bowels of those very schemes In which his youth did first extravagate; These spread like day, and something in the shape Of these will live till man shall be no more. Dumb yearnings, hidden appetites, are ours, And they must have their food. Our childhood sits, Our simple childhood, sits upon a throne That hath more power than all the elements. I guess not what this tells of Being past, Nor what it augurs of the life to come; But so it is, and, in that dubious hour, That twilight when we first begin to see This dawning earth, to recognise, expect, And in the long probation that ensues, The time of trial, ere we learn to live In reconcilement with our stinted powers; To endure this state of meagre vassalage, Unwilling to forego, confess, submit, Uneasy and unsettled, yoke-fellows To custom, mettlesome, and not yet tamed And humbled down; oh! then we feel, we feel, We know where we have friends. Ye dreamers, then, Forgers of daring tales! we bless you then, Impostors, drivellers, dotards, as the ape Philosophy will call you: then we feel With what, and how great might ye are in league, Who make our wish, our power, our thought a deed, An empire, a possession,—ye whom time And seasons serve; all Faculties to whom Earth crouches, the elements are potter's clay, Space like a heaven filled up with northern lights, Here, nowhere, there, and everywhere at once. Relinquishing this lofty eminence For ground, though humbler, not the less a tract Of the same isthmus, which our spirits cross In progress from their native continent To earth and human life, the Song might dwell On that delightful time of growing youth, When craving for the marvellous gives way To strengthening love for things that we have seen; When sober truth and steady sympathies, Offered to notice by less daring pens, Take firmer hold of us, and words themselves Move us with conscious pleasure. I am sad At thought of raptures now for ever flown; Almost to tears I sometimes could be sad To think of, to read over, many a page, Poems withal of name, which at that time Did never fail to entrance me, and are now Dead in my eyes, dead as a theatre Fresh emptied of spectators. Twice five years Or less I might have seen, when first my mind With conscious pleasure opened to the charm Of words in tuneful order, found them sweet For their own sakes, a passion, and a power; And phrases pleased me chosen for delight, For pomp, or love. Oft, in the public roads Yet unfrequented, while the morning light Was yellowing the hill tops, I went abroad With a dear friend, and for the better part Of two delightful hours we strolled along By the still borders of the misty lake, Repeating favourite verses with one voice, Or conning more, as happy as the birds That round us chaunted. Well might we be glad, Lifted above the ground by airy fancies, More bright than madness or the dreams of wine; And, though full oft the objects of our love Were false, and in their splendour overwrought, Yet was there surely then no vulgar power Working within us,—nothing less, in truth, Than that most noble attribute of man, Though yet untutored and inordinate, That wish for something loftier, more adorned, Than is the common aspect, daily garb, Of human life. What wonder, then, if sounds Of exultation echoed through the groves! For, images, and sentiments, and words, And everything encountered or pursued In that delicious world of poesy, Kept holiday, a never-ending show, With music, incense, festival, and flowers! Here must we pause: this only let me add, From heart-experience, and in humblest sense Of modesty, that he, who in his youth A daily wanderer among woods and fields With living Nature hath been intimate, Not only in that raw unpractised time Is stirred to extasy, as others are, By glittering verse; but further, doth receive, In measure only dealt out to himself, Knowledge and increase of enduring joy From the great Nature that exists in works Of mighty Poets. Visionary power Attends the motions of the viewless winds, Embodied in the mystery of words: There, darkness makes abode, and all the host Of shadowy things work endless changes,—there, As in a mansion like their proper home, Even forms and substances are circumfused By that transparent veil with light divine, And, through the turnings intricate of verse, Present themselves as objects recognised, In flashes, and with glory not their own. Contents—The Prelude Main Contents |
A B C D E F G H I K L M N O P Q R S T U |
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'Though Earth and Man were gone,Ed.
And suns and universes ceased to be,
And Thou wert left alone,
Every existence would exist in Thee.
There is not room for Death,
Nor atom that His might could render void;
Thou—Thou art Being and Breath,
And what Thou art may never be destroyed.'
"Because she would then become farther and farther removed from the source of essential life and being, diffused instead of concentrated."(William Davies).—Ed.
"So far as I can learn Wordsworth had not read any critical work on Don Quixote before he wrote the fifth book of The Preludea, nor for that matter had any criticism of the master-piece of Cervantes then appeared. Yet Wordsworth,Ed.'by patient exercisehas given us not only a most poetical insight into the real nature of the 'Illustrious Hidalgo of La Mancha'; he has shown us that it was a nature compacted of the madman and the poet, and this in language so appropriate, that the consideration of it cannot fail to give pleasure to all who have found a reason for weighing Wordsworth's words.
Of study and hard thought,'
"He demands'Oh! why hath not the Mindthen falls asleep, 'his senses yielding to the sultry air,' and he sees before him
Some element to stamp her image on?''stretched a boundless plainHere we have the plains of Montiel, and the poet realising all that Don Quixote felt on that day of July, 'the hottest of the year,' when he first set out on his quest and met with nothing worth recording.
Of sandy wilderness, all black and void,
And as I looked around, distress and fear
Came creeping over me, when at my side,
Close at my side, an uncouth shape appeared
Upon a dromedary, mounted high.
He seemed an Arab ...''The uncouth shape'is of course the Don himself,the 'dromedary'is Rozinante, andthe 'Arab'doubtless is Cid Hamete Benengeli.
"Taking such an one for the guide,'who with unerring skillis a most sweet play of humour like to the lambent flame of his whose satire was as a summer breath, and who smiled all the time he wrote, although he wrote chiefly in a prison.
Would through the desert lead me,''The loud prophetic blast of harmony'is doubtless a continuation of this humour, down to the lines'Nor doubted once but that they both were books,"Our poet now becomes positive,
Having a perfect faith in all that passed.''Lance in rest,This is absolutely true, and was one of the earliest complaints made a century and a half ago, when Spaniards began to criticise their one great book. They could not tell at times whether Don Quixote was speaking, or Cervantes, or Cid Hamete Benengeli.
He rode, I keeping pace with him; and now
He, to my fancy, had become the knight
Whose tale Cervantes tells; yet not the knight
But was an Arab of the desert too,
Of these was neither, and was both at once.''A bed of glittering light'is a delightful description of the attitude of Don Quixote's mind towards external nature while passing through the desert.'It is,' said he, 'the waters of the deep"It was, of course, only the mirage; but this he changed to suit his own purpose into the 'waters of the deep,' as he changed the row of Castilian wind-mills into giants, and the roar of the fulling mills into the din of war.
Gathering upon us.'
"Wordsworth is now awake from his dream, but turning all he saw in it into a reality, as only the poet can, he feels that'Reverence was due to a being thus employed;Here again is a most profound description of the creation of Cervantes. Don Quixote was mad, but his was a madness that proceeded from that 'blind and awful lair,' a disordered stomach, rather than from an injured brain. Had Don Quixote not forsaken the exercise of the chase and early rising, if he had not taken to eating chestnuts at night, cold spiced meat, together with onions and 'ollas podridas', then proceeding to read exciting, unnatural tales of love and war, he would not have gone mad.
And thought that, in the blind and awful lair
Of such a madness, reason did lie couched.'
"But his reason only lay 'couched,' not overthrown. Only give him a dose of the balsam of Fierabras, his reason shall spring out of its lair, like a lion from out its hiding-place, as indeed it did; and you then have that wonderful piece of rhetoric, which describes the army of Alifanfaron in the eighteenth chapter, Part I.
"There are many other things worthy of note, such as'crazedall of which are 'fit epithets blessed in the marriage of pure words,' which the author of The Prelude, without any special learning, or personal knowledge of Spain, has given us, and are so striking as to compel us once again to go to Wordsworth and say, 'we do not all understand thee yet, not all that thou hast given us.'
By love and feeling, and internal thought
Protracted among endless solitudes,'
Very truly yours, A. J. Duffield."
'In prose or numerous verse.'Ed.
"Of my earliest days at School I have little to say, but that they were very happy ones, chiefly because I was left at liberty, then and in the vacations, to read whatever books I liked. For example, I read all Fielding's works, Don Quixote, Gil Blas, and any part of Swift that I liked; Gulliver's Travels and the Tale of a Tub being both much to my taste."As Wordsworth alludes to Coleridge's education, along with his own, "in the season of unperilous choice," the reference is probably to Coleridge's early time at the vicarage of Ottery St. Mary's, Devonshire, and at the Grammar School there, as well as at Christ's Hospital in London, where (with Charles Lamb as school-companion) he was as enthusiastic in his exploits in the New River, as he was an eager student of books.—Ed.
'Think you, 'mid all this mighty sumEd.
Of things for ever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?'
'And through that churchyard when my way has ledOne may localize the above description almost anywhere at Hawkshead—Ed.
On summer evenings.'
'Creature not too bright or goodEd.
For human nature's daily food.'
'There sometimes doth a leaping fishEd.
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer.'
'That time is past,And in the Ode, Intimations of Immortality, vol. viii.:
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures.'
'What though the radiance which was once so brightEd.
Be now for ever taken from my sight.'
'... five milesEd.
Of pleasant wandering ...'
Contents—The Prelude
Main Contents
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| The leaves were fading when to Esthwaite's banks And the simplicities of cottage life I bade farewell; and, one among the youth Who, summoned by that season, reunite As scattered birds troop to the fowler's lure, Went back to Granta's cloisters, not so prompt Or eager, though as gay and undepressed In mind, as when I thence had taken flight A few short months before. I turned my face Without repining from the coves and heights Clothed in the sunshine of the withering fern; Quitted, not both, the mild magnificence Of calmer lakes and louder streams; and you, Frank-hearted maids of rocky Cumberland, You and your not unwelcome days of mirth, Relinquished, and your nights of revelry, And in my own unlovely cell sate down In lightsome mood—such privilege has youth That cannot take long leave of pleasant thoughts. The bonds of indolent society Relaxing in their hold, henceforth I lived More to myself. Two winters may be passed Without a separate notice: many books Were skimmed, devoured, or studiously perused, But with no settled plan. I was detached Internally from academic cares; Yet independent study seemed a course Of hardy disobedience toward friends And kindred, proud rebellion and unkind. This spurious virtue, rather let it bear A name it now deserves, this cowardice, Gave treacherous sanction to that over-love Of freedom which encouraged me to turn From regulations even of my own As from restraints and bonds. Yet who can tell— Who knows what thus may have been gained, both then And at a later season, or preserved; What love of nature, what original strength Of contemplation, what intuitive truths, The deepest and the best, what keen research, Unbiassed, unbewildered, and unawed? The Poet's soul was with me at that time; Sweet meditations, the still overflow Of present happiness, while future years Lacked not anticipations, tender dreams, No few of which have since been realised; And some remain, hopes for my future life. Four years and thirty, told this very week, Have I been now a sojourner on earth, By sorrow not unsmitten; yet for me Life's morning radiance hath not left the hills, Her dew is on the flowers. Those were the days Which also first emboldened me to trust With firmness, hitherto but lightly touched By such a daring thought, that I might leave Some monument behind me which pure hearts Should reverence. The instinctive humbleness, Maintained even by the very name and thought Of printed books and authorship, began To melt away; and further, the dread awe Of mighty names was softened down and seemed Approachable, admitting fellowship Of modest sympathy. Such aspect now, Though not familiarly, my mind put on, Content to observe, to achieve, and to enjoy. All winter long, whenever free to choose, Did I by night frequent the College groves And tributary walks; the last, and oft The only one, who had been lingering there Through hours of silence, till the porter's bell, A punctual follower on the stroke of nine, Rang with its blunt unceremonious voice, Inexorable summons! Lofty elms, Inviting shades of opportune recess, Bestowed composure on a neighbourhood Unpeaceful in itself. A single tree With sinuous trunk, boughs exquisitely wreathed, Grew there; an ash which Winter for himself Decked out with pride, and with outlandish grace: Up from the ground, and almost to the top, The trunk and every master branch were green With clustering ivy, and the lightsome twigs And outer spray profusely tipped with seeds That hung in yellow tassels, while the air Stirred them, not voiceless. Often have I stood Foot-bound uplooking at this lovely tree Beneath a frosty moon. The hemisphere Of magic fiction, verse of mine perchance May never tread; but scarcely Spenser's self Could have more tranquil visions in his youth, Or could more bright appearances create Of human forms with superhuman powers, Than I beheld loitering on calm clear nights Alone, beneath this fairy work of earth. On the vague reading of a truant youth 'Twere idle to descant. My inner judgment Not seldom differed from my taste in books. As if it appertained to another mind, And yet the books which then I valued most Are dearest to me now; for, having scanned, Not heedlessly, the laws, and watched the forms Of Nature, in that knowledge I possessed A standard, often usefully applied, Even when unconsciously, to things removed From a familiar sympathy.—In fine, I was a better judge of thoughts than words, Misled in estimating words, not only By common inexperience of youth, But by the trade in classic niceties, The dangerous craft of culling term and phrase From languages that want the living voice To carry meaning to the natural heart; To tell us what is passion, what is truth, What reason, what simplicity and sense. Yet may we not entirely overlook The pleasure gathered from the rudiments Of geometric science. Though advanced In these inquiries, with regret I speak, No farther than the threshold, there I found Both elevation and composed delight: With Indian awe and wonder, ignorance pleased With its own struggles, did I meditate On the relation those abstractions bear To Nature's laws, and by what process led, Those immaterial agents bowed their heads Duly to serve the mind of earth-born man; From star to star, from kindred sphere to sphere, From system on to system without end. More frequently from the same source I drew A pleasure quiet and profound, a sense Of permanent and universal sway, And paramount belief; there, recognised A type, for finite natures, of the one Supreme Existence, the surpassing life Which—to the boundaries of space and time, Of melancholy space and doleful time, Superior, and incapable of change, Nor touched by welterings of passion—is, And hath the name of, God. Transcendent peace And silence did await upon these thoughts That were a frequent comfort to my youth. 'Tis told by one whom stormy waters threw, With fellow-sufferers by the shipwreck spared, Upon a desert coast, that having brought To land a single volume, saved by chance, A treatise of Geometry, he wont, Although of food and clothing destitute, And beyond common wretchedness depressed, To part from company and take this book (Then first a self-taught pupil in its truths) To spots remote, and draw his diagrams With a long staff upon the sand, and thus Did oft beguile his sorrow, and almost Forget his feeling: so (if like effect From the same cause produced, 'mid outward things So different, may rightly be compared), So was it then with me, and so will be With Poets ever. Mighty is the charm Of those abstractions to a mind beset With images, and haunted by herself, And specially delightful unto me Was that clear synthesis built up aloft So gracefully; even then when it appeared Not more than a mere plaything, or a toy To sense embodied: not the thing it is In verity, an independent world, Created out of pure intelligence. Such dispositions then were mine unearned By aught, I fear, of genuine desert— Mine, through heaven's grace and inborn aptitudes. And not to leave the story of that time Imperfect, with these habits must be joined, Moods melancholy, fits of spleen, that loved A pensive sky, sad days, and piping winds, The twilight more than dawn, autumn than spring; A treasured and luxurious gloom of choice And inclination mainly, and the mere Redundancy of youth's contentedness. —To time thus spent, add multitudes of hours Pilfered away, by what the Bard who sang Of the Enchanter Indolence hath called "Good-natured lounging," and behold a map Of my collegiate life—far less intense Than duty called for, or, without regard To duty, might have sprung up of itself By change of accidents, or even, to speak Without unkindness, in another place. Yet why take refuge in that plea?—the fault, This I repeat, was mine; mine be the blame. In summer, making quest for works of art, Or scenes renowned for beauty, I explored That streamlet whose blue current works its way Between romantic Dovedale's spiry rocks; Pried into Yorkshire dales, or hidden tracts Of my own native region, and was blest Between these sundry wanderings with a joy Above all joys, that seemed another morn Risen on mid noon; blest with the presence, Friend! Of that sole Sister, her who hath been long Dear to thee also, thy true friend and mine, Now, after separation desolate, Restored to me—such absence that she seemed A gift then first bestowed. The varied banks Of Emont, hitherto unnamed in song, And that monastic castle, 'mid tall trees, Low-standing by the margin of the stream, A mansion visited (as fame reports) By Sidney, where, in sight of our Helvellyn, Or stormy Cross-fell, snatches he might pen Of his Arcadia, by fraternal love Inspired;—that river and those mouldering towers Have seen us side by side, when, having clomb The darksome windings of a broken stair, And crept along a ridge of fractured wall, Not without trembling, we in safety looked Forth, through some Gothic window's open space, And gathered with one mind a rich reward From the far-stretching landscape, by the light Of morning beautified, or purple eve; Or, not less pleased, lay on some turret's head, Catching from tufts of grass and hare-bell flowers Their faintest whisper to the passing breeze, Given out while mid-day heat oppressed the plains. Another maid there was, who also shed A gladness o'er that season, then to me, By her exulting outside look of youth And placid under-countenance, first endeared; That other spirit, Coleridge! who is now So near to us, that meek confiding heart, So reverenced by us both. O'er paths and fields In all that neighbourhood, through narrow lanes Of eglantine, and through the shady woods, And o'er the Border Beacon, and the waste Of naked pools, and common crags that lay Exposed on the bare felt, were scattered love, The spirit of pleasure, and youth's golden gleam. O Friend! we had not seen thee at that time, And yet a power is on me, and a strong Confusion, and I seem to plant thee there. Far art thou wandered now in search of health And milder breezes,—melancholy lot! But thou art with us, with us in the past, The present, with us in the times to come. There is no grief, no sorrow, no despair, No languor, no dejection, no dismay, No absence scarcely can there be, for those Who love as we do. Speed thee well! divide With us thy pleasure; thy returning strength, Receive it daily as a joy of ours; Share with us thy fresh spirits, whether gift Of gales Etesian or of tender thoughts. I, too, have been a wanderer; but, alas! How different the fate of different men. Though mutually unknown, yea nursed and reared As if in several elements, we were framed To bend at last to the same discipline, Predestined, if two beings ever were, To seek the same delights, and have one health, One happiness. Throughout this narrative, Else sooner ended, I have borne in mind For whom it registers the birth, and marks the growth, Of gentleness, simplicity, and truth, And joyous loves, that hallow innocent days Of peace and self-command. Of rivers, fields, And groves I speak to thee, my Friend! to thee, Who, yet a liveried schoolboy, in the depths Of the huge city, on the leaded roof Of that wide edifice, thy school and home, Wert used to lie and gaze upon the clouds Moving in heaven; or, of that pleasure tired, To shut thine eyes, and by internal light See trees, and meadows, and thy native stream, Far distant, thus beheld from year to year Of a long exile. Nor could I forget, In this late portion of my argument, That scarcely, as my term of pupilage Ceased, had I left those academic bowers When thou wert thither guided. From the heart Of London, and from cloisters there, thou camest, And didst sit down in temperance and peace, A rigorous student. What a stormy course Then followed. Oh! it is a pang that calls For utterance, to think what easy change Of circumstances might to thee have spared A world of pain, ripened a thousand hopes, For ever withered. Through this retrospect Of my collegiate life I still have had Thy after-sojourn in the self-same place Present before my eyes, have played with times And accidents as children do with cards, Or as a man, who, when his house is built, A frame locked up in wood and stone, doth still, As impotent fancy prompts, by his fireside, Rebuild it to his liking. I have thought Of thee, thy learning, gorgeous eloquence, And all the strength and plumage of thy youth, Thy subtle speculations, toils abstruse Among the schoolmen, and Platonic forms Of wild ideal pageantry, shaped out From things well-matched or ill, and words for things, The self-created sustenance of a mind Debarred from Nature's living images, Compelled to be a life unto herself, And unrelentingly possessed by thirst Of greatness, love, and beauty. Not alone, Ah! surely not in singleness of heart Should I have seen the light of evening fade From smooth Cam's silent waters: had we met, Even at that early time, needs must I trust In the belief, that my maturer age, My calmer habits, and more steady voice, Would with an influence benign have soothed, Or chased away, the airy wretchedness That battened on thy youth. But thou hast trod A march of glory, which doth put to shame These vain regrets; health suffers in thee, else Such grief for thee would be the weakest thought That ever harboured in the breast of man. A passing word erewhile did lightly touch On wanderings of my own, that now embraced With livelier hope a region wider far. When the third summer freed us from restraint, A youthful friend, he too a mountaineer, Not slow to share my wishes, took his staff, And sallying forth, we journeyed side by side, Bound to the distant Alps. A hardy slight Did this unprecedented course imply Of college studies and their set rewards; Nor had, in truth, the scheme been formed by me Without uneasy forethought of the pain, The censures, and ill-omening of those To whom my worldly interests were dear. But Nature then was sovereign in my mind, And mighty forms, seizing a youthful fancy, Had given a charter to irregular hopes. In any age of uneventful calm Among the nations, surely would my heart Have been possessed by similar desire; But Europe at that time was thrilled with joy, France standing on the top of golden hours, And human nature seeming born again. Lightly equipped, and but a few brief looks Cast on the white cliffs of our native shore From the receding vessel's deck, we chanced To land at Calais on the very eve Of that great federal day; and there we saw, In a mean city, and among a few, How bright a face is worn when joy of one Is joy for tens of millions. Southward thence We held our way, direct through hamlets, towns, Gaudy with reliques of that festival, Flowers left to wither on triumphal arcs, And window-garlands. On the public roads, And, once, three days successively, through paths By which our toilsome journey was abridged, Among sequestered villages we walked And found benevolence and blessedness Spread like a fragrance everywhere, when spring Hath left no corner of the land untouched: Where elms for many and many a league in files With their thin umbrage, on the stately roads Of that great kingdom, rustled o'er our heads, For ever near us as we paced along: How sweet at such a time, with such delight On every side, in prime of youthful strength, To feed a Poet's tender melancholy And fond conceit of sadness, with the sound Of undulations varying as might please The wind that swayed them; once, and more than once, Unhoused beneath the evening star we saw Dances of liberty, and, in late hours Of darkness, dances in the open air Deftly prolonged, though grey-haired lookers on Might waste their breath in chiding. Under hills— The vine-clad hills and slopes of Burgundy, Upon the bosom of the gentle Saône We glided forward with the flowing stream, Swift Rhone! thou wert the wings on which we cut A winding passage with majestic ease Between thy lofty rocks. Enchanting show Those woods and farms and orchards did present And single cottages and lurking towns, Reach after reach, succession without end Of deep and stately vales! A lonely pair Of strangers, till day closed, we sailed along, Clustered together with a merry crowd Of those emancipated, a blithe host Of travellers, chiefly delegates returning From the great spousals newly solemnised At their chief city, in the sight of Heaven. Like bees they swarmed, gaudy and gay as bees; Some vapoured in the unruliness of joy, And with their swords flourished as if to fight The saucy air. In this proud company We landed—took with them our evening meal, Guests welcome almost as the angels were To Abraham of old. The supper done, With flowing cups elate and happy thoughts We rose at signal given, and formed a ring And, hand in hand, danced round and round the board; All hearts were open, every tongue was loud With amity and glee; we bore a name Honoured in France, the name of Englishmen, And hospitably did they give us hail, As their forerunners in a glorious course; And round and round the board we danced again. With these blithe friends our voyage we renewed At early dawn. The monastery bells Made a sweet jingling in our youthful ears; The rapid river flowing without noise, And each uprising or receding spire Spake with a sense of peace, at intervals Touching the heart amid the boisterous crew By whom we were encompassed. Taking leave Of this glad throng, foot-travellers side by side, Measuring our steps in quiet, we pursued Our journey, and ere twice the sun had set Beheld the Convent of Chartreuse, and there Rested within an awful solitude: Yes, for even then no other than a place Of soul-affecting solitude appeared That far-famed region, though our eyes had seen, As toward the sacred mansion we advanced, Arms flashing, and a military glare Of riotous men commissioned to expel The blameless inmates, and belike subvert That frame of social being, which so long Had bodied forth the ghostliness of things In silence visible and perpetual calm. —"Stay, stay your sacrilegious hands!"—The voice Was Nature's, uttered from her Alpine throne; I heard it then and seem to hear it now— "Your impious work forbear, perish what may, Let this one temple last, be this one spot Of earth devoted to eternity!" She ceased to speak, but while St. Bruno's pines Waved their dark tops, not silent as they waved, And while below, along their several beds, Murmured the sister streams of Life and Death, Thus by conflicting passions pressed, my heart Responded; "Honour to the patriot's zeal! Glory and hope to new-born Liberty! Hail to the mighty projects of the time! Discerning sword that Justice wields, do thou Go forth and prosper; and, ye purging fires, Up to the loftiest towers of Pride ascend, Fanned by the breath of angry Providence. But oh! if Past and Future be the wings, On whose support harmoniously conjoined Moves the great spirit of human knowledge, spare These courts of mystery, where a step advanced Between the portals of the shadowy rocks Leaves far behind life's treacherous vanities, For penitential tears and trembling hopes Exchanged—to equalise in God's pure sight Monarch and peasant: be the house redeemed With its unworldly votaries, for the sake Of conquest over sense, hourly achieved Through faith and meditative reason, resting Upon the word of heaven-imparted truth, Calmly triumphant; and for humbler claim Of that imaginative impulse sent From these majestic floods, yon shining cliffs, The untransmuted shapes of many worlds, Cerulean ether's pure inhabitants, These forests unapproachable by death, That shall endure as long as man endures, To think, to hope, to worship, and to feel, To struggle, to be lost within himself In trepidation, from the blank abyss To look with bodily eyes, and be consoled." Not seldom since that moment have I wished That thou, O Friend! the trouble or the calm Hadst shared, when, from profane regards apart, In sympathetic reverence we trod The floors of those dim cloisters, till that hour, From their foundation, strangers to the presence Of unrestricted and unthinking man. Abroad, how cheeringly the sunshine lay Upon the open lawns! Vallombre's groves Entering, we fed the soul with darkness; thence Issued, and with uplifted eyes beheld, In different quarters of the bending sky, The cross of Jesus stand erect, as if Hands of angelic powers had fixed it there, Memorial reverenced by a thousand storms; Yet then, from the undiscriminating sweep And rage of one State-whirlwind, insecure. 'Tis not my present purpose to retrace That variegated journey step by step. A march it was of military speed, And Earth did change her images and forms Before us, fast as clouds are changed in heaven. Day after day, up early and down late, From hill to vale we dropped, from vale to hill Mounted—from province on to province swept, Keen hunters in a chase of fourteen weeks, Eager as birds of prey, or as a ship Upon the stretch, when winds are blowing fair: Sweet coverts did we cross of pastoral life, Enticing valleys, greeted them and left Too soon, while yet the very flash and gleam Of salutation were not passed away. Oh! sorrow for the youth who could have seen Unchastened, unsubdued, unawed, unraised To patriarchal dignity of mind, And pure simplicity of wish and will, Those sanctified abodes of peaceful man, Pleased (though to hardship born, and compassed round With danger, varying as the seasons change), Pleased with his daily task, or, if not pleased, Contented, from the moment that the dawn (Ah! surely not without attendant gleams Of soul-illumination) calls him forth To industry, by glistenings flung on rocks, Whose evening shadows lead him to repose, Well might a stranger look with bounding heart Down on a green recess, the first I saw Of those deep haunts, an aboriginal vale, Quiet and lorded over and possessed By naked huts, wood-built, and sown like tents Or Indian cabins over the fresh lawns And by the river side. That very day, From a bare ridge we also first beheld Unveiled the summit of Mont Blanc, and grieved To have a soulless image on the eye That had usurped upon a living thought That never more could be. The wondrous Vale Of Chamouny stretched far below, and soon With its dumb cataracts and streams of ice, A motionless array of mighty waves, Five rivers broad and vast, made rich amends, And reconciled us to realities; There small birds warble from the leafy trees, The eagle soars high in the element, There doth the reaper bind the yellow sheaf, The maiden spread the haycock in the sun, While Winter like a well-tamed lion walks, Descending from the mountain to make sport Among the cottages by beds of flowers. Whate'er in this wide circuit we beheld, Or heard, was fitted to our unripe state Of intellect and heart. With such a book Before our eyes, we could not choose but read Lessons of genuine brotherhood, the plain And universal reason of mankind, The truths of young and old. Nor, side by side Pacing, two social pilgrims, or alone Each with his humour, could we fail to abound In dreams and fictions, pensively composed: Dejection taken up for pleasure's sake, And gilded sympathies, the willow wreath, And sober posies of funereal flowers, Gathered among those solitudes sublime From formal gardens of the lady Sorrow, Did sweeten many a meditative hour. Yet still in me with those soft luxuries Mixed something of stem mood, an under-thirst Of vigour seldom utterly allayed. And from that source how different a sadness Would issue, let one incident make known. When from the Vallais we had turned, and clomb Along the Simplon's steep and rugged road, Following a band of muleteers, we reached A halting-place, where all together took Their noon-tide meal. Hastily rose our guide, Leaving us at the board; awhile we lingered, Then paced the beaten downward way that led Right to a rough stream's edge, and there broke off; The only track now visible was one That from the torrent's further brink held forth Conspicuous invitation to ascend A lofty mountain. After brief delay Crossing the unbridged stream, that road we took, And clomb with eagerness, till anxious fears Intruded, for we failed to overtake Our comrades gone before. By fortunate chance, While every moment added doubt to doubt, A peasant met us, from whose mouth we learned That to the spot which had perplexed us first We must descend, and there should find the road, Which in the stony channel of the stream Lay a few steps, and then along its banks; And, that our future course, all plain to sight, Was downwards, with the current of that stream. Loth to believe what we so grieved to hear, For still we had hopes that pointed to the clouds, We questioned him again, and yet again; But every word that from the peasant's lips Came in reply, translated by our feelings, Ended in this,—'that we had crossed the Alps'. Imagination—here the Power so called Through sad incompetence of human speech, That awful Power rose from the mind's abyss Like an unfathered vapour that enwraps, At once, some lonely traveller. I was lost; Halted without an effort to break through; But to my conscious soul I now can say— "I recognise thy glory:" in such strength Of usurpation, when the light of sense Goes out, but with a flash that has revealed The invisible world, doth greatness make abode, There harbours; whether we be young or old, Our destiny, our being's heart and home, Is with infinitude, and only there; With hope it is, hope that can never die, Effort, and expectation, and desire, And something evermore about to be. Under such banners militant, the soul Seeks for no trophies, struggles for no spoils That may attest her prowess, blest in thoughts That are their own perfection and reward, Strong in herself and in beatitude That hides her, like the mighty flood of Nile Poured from his fount of Abyssinian clouds To fertilise the whole Egyptian plain. The melancholy slackening that ensued Upon those tidings by the peasant given Was soon dislodged. Downwards we hurried fast, And, with the half-shaped road which we had missed, Entered a narrow chasm. The brook and road Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy strait, And with them did we journey several hours At a slow pace. The immeasurable height Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, The stationary blasts of waterfalls, And in the narrow rent at every turn Winds thwarting winds, bewildered and forlorn, The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky, The rocks that muttered close upon our ears, Black drizzling crags that spake by the way-side As if a voice were in them, the sick sight And giddy prospect of the raving stream, The unfettered clouds and region of the Heavens, Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light— Were all like workings of one mind, the features Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree; Characters of the great Apocalypse, The types and symbols of Eternity, Of first, and last, and midst, and without end. That night our lodging was a house that stood Alone within the valley, at a point Where, tumbling from aloft, a torrent swelled The rapid stream whose margin we had trod; A dreary mansion, large beyond all need, With high and spacious rooms, deafened and stunned By noise of waters, making innocent sleep Lie melancholy among weary bones. Uprisen betimes, our journey we renewed, Led by the stream, ere noon-day magnified Into a lordly river, broad and deep, Dimpling along in silent majesty, With mountains for its neighbours, and in view Of distant mountains and their snowy tops, And thus proceeding to Locarno's Lake, Fit resting-place for such a visitant. Locarno! spreading out in width like Heaven, How dost thou cleave to the poetic heart, Bask in the sunshine of the memory; And Como! thou, a treasure whom the earth Keeps to herself, confined as in a depth Of Abyssinian privacy. I spake Of thee, thy chestnut woods, and garden plots Of Indian corn tended by dark-eyed maids; Thy lofty steeps, and pathways roofed with vines, Winding from house to house, from town to town, Sole link that binds them to each other; walks, League after league, and cloistral avenues, Where silence dwells if music be not there: While yet a youth undisciplined in verse, Through fond ambition of that hour I strove To chant your praise; nor can approach you now Ungreeted by a more melodious Song, Where tones of Nature smoothed by learned Art May flow in lasting current. Like a breeze Or sunbeam over your domain I passed In motion without pause; but ye have left Your beauty with me, a serene accord Of forms and colours, passive, yet endowed In their submissiveness with power as sweet And gracious, almost might I dare to say, As virtue is, or goodness; sweet as love, Or the remembrance of a generous deed, Or mildest visitations of pure thought, When God, the giver of all joy, is thanked Religiously, in silent blessedness; Sweet as this last herself, for such it is. With those delightful pathways we advanced, For two days' space, in presence of the Lake, That, stretching far among the Alps, assumed A character more stern. The second night, From sleep awakened, and misled by sound Of the church clock telling the hours with strokes Whose import then we had not learned, we rose By moonlight, doubting not that day was nigh, And that meanwhile, by no uncertain path, Along the winding margin of the lake, Led, as before, we should behold the scene Hushed in profound repose. We left the town Of Gravedona with this hope; but soon Were lost, bewildered among woods immense, And on a rock sate down, to wait for day. An open place it was, and overlooked, From high, the sullen water far beneath, On which a dull red image of the moon Lay bedded, changing oftentimes its form Like an uneasy snake. From hour to hour We sate and sate, wondering, as if the night Had been ensnared by witchcraft. On the rock At last we stretched our weary limbs for sleep, But could not sleep, tormented by the stings Of insects, which, with noise like that of noon, Filled all the woods; the cry of unknown birds; The mountains more by blackness visible And their own size, than any outward light; The breathless wilderness of clouds; the clock That told, with unintelligible voice, The widely parted hours; the noise of streams, And sometimes rustling motions nigh at hand, That did not leave us free from personal fear; And, lastly, the withdrawing moon, that set Before us, while she still was high in heaven;— These were our food; and such a summer's night Followed that pair of golden days that shed On Como's Lake, and all that round it lay, Their fairest, softest, happiest influence. But here I must break off, and bid farewell To days, each offering some new sight, or fraught With some untried adventure, in a course Prolonged till sprinklings of autumnal snow Checked our unwearied steps. Let this alone Be mentioned as a parting word, that not In hollow exultation, dealing out Hyperboles of praise comparative; Not rich one moment to be poor for ever; Not prostrate, overborne, as if the mind Herself were nothing, a mere pensioner On outward forms—did we in presence stand Of that magnificent region. On the front Of this whole Song is written that my heart Must, in such Temple, needs have offered up A different worship. Finally, whate'er I saw, or heard, or felt, was but a stream That flowed into a kindred stream; a gale, Confederate with the current of the soul, To speed my voyage; every sound or sight, In its degree of power, administered To grandeur or to tenderness,—to the one Directly, but to tender thoughts by means Less often instantaneous in effect; Led me to these by paths that, in the main, Were more circuitous, but not less sure Duly to reach the point marked out by Heaven. Oh, most belovèd Friend! a glorious time, A happy time that was; triumphant looks Were then the common language of all eyes; As if awaked from sleep, the Nations hailed Their great expectancy: the fife of war Was then a spirit-stirring sound indeed, A black-bird's whistle in a budding grove. We left the Swiss exulting in the fate Of their near neighbours; and, when shortening fast Our pilgrimage, nor distant far from home, We crossed the Brabant armies on the fret For battle in the cause of Liberty. A stripling, scarcely of the household then Of social life, I looked upon these things As from a distance; heard, and saw, and felt, Was touched, but with no intimate concern; I seemed to move along them, as a bird Moves through the air, or as a fish pursues Its sport, or feeds in its proper element; I wanted not that joy, I did not need Such help; the ever-living universe, Turn where I might, was opening out its glories, And the independent spirit of pure youth Called forth, at every season, new delights Spread round my steps like sunshine o'er green fields. Contents—The Prelude Main Contents |
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A B C D E F G H I K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z a b c d e f g h h i k m n o p q r s t u u v w x y z Aa Bb Cc Dd Ee Ff Gg Hh Ii Kk |
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... gloomy Pass, |
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At a slow step |
1845 |
"venerunt ad civitatulam quandam desolatam, quæ lingua Anglorum Grantachester vocatur."If it was Cambridge itself it had already an alternative name, viz. Camboricum. Compare Cache-cache, a Tale in Verse, by William D. Watson. London: Smith, Elder, and Co. 1862:
"Leaving our woods and mountains for the plainsEd.
Of treeless level Granta." (p. 103.)
...
"'Twas then the time
When in two camps, like Pope and Emperor,
Byron and Wordsworth parted Granta's sons." (p. 121.)
"Accordingly," he tells us, "I got into rather an idle way, reading nothing but Classic authors, according to my fancy, and Italian poetry. As I took to these studies with much interest my Italian master was proud of the progress I made. Under his correction I translated the Vision of Mirza, and two or three other papers of the Spectator into Italian."Speaking of her brother Christopher, then at Cambridge, Dorothy Wordsworth wrote thus in 1793:
"He is not so ardent in any of his pursuits as William is, but he is yet particularly attached to the same pursuits which have so irresistible an influence over William, and deprive him of the power of chaining his attention to others discordant to his feelings."Ed.
'Then, Twilight is preferred to Dawn,Ed.
And Autumn to the Spring.'
"The rugged, dissimilar, and frequently grotesque and fanciful appearance of the rocks distinguish the scenery of this valley from perhaps every other in the kingdom. In some places they shoot up in detached masses, in the form of spires or conical pyramids, to the height of 30 or 40 yards.... One rock, distinguished by the name of the Pike, from its spiry form and situation in the midst of the stream, was noticed in the second part of The Complete Angler, by Charles Cotton," etc. etc.(The Beauties of England and Wales, Derbyshire, vol. iii, pp. 425, 426, and 431. London, 1810.) Potts speaks of the "pellucid waters" of the Dove. "It is transparent to the bottom." (See Whately, Observations on Modern Gardening, p. 114.)—Ed.
'Now see a morning in an evening rise.'Ed.
"Come back into memory, like as thou wert in the dayspring of thy fancies, with hope like a fiery column before thee—the dark pillar not yet turned—Samuel Taylor Coleridge—Logician, Metaphysician, Bard!—How have I seen the casual passer through the cloisters stand still, entranced with admiration (while he weighed the disproportion between the speech and the garb of the young Mirandula), to hear thee unfold, in thy deep and sweet intonations, the mysteries of Jamblichus, or Plotinus (for even in those years thou waxedst not pale at such philosophic draughts), or reciting Homer in his Greek, or Pindar—while the walls of the old Grey Friars re-echoed to the accents of the inspired charity boy!"(Essays of Elia.)—Ed.
'Dear native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West!Ed.
How many various-fated years have passed,
What blissful and what anguished hours, since last
I skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
Numbering its light leaps! Yet so deep imprest
Sink the sweet scenes of Childhood, that mine eyes
I never shut amid the sunny haze,
But straight with all their tints, thy waters rise,
Thy crowning plank, thy margin's willowy maze,
And bedded sand that veined with various dyes
Gleamed through thy bright transparence to the gaze!
Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled
Lone Manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs,
Ah! that once more I were a careless child!'
'Now stand you on the top of happy hours.'Ed.
"We crossed at the time," wrote Wordsworth to his sister, "when the whole nation was mad with joy in consequence of the Revolution."Ed.
"We went staff in hand, without knapsacks, and carrying each his needments tied up in a pocket handkerchief, with about twenty pounds a-piece in our pockets."W. W. (Autobiographical Memoranda.)—Ed.
"We crossed from Dover and landed at Calais, on the eve of the day when the King was to swear fidelity to the new constitution: an event which was solemnised with due pomp at Calais."W. W. (Autobiographical Memoranda.) See also the [volume 2 link: sonnet] "dedicated to National Independence and Liberty," vol. ii. p. 332. beginning,
'Jones! as from Calais southward you and I,of The Prelude, book vi. l. 341, with "the pomp of a too-credulous day" and the "homeless sound of joy" of the sonnet.—Ed.
and compare the human nature seeming born again'
"The town of Châlons, where my friend Jones and I halted a day, when we crossed France, so far on foot. There we embarqued, and floated down to Lyons."Ed.
'Or where her pathways straggle as they pleaseEd.
By lonely farms and secret villages.'
"Her road elms rustling thin above my head."(See Descriptive Sketches, vol. i. pp. 39, 40, and compare the two passages in detail.)—Ed.
"The impression of there hours of our walk among these Alps will never be effaced."Ed.
"From Duomo d'Ossola we proceeded to the lake of Locarno, to visit the Boromean Islands, and thence to Como."(W. W. to his sister.) The lake of Locarno is now called Lago Maggiore.—Ed.
"The shores of the lake consist of steeps, covered with large sweeping woods of chestnut, spotted with villages."(W. W. to his sister.)—Ed.
"A small footpath is all the communication by land between one village and another on the side along which we passed, for upwards of thirty miles. We entered on this path about noon, and, owing to the steepness of the banks, were soon unmolested by the sun, which illuminated the woods, rocks, and villages of the opposite shore."(See letter of W. W. from Keswill.)—Ed.
Contents—The Prelude
Main Contents
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| Six changeful years have vanished since I first Poured out (saluted by that quickening breeze Which met me issuing from the City's walls) A glad preamble to this Verse: I sang Aloud, with fervour irresistible Of short-lived transport, like a torrent bursting, From a black thunder-cloud, down Scafell's side To rush and disappear. But soon broke forth (So willed the Muse) a less impetuous stream, That flowed awhile with unabating strength, Then stopped for years; not audible again Before last primrose-time, Beloved Friend! The assurance which then cheered some heavy thoughts On thy departure to a foreign land Has failed; too slowly moves the promised work. Through the whole summer have I been at rest, Partly from voluntary holiday, And part through outward hindrance. But I heard, After the hour of sunset yester-even, Sitting within doors between light and dark, A choir of redbreasts gathered somewhere near My threshold,—minstrels from the distant woods Sent in on Winter's service, to announce, With preparation artful and benign, That the rough lord had left the surly North On his accustomed journey. The delight, Due to this timely notice, unawares Smote me, and, listening, I in whispers said, "Ye heartsome Choristers, ye and I will be Associates, and, unscared by blustering winds, Will chant together." Thereafter, as the shades Of twilight deepened, going forth, I spied A glow-worm underneath a dusky plume Or canopy of yet unwithered fern, Clear-shining, like a hermit's taper seen Through a thick forest. Silence touched me here No less than sound had done before; the child Of Summer, lingering, shining, by herself, The voiceless worm on the unfrequented hills, Seemed sent on the same errand with the choir Of Winter that had warbled at my door, And the whole year breathed tenderness and love. The last night's genial feeling overflowed Upon this morning, and my favourite grove, Tossing in sunshine its dark boughs aloft, As if to make the strong wind visible, Wakes in me agitations like its own, A spirit friendly to the Poet's task, Which we will now resume with lively hope, Nor checked by aught of tamer argument That lies before us, needful to be told. Returned from that excursion, soon I bade Farewell for ever to the sheltered seats Of gownèd students, quitted hall and bower, And every comfort of that privileged ground, Well pleased to pitch a vagrant tent among The unfenced regions of society. Yet, undetermined to what course of life I should adhere, and seeming to possess A little space of intermediate time At full command, to London first I turned, In no disturbance of excessive hope, By personal ambition unenslaved, Frugal as there was need, and, though self-willed, From dangerous passions free. Three years had flown Since I had felt in heart and soul the shock Of the huge town's first presence, and had paced Her endless streets, a transient visitant: Now, fixed amid that concourse of mankind Where Pleasure whirls about incessantly, And life and labour seem but one, I filled An idler's place; an idler well content To have a house (what matter for a home?) That owned him; living cheerfully abroad With unchecked fancy ever on the stir, And all my young affections out of doors. There was a time when whatsoe'er is feigned Of airy palaces, and gardens built By Genii of romance; or hath in grave Authentic history been set forth of Rome, Alcairo, Babylon, or Persepolis; Or given upon report by pilgrim friars, Of golden cities ten months' journey deep Among Tartarian wilds—fell short, far short, Of what my fond simplicity believed And thought of London—held me by a chain Less strong of wonder and obscure delight. Whether the bolt of childhood's Fancy shot For me beyond its ordinary mark, 'Twere vain to ask; but in our flock of boys Was One, a cripple from his birth, whom chance Summoned from school to London; fortunate And envied traveller! When the Boy returned, After short absence, curiously I scanned His mien and person, nor was free, in sooth, From disappointment, not to find some change In look and air, from that new region brought, As if from Fairy-land. Much I questioned him; And every word he uttered, on my ears Fell flatter than a cagèd parrot's note, That answers unexpectedly awry, And mocks the prompter's listening. Marvellous things Had vanity (quick Spirit that appears Almost as deeply seated and as strong In a Child's heart as fear itself) conceived For my enjoyment. Would that I could now Recal what then I pictured to myself, Of mitred Prelates, Lords in ermine clad, The King, and the King's Palace, and, not last, Nor least, Heaven bless him! the renowned Lord Mayor: Dreams not unlike to those which once begat A change of purpose in young Whittington, When he, a friendless and a drooping boy, Sate on a stone, and heard the bells speak out Articulate music. Above all, one thought Baffled my understanding: how men lived Even next-door neighbours, as we say, yet still Strangers, not knowing each the other's name. O, wond'rous power of words, by simple faith Licensed to take the meaning that we love! Vauxhall and Ranelagh! I then had heard Of your green groves, and wilderness of lamps Dimming the stars, and fireworks magical, And gorgeous ladies, under splendid domes, Floating in dance, or warbling high in air The songs of spirits! Nor had Fancy fed With less delight upon that other class Of marvels, broad-day wonders permanent: The River proudly bridged; the dizzy top And Whispering Gallery of St. Paul's; the tombs Of Westminster; the Giants of Guildhall; Bedlam, and those carved maniacs at the gates, Perpetually recumbent; Statues—man, And the horse under him—in gilded pomp Adorning flowery gardens, 'mid vast squares; The Monument, and that Chamber of the Tower Where England's sovereigns sit in long array, Their steeds bestriding,—every mimic shape Cased in the gleaming mail the monarch wore, Whether for gorgeous tournament addressed, Or life or death upon the battle-field. Those bold imaginations in due time Had vanished, leaving others in their stead: And now I looked upon the living scene; Familiarly perused it; oftentimes, In spite of strongest disappointment, pleased Through courteous self-submission, as a tax Paid to the object by prescriptive right. Rise up, thou monstrous ant-hill on the plain Of a too busy world! Before me flow, Thou endless stream of men and moving things! Thy every-day appearance, as it strikes— With wonder heightened, or sublimed by awe— On strangers, of all ages; the quick dance Of colours, lights, and forms; the deafening din; The comers and the goers face to face, Face after face; the string of dazzling wares, Shop after shop, with symbols, blazoned names, And all the tradesman's honours overhead: Here, fronts of houses, like a title-page, With letters huge inscribed from top to toe, Stationed above the door, like guardian saints; There, allegoric shapes, female or male, Or physiognomies of real men, Land-warriors, kings, or admirals of the sea, Boyle, Shakespeare, Newton, or the attractive head Of some quack-doctor, famous in his day. Meanwhile the roar continues, till at length, Escaped as from an enemy, we turn Abruptly into some sequestered nook, Still as a sheltered place when winds blow loud! At leisure, thence, through tracts of thin resort, And sights and sounds that come at intervals, We take our way. A raree-show is here, With children gathered round; another street Presents a company of dancing dogs, Or dromedary, with an antic pair Of monkeys on his back; a minstrel band Of Savoyards; or, single and alone, An English ballad-singer. Private courts, Gloomy as coffins, and unsightly lanes Thrilled by some female vendor's scream, belike The very shrillest of all London cries, May then entangle our impatient steps; Conducted through those labyrinths, unawares, To privileged regions and inviolate, Where from their airy lodges studious lawyers Look out on waters, walks, and gardens green. Thence back into the throng, until we reach, Following the tide that slackens by degrees, Some half-frequented scene, where wider streets Bring straggling breezes of suburban air. Here files of ballads dangle from dead walls; Advertisements, of giant-size, from high Press forward, in all colours, on the sight; These, bold in conscious merit, lower down; That, fronted with a most imposing word, Is, peradventure, one in masquerade. As on the broadening causeway we advance, Behold, turned upwards, a face hard and strong In lineaments, and red with over-toil. 'Tis one encountered here and everywhere; A travelling cripple, by the trunk cut short, And stumping on his arms. In sailor's garb Another lies at length, beside a range Of well-formed characters, with chalk inscribed Upon the smooth flat stones: the Nurse is here, The Bachelor, that loves to sun himself, The military Idler, and the Dame, That field-ward takes her walk with decent steps. Now homeward through the thickening hubbub, where See, among less distinguishable shapes, The begging scavenger, with hat in hand; The Italian, as he thrids his way with care, Steadying, far-seen, a frame of images Upon his head; with basket at his breast The Jew; the stately and slow-moving Turk, With freight of slippers piled beneath his arm! Enough;—the mighty concourse I surveyed With no unthinking mind, well pleased to note Among the crowd all specimens of man, Through all the colours which the sun bestows, And every character of form and face: The Swede, the Russian; from the genial south, The Frenchman and the Spaniard; from remote America, the Hunter-Indian; Moors, Malays, Lascars, the Tartar, the Chinese, And Negro Ladies in white muslin gowns. At leisure, then, I viewed, from day to day, The spectacles within doors,—birds and beasts Of every nature, and strange plants convened From every clime; and, next, those sights that ape The absolute presence of reality, Expressing, as in mirror, sea and land, And what earth is, and what she has to shew. I do not here allude to subtlest craft, By means refined attaining purest ends, But imitations, fondly made in plain Confession of man's weakness and his loves. Whether the Painter, whose ambitious skill Submits to nothing less than taking in A whole horizon's circuit, do with power, Like that of angels or commissioned spirits, Fix us upon some lofty pinnacle, Or in a ship on waters, with a world Of life, and life-like mockery beneath, Above, behind, far stretching and before; Or more mechanic artist represent By scale exact, in model, wood or clay, From blended colours also borrowing help, Some miniature of famous spots or things,— St. Peter's Church; or, more aspiring aim, In microscopic vision, Rome herself; Or, haply, some choice rural haunt,—the Falls Of Tivoli; and, high upon that steep, The Sibyl's mouldering Temple! every tree, Villa, or cottage, lurking among rocks Throughout the landscape; tuft, stone scratch minute— All that the traveller sees when he is there. Add to these exhibitions, mute and still, Others of wider scope, where living men, Music, and shifting pantomimic scenes, Diversified the allurement. Need I fear To mention by its name, as in degree, Lowest of these and humblest in attempt, Yet richly graced with honours of her own, Half-rural Sadler's Wells? Though at that time Intolerant, as is the way of youth Unless itself be pleased, here more than once Taking my seat, I saw (nor blush to add, With ample recompense) giants and dwarfs, Clowns, conjurors, posture-masters, harlequins, Amid the uproar of the rabblement, Perform their feats. Nor was it mean delight To watch crude Nature work in untaught minds; To note the laws and progress of belief; Though obstinate on this way, yet on that How willingly we travel, and how far! To have, for instance, brought upon the scene The champion, Jack the Giant-killer: Lo! He dons his coat of darkness; on the stage Walks, and achieves his wonders, from the eye Of living Mortal covert, "as the moon Hid in her vacant interlunar cave." Delusion bold! and how can it be wrought? The garb he wears is black as death, the word "Invisible" flames forth upon his chest. Here, too, were "forms and pressures of the time," Rough, bold, as Grecian comedy displayed When Art was young; dramas of living men, And recent things yet warm with life; a sea-fight, Shipwreck, or some domestic incident Divulged by Truth and magnified by Fame, Such as the daring brotherhood of late Set forth, too serious theme for that light place— I mean, O distant Friend! a story drawn From our own ground,—the Maid of Buttermere,— And how, unfaithful to a virtuous wife Deserted and deceived, the spoiler came And wooed the artless daughter of the hills, And wedded her, in cruel mockery Of love and marriage bonds. These words to thee Must needs bring back the moment when we first, Ere the broad world rang with the maiden's name, Beheld her serving at the cottage inn, Both stricken, as she entered or withdrew, With admiration of her modest mien And carriage, marked by unexampled grace. We since that time not unfamiliarly Have seen her,—her discretion have observed, Her just opinions, delicate reserve, Her patience, and humility of mind Unspoiled by commendation and the excess Of public notice—an offensive light To a meek spirit suffering inwardly. From this memorial tribute to my theme I was returning, when, with sundry forms Commingled—shapes which met me in the way That we must tread—thy image rose again, Maiden of Buttermere! She lives in peace Upon the spot where she was born and reared; Without contamination doth she live In quietness, without anxiety: Beside the mountain chapel, sleeps in earth Her new-born infant, fearless as a lamb That, thither driven from some unsheltered place, Rests underneath the little rock-like pile When storms are raging. Happy are they both— Mother and child!—These feelings, in themselves Trite, do yet scarcely seem so when I think On those ingenuous moments of our youth Ere we have learnt by use to slight the crimes And sorrows of the world. Those simple days Are now my theme; and, foremost of the scenes, Which yet survive in memory, appears One, at whose centre sate a lovely Boy, A sportive infant, who, for six months' space, Not more, had been of age to deal about Articulate prattle—Child as beautiful As ever clung around a mother's neck, Or father fondly gazed upon with pride. There, too, conspicuous for stature tall And large dark eyes, beside her infant stood The mother; but, upon her cheeks diffused, False tints too well accorded with the glare From play-house lustres thrown without reserve On every object near. The Boy had been The pride and pleasure of all lookers-on In whatsoever place, but seemed in this A sort of alien scattered from the clouds. Of lusty vigour, more than infantine He was in limb, in cheek a summer rose Just three parts blown—a cottage-child—if e'er, By cottage-door on breezy mountain side, Or in some sheltering vale, was seen a babe By Nature's gifts so favoured. Upon a board Decked with refreshments had this child been placed, His little stage in the vast theatre, And there he sate surrounded with a throng Of chance spectators, chiefly dissolute men And shameless women, treated and caressed; Ate, drank, and with the fruit and glasses played, While oaths and laughter and indecent speech Were rife about him as the songs of birds Contending after showers. The mother now Is fading out of memory, but I see The lovely Boy as I beheld him then Among the wretched and the falsely gay, Like one of those who walked with hair unsinged Amid the fiery furnace. Charms and spells Muttered on black and spiteful instigation Have stopped, as some believe, the kindliest growths. Ah, with how different spirit might a prayer Have been preferred, that this fair creature, checked By special privilege of Nature's love, Should in his childhood be detained for ever! But with its universal freight the tide Hath rolled along, and this bright innocent, Mary! may now have lived till he could look With envy on thy nameless babe that sleeps, Beside the mountain chapel, undisturbed. Four rapid years had scarcely then been told Since, travelling southward from our pastoral hills, I heard, and for the first time in my life, The voice of woman utter blasphemy— Saw woman as she is, to open shame Abandoned, and the pride of public vice; I shuddered, for a barrier seemed at once Thrown in, that from humanity divorced Humanity, splitting the race of man In twain, yet leaving the same outward form. Distress of mind ensued upon the sight And ardent meditation. Later years Brought to such spectacle a milder sadness. Feelings of pure commiseration, grief For the individual and the overthrow Of her soul's beauty; farther I was then But seldom led, or wished to go; in truth The sorrow of the passion stopped me there. But let me now, less moved, in order take Our argument. Enough is said to show How casual incidents of real life, Observed where pastime only had been sought, Outweighed, or put to flight, the set events And measured passions of the stage, albeit By Siddons trod in the fulness of her power. Yet was the theatre my dear delight; The very gilding, lamps and painted scrolls, And all the mean upholstery of the place, Wanted not animation, when the tide Of pleasure ebbed but to return as fast With the ever-shifting figures of the scene, Solemn or gay: whether some beauteous dame Advanced in radiance through a deep recess Of thick entangled forest, like the moon Opening the clouds; or sovereign king, announced With flourishing trumpet, came in full-blown state Of the world's greatness, winding round with train Of courtiers, banners, and a length of guards; Or captive led in abject weeds, and jingling His slender manacles; or romping girl Bounced, leapt, and pawed the air; or mumbling sire, A scare-crow pattern of old age dressed up In all the tatters of infirmity All loosely put together, hobbled in, Stumping upon a cane with which he smites, From time to time, the solid boards, and makes them Prate somewhat loudly of the whereabout Of one so overloaded with his years. But what of this! the laugh, the grin, grimace, The antics striving to outstrip each other, Were all received, the least of them not lost, With an unmeasured welcome. Through the night, Between the show, and many-headed mass Of the spectators, and each several nook Filled with its fray or brawl, how eagerly And with what flashes, as it were, the mind Turned this way—that way! sportive and alert And watchful, as a kitten when at play, While winds are eddying round her, among straws And rustling leaves. Enchanting age and sweet! Romantic almost, looked at through a space, How small, of intervening years! For then, Though surely no mean progress had been made In meditations holy and sublime, Yet something of a girlish child-like gloss Of novelty survived for scenes like these; Enjoyment haply handed down from times When at a country-playhouse, some rude barn Tricked out for that proud use, if I perchance Caught, on a summer evening through a chink In the old wall, an unexpected glimpse Of daylight, the bare thought of where I was Gladdened me more than if I had been led Into a dazzling cavern of romance, Crowded with Genii busy among works Not to be looked at by the common sun. The matter that detains us now may seem, To many, neither dignified enough Nor arduous, yet will not be scorned by them, Who, looking inward, have observed the ties That bind the perishable hours of life Each to the other, and the curious props By which the world of memory and thought Exists and is sustained. More lofty themes, Such as at least do wear a prouder face, Solicit our regard; but when I think Of these, I feel the imaginative power Languish within me; even then it slept, When, pressed by tragic sufferings, the heart Was more than full; amid my sobs and tears It slept, even in the pregnant season of youth. For though I was most passionately moved And yielded to all changes of the scene With an obsequious promptness, yet the storm Passed not beyond the suburbs of the mind; Save when realities of act and mien, The incarnation of the spirits that move In harmony amid the Poet's world, Rose to ideal grandeur, or, called forth By power of contrast, made me recognise, As at a glance, the things which I had shaped, And yet not shaped, had seen and scarcely seen, When, having closed the mighty Shakespeare's page, I mused, and thought, and felt, in solitude. Pass we from entertainments, that are such Professedly, to others titled higher, Yet, in the estimate of youth at least, More near akin to those than names imply,— I mean the brawls of lawyers in their courts Before the ermined judge, or that great stage Where senators, tongue-favoured men, perform, Admired and envied. Oh! the beating heart, When one among the prime of these rose up,— One, of whose name from childhood we had heard Familiarly, a household term, like those, The Bedfords, Glosters, Salsburys, of old Whom the fifth Harry talks of. Silence! hush! This is no trifler, no short-flighted wit, No stammerer of a minute, painfully Delivered. No! the Orator hath yoked The Hours, like young Aurora, to his car: Thrice welcome Presence! how can patience e'er Grow weary of attending on a track That kindles with such glory! All are charmed, Astonished; like a hero in romance, He winds away his never-ending horn; Words follow words, sense seems to follow sense: What memory and what logic! till the strain Transcendent, superhuman as it seemed, Grows tedious even in a young man's ear. Genius of Burke! forgive the pen seduced By specious wonders, and too slow to tell Of what the ingenuous, what bewildered men, Beginning to mistrust their boastful guides, And wise men, willing to grow wiser, caught, Rapt auditors! from thy most eloquent tongue— Now mute, for ever mute in the cold grave. I see him,—old, but Vigorous in age,— Stand like an oak whose stag-horn branches start Out of its leafy brow, the more to awe The younger brethren of the grove. But some— While he forewarns, denounces, launches forth, Against all systems built on abstract rights, Keen ridicule; the majesty proclaims Of Institutes and Laws, hallowed by time; Declares the vital power of social ties Endeared by Custom; and with high disdain, Exploding upstart Theory, insists Upon the allegiance to which men are born— Some—say at once a froward multitude— Murmur (for truth is hated, where not loved) As the winds fret within the Æolian cave, Galled by their monarch's chain. The times were big With ominous change, which, night by night, provoked Keen struggles, and black clouds of passion raised; But memorable moments intervened, When Wisdom, like the Goddess from Jove's brain, Broke forth in armour of resplendent words, Startling the Synod. Could a youth, and one In ancient story versed, whose breast had heaved Under the weight of classic eloquence, Sit, see, and hear, unthankful, uninspired? Nor did the Pulpit's oratory fail To achieve its higher triumph. Not unfelt Were its admonishments, nor lightly heard The awful truths delivered thence by tongues Endowed with various power to search the soul; Yet ostentation, domineering, oft Poured forth harangues, how sadly out of place!— There have I seen a comely bachelor, Fresh from a toilette of two hours, ascend His rostrum, with seraphic glance look up, And, in a tone elaborately low Beginning, lead his voice through many a maze A minuet course; and, winding up his mouth, From time to time, into an orifice Most delicate, a lurking eyelet, small, And only not invisible, again Open it out, diffusing thence a smile Of rapt irradiation, exquisite. Meanwhile the Evangelists, Isaiah, Job, Moses, and he who penned, the other day, The Death of Abel, Shakespeare, and the Bard Whose genius spangled o'er a gloomy theme With fancies thick as his inspiring stars, And Ossian (doubt not, 'tis the naked truth) Summoned from streamy Morven—each and all Would, in their turns, lend ornaments and flowers To entwine the crook of eloquence that helped This pretty Shepherd, pride of all the plains, To rule and guide his captivated flock. I glance but at a few conspicuous marks, Leaving a thousand others, that, in hall, Court, theatre, conventicle, or shop, In public room or private, park or street, Each fondly reared on his own pedestal, Looked out for admiration. Folly, vice, Extravagance in gesture, mien, and dress, And all the strife of singularity, Lies to the ear, and lies to every sense— Of these, and of the living shapes they wear, There is no end. Such candidates for regard, Although well pleased to be where they were found, I did not hunt after, nor greatly prize, Nor made unto myself a secret boast Of reading them with quick and curious eye; But, as a common produce, things that are To-day, to-morrow will be, took of them Such willing note, as, on some errand bound That asks not speed, a Traveller might bestow On sea-shells that bestrew the sandy beach, Or daisies swarming through the fields of June. But foolishness and madness in parade, Though most at home in this their dear domain, Are scattered everywhere, no rarities, Even to the rudest novice of the Schools. Me, rather, it employed, to note, and keep In memory, those individual sights Of courage, or integrity, or truth, Or tenderness, which there, set off by foil, Appeared more touching. One will I select; A Father—for he bore that sacred name— Him saw I, sitting in an open square, Upon a corner-stone of that low wall, Wherein were fixed the iron pales that fenced A spacious grass-plot; there, in silence, sate This One Man, with a sickly babe outstretched Upon his knee, whom he had thither brought For sunshine, and to breathe the fresher air. Of those who passed, and me who looked at him, He took no heed; but in his brawny arms (The Artificer was to the elbow bare, And from his work this moment had been stolen) He held the child, and, bending over it, As if he were afraid both of the sun And of the air, which he had come to seek, Eyed the poor babe with love unutterable. As the black storm upon the mountain top Sets off the sunbeam in the valley, so That huge fermenting mass of human-kind Serves as a solemn back-ground, or relief, To single forms and objects, whence they draw, For feeling and contemplative regard, More than inherent liveliness and power. How oft, amid those overflowing streets, Have I gone forward with the crowd, and said Unto myself, "The face of every one That passes by me is a mystery!" Thus have I looked, nor ceased to look, oppressed By thoughts of what and whither, when and how, Until the shapes before my eyes became A second-sight procession, such as glides Over still mountains, or appears in dreams; And once, far-travelled in such mood, beyond The reach of common indication, lost Amid the moving pageant, I was smitten Abruptly, with the view (a sight not rare) Of a blind Beggar, who, with upright face, Stood, propped against a wall, upon his chest Wearing a written paper, to explain His story, whence he came, and who he was. Caught by the spectacle my mind turned round As with the might of waters; an apt type This label seemed of the utmost we can know, Both of ourselves and of the universe; And, on the shape of that unmoving man, His steadfast face and sightless eyes, I gazed, As if admonished from another world. Though reared upon the base of outward things, Structures like these the excited spirit mainly Builds for herself; scenes different there are, Full-formed, that take, with small internal help, Possession of the faculties,—the peace That comes with night; the deep solemnity Of nature's intermediate hours of rest, When the great tide of human life stands still; The business of the day to come, unborn, Of that gone by, locked up, as in the grave; The blended calmness of the heavens and earth, Moonlight and stars, and empty streets, and sounds Unfrequent as in deserts; at late hours Of winter evenings, when unwholesome rains Are falling hard, with people yet astir, The feeble salutation from the voice Of some unhappy woman, now and then Heard as we pass, when no one looks about, Nothing is listened to. But these, I fear, Are falsely catalogued; things that are, are not, As the mind answers to them, or the heart Is prompt, or slow, to feel. What say you, then, To times, when half the city shall break out Full of one passion, vengeance, rage, or fear? To executions, to a street on fire, Mobs, riots, or rejoicings? From these sights Take one,—that ancient festival, the Fair, Holden where martyrs suffered in past time, And named of St. Bartholomew; there, see A work completed to our hands, that lays, If any spectacle on earth can do, The whole creative powers of man asleep!— For once, the Muse's help will we implore, And she shall lodge us, wafted on her wings, Above the press and danger of the crowd, Upon some showman's platform. What a shock For eyes and ears! what anarchy and din, Barbarian and infernal,—a phantasma, Monstrous in colour, motion, shape, sight, sound! Below, the open space, through every nook Of the wide area, twinkles, is alive With heads; the midway region, and above, Is thronged with staring pictures and huge scrolls, Dumb proclamations of the Prodigies; With chattering monkeys dangling from their poles, And children whirling in their roundabouts; With those that stretch the neck and strain the eyes, And crack the voice in rivalship, the crowd Inviting; with buffoons against buffoons Grimacing, writhing, screaming,—him who grinds The hurdy-gurdy, at the fiddle weaves, Rattles the salt-box, thumps the kettle-drum, And him who at the trumpet puffs his cheeks, The silver-collared Negro with his timbrel, Equestrians, tumblers, women, girls, and boys, Blue-breeched, pink-vested, with high-towering plumes.— All moveables of wonder, from all parts, Are here—Albinos, painted Indians, Dwarfs, The Horse of knowledge, and the learned Pig, The Stone-eater, the man that swallows fire, Giants, Ventriloquists, the Invisible Girl, The Bust that speaks and moves its goggling eyes, The Wax-work, Clock-work, all the marvellous craft Of modern Merlins, Wild Beasts, Puppet-shows, All out-o'-the-way, far-fetched, perverted things, All freaks of nature, all Promethean thoughts Of man, his dullness, madness, and their feats All jumbled up together, to compose A Parliament of Monsters. Tents and Booths Meanwhile, as if the whole were one vast mill, Are vomiting, receiving on all sides, Men, Women, three-years' Children, Babes in arms. Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity, by differences That have no law, no meaning, and no end— Oppression, under which even highest minds Must labour, whence the strongest are not free. But though the picture weary out the eye, By nature an unmanageable sight, It is not wholly so to him who looks In steadiness, who hath among least things An under-sense of greatest; sees the parts As parts, but with a feeling of the whole. This, of all acquisitions, first awaits On sundry and most widely different modes Of education, nor with least delight On that through which I passed. Attention springs, And comprehensiveness and memory flow, From early converse with the works of God Among all regions; chiefly where appear Most obviously simplicity and power. Think, how the everlasting streams and woods, Stretched and still stretching far and wide, exalt The roving Indian, on his desert sands: What grandeur not unfelt, what pregnant show Of beauty, meets the sun-burnt Arab's eye: And, as the sea propels, from zone to zone, Its currents; magnifies its shoals of life Beyond all compass; spreads, and sends aloft Armies of clouds,—even so, its powers and aspects Shape for mankind, by principles as fixed, The views and aspirations of the soul To majesty. Like virtue have the forms Perennial of the ancient hills; nor less The changeful language of their countenances Quickens the slumbering mind, and aids the thoughts, However multitudinous, to move With order and relation. This, if still, As hitherto, in freedom I may speak, Not violating any just restraint, As may be hoped, of real modesty,— This did I feel, in London's vast domain. The Spirit of Nature was upon me there; The soul of Beauty and enduring Life Vouchsafed her inspiration, and diffused, Through meagre lines and colours, and the press Of self-destroying, transitory things, Composure, and ennobling Harmony. Contents—The Prelude Main Contents |
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"As we were going along, we were stopped at once, at the distance perhaps of fifty yards from our favourite birch tree. It was yielding to the gusty wind with all its tender twigs. The sun shone upon it, and it glanced in the wind like a flying sunshiny shower. It was a tree in shape, with stem and branches, but it was like a spirit of water. The sun went in, and it resumed its purplish appearance, the twigs still yielding to the wind, but not so visibly to us. The other birch trees that were near it looked bright and cheerful, but it was a Creation by itself amongst them."This does not refer to John's Grove, but it may be interesting to compare the sister's description of a birch tree "tossing in sunshine," with the brother's account of a grove of fir trees similarly moved.—Ed.
'Turn again, Whittington,is well known.—Ed.
Thrice Lord Mayor of London,'
'She was the daughter of the inn-keeper at the Fish Inn. She was much admired, and many suitors sought her hand in vain. At last a stranger, named Hatfield, who called himself the Hon. Colonel Hope, brother of Lord Hopetoun, won her heart, and married her. Soon after the marriage, he was apprehended on a charge of forgery, surreptitiously franking a letter in the name of a Member of Parliament, tried at Carlisle, convicted, and hanged. It was discovered during the trial, that he had a wife and family, and had fled to these sequestered parts to escape the arm of the law.'See Essays on his own Times, by S. T. Coleridge, edited by his daughter Sara. A melodrama on the story of the Maid of Buttermere was produced in all the suburban London theatres; and in 1843 a novel was published in London by Henry Colburn, entitled James Hatfield and the Beauty of Buttermere, a Story of Modern Times, with illustrations by Robert Cruikshank.—Ed.
'Thy very stones prate of my whereabout.'Ed.
'Shall he who gives his days to low pursuitsEd.
Amid the undistinguishable crowd
Of cities, 'mid the same eternal flow
Of the same objects, melted and reduced
To one identity, by differences
That have no law, no meaning, and no end,
Shall he feel yearning to those lifeless forms,
And shall we think that Nature is less kind
To those, who all day long, through a busy life,
Have walked within her sight? It cannot be.'
Contents—The Prelude
Main Contents
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| What sounds are those, Helvellyn, that are heard Up to thy summit, through the depth of air Ascending, as if distance had the power To make the sounds more audible? What crowd Covers, or sprinkles o'er, yon village green? Crowd seems it, solitary hill! to thee, Though but a little family of men, Shepherds and tillers of the ground—betimes Assembled with their children and their wives, And here and there a stranger interspersed. They hold a rustic fair—a festival, Such as, on this side now, and now on that, Repeated through his tributary vales, Helvellyn, in the silence of his rest, Sees annually, if clouds towards either ocean Blown from their favourite resting-place, or mists Dissolved, have left him an unshrouded head. Delightful day it is for all who dwell In this secluded glen, and eagerly They give it welcome. Long ere heat of noon, From byre or field the kine were brought; the sheep Are penned in cotes; the chaffering is begun. The heifer lows, uneasy at the voice Of a new master; bleat the flocks aloud. Booths are there none; a stall or two is here; A lame man or a blind, the one to beg, The other to make music; hither, too, From far, with basket, slung upon her arm, Of hawker's wares—books, pictures, combs, and pins— Some aged woman finds her way again, Year after year, a punctual visitant! There also stands a speech-maker by rote, Pulling the strings of his boxed raree-show; And in the lapse of many years may come Prouder itinerant, mountebank, or he Whose wonders in a covered wain lie hid. But one there is, the loveliest of them all, Some sweet lass of the valley, looking out For gains, and who that sees her would not buy? Fruits of her father's orchard, are her wares, And with the ruddy produce, she walks round Among the crowd, half pleased with, half ashamed Of her new office, blushing restlessly. The children now are rich, for the old to-day Are generous as the young; and, if content With looking on, some ancient wedded pair Sit in the shade together, while they gaze, "A cheerful smile unbends the wrinkled brow, The days departed start again to life, And all the scenes of childhood reappear, Faint, but more tranquil, like the changing sun To him who slept at noon and wakes at eve." Thus gaiety and cheerfulness prevail, Spreading from young to old, from old to young, And no one seems to want his share.—Immense Is the recess, the circumambient world Magnificent, by which they are embraced: They move about upon the soft green turf: How little they, they and their doings, seem, And all that they can further or obstruct! Through utter weakness pitiably dear, As tender infants are: and yet how great! For all things serve them: them the morning light Loves, as it glistens on the silent rocks; And them the silent rocks, which now from high Look down upon them; the reposing clouds; The wild brooks prattling from invisible haunts; And old Helvellyn, conscious of the stir Which animates this day their calm abode. With deep devotion, Nature, did I feel, In that enormous City's turbulent world Of men and things, what benefit I owed To thee, and those domains of rural peace, Where to the sense of beauty first my heart Was opened; tract more exquisitely fair Than that famed paradise often thousand trees, Or Gehol's matchless gardens, for delight Of the Tartarian dynasty composed (Beyond that mighty wall, not fabulous, China's stupendous mound) by patient toil Of myriads and boon nature's lavish help; There, in a clime from widest empire chosen, Fulfilling (could enchantment have done more?) A sumptuous dream of flowery lawns, with domes Of pleasure sprinkled over, shady dells For eastern monasteries, sunny mounts With temples crested, bridges, gondolas, Rocks, dens, and groves of foliage taught to melt Into each other their obsequious hues, Vanished and vanishing in subtle chase, Too fine to be pursued; or standing forth In no discordant opposition, strong And gorgeous as the colours side by side Bedded among rich plumes of tropic birds; And mountains over all, embracing all; And all the landscape, endlessly enriched With waters running, falling, or asleep. But lovelier far than this, the paradise Where I was reared; in Nature's primitive gifts Favoured no less, and more to every sense Delicious, seeing that the sun and sky, The elements, and seasons as they change, Do find a worthy fellow-labourer there— Man free, man working for himself, with choice Of time, and place, and object; by his wants, His comforts, native occupations, cares, Cheerfully led to individual ends Or social, and still followed by a train Unwooed, unthought-of even—simplicity, And beauty, and inevitable grace. Yea, when a glimpse of those imperial bowers Would to a child be transport over-great, When but a half-hour's roam through such a place Would leave behind a dance of images, That shall break in upon his sleep for weeks; Even then the common haunts of the green earth, And ordinary interests of man, Which they embosom, all without regard As both may seem, are fastening on the heart Insensibly, each with the other's help. For me, when my affections first were led From kindred, friends, and playmates, to partake Love for the human creature's absolute self, That noticeable kindliness of heart Sprang out of fountains, there abounding most Where sovereign Nature dictated the tasks And occupations which her beauty adorned, And Shepherds were the men that pleased me first; Not such as Saturn ruled 'mid Latian wilds, With arts and laws so tempered, that their lives Left, even to us toiling in this late day, A bright tradition of the golden age; Not such as, 'mid Arcadian fastnesses Sequestered, handed down among themselves Felicity, in Grecian song renowned; Nor such as—when an adverse fate had driven, From house and home, the courtly band whose fortunes Entered, with Shakespeare's genius, the wild woods Of Arden—amid sunshine or in shade, Culled the best fruits of Time's uncounted hours, Ere Phoebe sighed for the false Ganymede; Or there where Perdita and Florizel Together danced, Queen of the feast, and King; Nor such as Spenser fabled. True it is, That I had heard (what he perhaps had seen) Of maids at sunrise bringing in from far Their May-bush, and along the streets in flocks Parading with a song of taunting rhymes, Aimed at the laggards slumbering within doors; Had also heard, from those who yet remembered, Tales of the May-pole dance, and wreaths that decked Porch, door-way, or kirk-pillar; and of youths, Each with his maid, before the sun was up, By annual custom, issuing forth in troops, To drink the waters of some sainted well, And hang it round with garlands. Love survives; But, for such purpose, flowers no longer grow: The times, too sage, perhaps too proud, have dropped These lighter graces; and the rural ways And manners which my childhood looked upon Were the unluxuriant produce of a life Intent on little but substantial needs, Yet rich in beauty, beauty that was felt. But images of danger and distress, Man suffering among awful Powers and Forms; Of this I heard, and saw enough to make Imagination restless; nor was free Myself from frequent perils; nor were tales Wanting,—the tragedies of former times, Hazards and strange escapes, of which the rocks Immutable and overflowing streams, Where'er I roamed, were speaking monuments. Smooth life had flock and shepherd in old time, Long springs and tepid winters, on the banks Of delicate Galesus; and no less Those scattered along Adria's myrtle shores: Smooth life had herdsman, and his snow-white herd To triumphs and to sacrificial rites Devoted, on the inviolable stream Of rich Clitumnus; and the goat-herd lived As calmly, underneath the pleasant brows Of cool Lucretilis, where the pipe was heard Of Pan, Invisible God, thrilling the rocks With tutelary music, from all harm The fold protecting. I myself, mature In manhood then, have seen a pastoral tract Like one of these, where Fancy might run wild, Though under skies less generous, less serene: There, for her own delight had Nature framed A pleasure-ground, diffused a fair expanse Of level pasture, islanded with groves And banked with woody risings; but the Plain Endless, here opening widely out, and there Shut up in lesser lakes or beds of lawn And intricate recesses, creek or bay Sheltered within a shelter, where at large The shepherd strays, a rolling hut his home. Thither he comes with spring-time, there abides All summer, and at sunrise ye may hear His flageolet to liquid notes of love Attuned, or sprightly fife resounding far. Nook is there none, nor tract of that vast space Where passage opens, but the same shall have In turn its visitant, telling there his hours In unlaborious pleasure, with no task More toilsome than to carve a beechen bowl For spring or fountain, which the traveller finds, When through the region he pursues at will His devious course. A glimpse of such sweet life I saw when, from the melancholy walls Of Goslar, once imperial, I renewed My daily walk along that wide champaign, That, reaching to her gates, spreads east and west, And northwards, from beneath the mountainous verge Of the Hercynian forest, Yet, hail to you Moors, mountains, headlands, and ye hollow vales, Ye long deep channels for the Atlantic's voice, Powers of my native region! Ye that seize The heart with firmer grasp! Your snows and streams Ungovernable, and your terrifying winds, That howl so dismally for him who treads Companionless your awful solitudes! There, 'tis the shepherd's task the winter long To wait upon the storms: of their approach Sagacious, into sheltering coves he drives His flock, and thither from the homestead bears A toilsome burden up the craggy ways, And deals it out, their regular nourishment Strewn on the frozen snow. And when the spring Looks out, and all the pastures dance with lambs, And when the flock, with warmer weather, climbs Higher and higher, him his office leads To watch their goings, whatsoever track The wanderers choose. For this he quits his home At day-spring, and no sooner doth the sun Begin to strike him with a fire-like heat, Than he lies down upon some shining rock, And breakfasts with his dog. When they have stolen, As is their wont, a pittance from strict time, For rest not needed or exchange of love, Then from his couch he starts; and now his feet Crush out a livelier fragrance from the flowers Of lowly thyme, by Nature's skill enwrought In the wild turf: the lingering dews of morn Smoke round him, as from hill to hill he hies, His staff protending like a hunter's spear, Or by its aid leaping from crag to crag, And o'er the brawling beds of unbridged streams. Philosophy, methinks, at Fancy's call, Might deign to follow him through what he does Or sees in his day's march; himself he feels, In those vast regions where his service lies, A freeman, wedded to his life of hope And hazard, and hard labour interchanged With that majestic indolence so dear To native man. A rambling school-boy, thus I felt his presence in his own domain, As of a lord and master, or a power, Or genius, under Nature, under God, Presiding; and severest solitude Had more commanding looks when he was there. When up the lonely brooks on rainy days Angling I went, or trod the trackless hills By mists bewildered, suddenly mine eyes Have glanced upon him distant a few steps, In size a giant, stalking through thick fog, His sheep like Greenland bears; or, as he stepped Beyond the boundary line of some hill-shadow, His form hath flashed upon me, glorified By the deep radiance of the setting sun: Or him have I descried in distant sky, A solitary object and sublime, Above all height! like an aerial cross Stationed alone upon a spiry rock Of the Chartreuse, for worship. Thus was man Ennobled outwardly before my sight, And thus my heart was early introduced To an unconscious love and reverence Of human nature; hence the human form To me became an index of delight, Of grace and honour, power and worthiness. Meanwhile this creature—spiritual almost As those of books, but more exalted far; Far more of an imaginative form Than the gay Corin of the groves, who lives For his own fancies, or to dance by the hour, In coronal, with Phyllis in the midst— Was, for the purposes of kind, a man With the most common; husband, father; learned, Could teach, admonish; suffered with the rest From vice and folly, wretchedness and fear; Of this I little saw, cared less for it, But something must have felt. Call ye these appearances Which I beheld of shepherds in my youth, This sanctity of Nature given to man, A shadow, a delusion? ye who pore On the dead letter, miss the spirit of things; Whose truth is not a motion or a shape Instinct with vital functions, but a block Or waxen image which yourselves have made, And ye adore! But blessed be the God Of Nature and of Man that this was so; That men before my inexperienced eyes Did first present themselves thus purified, Removed, and to a distance that was fit: And so we all of us in some degree Are led to knowledge, wheresoever led, And howsoever; were it otherwise, And we found evil fast as we find good In our first years, or think that it is found, How could the innocent heart bear up and live! But doubly fortunate my lot; not here Alone, that something of a better life Perhaps was round me than it is the privilege Of most to move in, but that first I looked At Man through objects that were great or fair; First communed with him by their help. And thus Was founded a sure safeguard and defence Against the weight of meanness, selfish cares, Coarse manners, vulgar passions, that beat in On all sides from the ordinary world In which we traffic. Starting from this point I had my face turned toward the truth, began With an advantage furnished by that kind Of prepossession, without which the soul Receives no knowledge that can bring forth good, No genuine insight ever comes to her. From the restraint of over-watchful eyes Preserved, I moved about, year after year, Happy, and now most thankful that my walk Was guarded from too early intercourse With the deformities of crowded life, And those ensuing laughters and contempts, Self-pleasing, which, if we would wish to think With a due reverence on earth's rightful lord, Here placed to be the inheritor of heaven, Will not permit us; but pursue the mind, That to devotion willingly would rise, Into the temple and the temple's heart. Yet deem not, Friend! that human kind with me Thus early took a place pre-eminent; Nature herself was, at this unripe time, But secondary to my own pursuits And animal activities, and all Their trivial pleasures; and when these had drooped And gradually expired, and Nature, prized For her own sake, became my joy, even then— And upwards through late youth, until not less Than two-and-twenty summers had been told— Was Man in my affections and regards Subordinate to her, her visible forms And viewless agencies: a passion, she, A rapture often, and immediate love Ever at hand; he, only a delight Occasional, an accidental grace, His hour being not yet come. Far less had then The inferior creatures, beast or bird, attuned My spirit to that gentleness of love (Though they had long been carefully observed), Won from me those minute obeisances Of tenderness, which I may number now With my first blessings. Nevertheless, on these The light of beauty did not fall in vain, Or grandeur circumfuse them to no end. But when that first poetic faculty Of plain Imagination and severe, No longer a mute influence of the soul, Ventured, at some rash Muse's earnest call, To try her strength among harmonious words; And to book-notions and the rules of art Did knowingly conform itself; there came Among the simple shapes of human life A wilfulness of fancy and conceit; And Nature and her objects beautified These fictions, as in some sort, in their turn, They burnished her. From touch of this new power Nothing was safe: the elder-tree that grew Beside the well-known charnel-house had then A dismal look: the yew-tree had its ghost, That took his station there for ornament: The dignities of plain occurrence then Were tasteless, and truth's golden mean, a point Where no sufficient pleasure could be found. Then, if a widow, staggering with the blow Of her distress, was known to have turned her steps To the cold grave in which her husband slept, One night, or haply more than one, through pain Or half-insensate impotence of mind, The fact was caught at greedily, and there She must be visitant the whole year through, Wetting the turf with never-ending tears. Through quaint obliquities I might pursue These cravings; when the fox-glove, one by one, Upwards through every stage of the tall stem, Had shed beside the public way its bells, And stood of all dismantled, save the last Left at the tapering ladder's top, that seemed To bend as doth a slender blade of grass Tipped with a rain-drop, Fancy loved to seat, Beneath the plant despoiled, but crested still With this last relic, soon itself to fall, Some vagrant mother, whose arch little ones, All unconcerned by her dejected plight, Laughed as with rival eagerness their hands Gathered the purple cups that round them lay, Strewing the turf's green slope. A diamond light (Whene'er the summer sun, declining, smote A smooth rock wet with constant springs) was seen Sparkling from out a copse-clad bank that rose Fronting our cottage. Oft beside the hearth Seated, with open door, often and long Upon this restless lustre have I gazed, That made my fancy restless as itself. 'Twas now for me a burnished silver shield Suspended over a knight's tomb, who lay Inglorious, buried in the dusky wood: An entrance now into some magic cave Or palace built by fairies of the rock; Nor could I have been bribed to disenchant The spectacle, by visiting the spot. Thus wilful Fancy, in no hurtful mood, Engrafted far-fetched shapes on feelings bred By pure Imagination: busy Power She was, and with her ready pupil turned Instinctively to human passions, then Least understood. Yet, 'mid the fervent swarm Of these vagaries, with an eye so rich As mine was through the bounty of a grand And lovely region, I had forms distinct To steady me: each airy thought revolved Round a substantial centre, which at once Incited it to motion, and controlled. I did not pine like one in cities bred, As was thy melancholy lot, dear Friend! Great Spirit as thou art, in endless dreams Of sickliness, disjoining, joining, things Without the light of knowledge. Where the harm, If, when the woodman languished with disease Induced by sleeping nightly on the ground Within his sod-built cabin, Indian-wise, I called the pangs of disappointed love, And all the sad etcetera of the wrong, To help him to his grave? Meanwhile the man, If not already from the woods retired To die at home, was haply as I knew, Withering by slow degrees, 'mid gentle airs, Birds, running streams, and hills so beautiful On golden evenings, while the charcoal pile Breathed up its smoke, an image of his ghost Or spirit that full soon must take her flight. Nor shall we not be tending towards that point Of sound humanity to which our Tale Leads, though by sinuous ways, if here I shew How Fancy, in a season when she wove Those slender cords, to guide the unconscious Boy For the Man's sake, could feed at Nature's call Some pensive musings which might well beseem Maturer years. A grove there is whose boughs Stretch from the western marge of Thurston-mere, With length of shade so thick, that whoso glides Along the line of low-roofed water, moves As in a cloister. Once—while, in that shade Loitering, I watched the golden beams of light Flung from the setting sun, as they reposed In silent beauty on the naked ridge Of a high eastern hill—thus flowed my thoughts In a pure stream of words fresh from the heart: Dear native Regions, wheresoe'er shall close My mortal course, there will I think on you; Dying, will cast on you a backward look; Even as this setting sun (albeit the Vale Is no where touched by one memorial gleam) Doth with the fond remains of his last power Still linger, and a farewell lustre sheds On the dear mountain-tops where first he rose. Enough of humble arguments; recal, My Song! those high emotions which thy voice Has heretofore made known; that bursting forth Of sympathy, inspiring and inspired, When everywhere a vital pulse was felt, And all the several frames of things, like stars, Through every magnitude distinguishable, Shone mutually indebted, or half lost Each in the other's blaze, a galaxy Of life and glory. In the midst stood Man, Outwardly, inwardly contemplated, As, of all visible natures, crown, though born Of dust, and kindred to the worm; a Being, Both in perception and discernment, first In every capability of rapture, Through the divine effect of power and love; As, more than anything we know, instinct With godhead, and, by reason and by will, Acknowledging dependency sublime. Ere long, the lonely mountains left, I moved, Begirt, from day to day, with temporal shapes Of vice and folly thrust upon my view, Objects of sport, and ridicule, and scorn, Manners and characters discriminate, And little bustling passions that eclipse, As well they might, the impersonated thought, The idea, or abstraction of the kind. An idler among academic bowers, Such was my new condition, as at large Has been set forth; yet here the vulgar light Of present, actual, superficial life, Gleaming through colouring of other times, Old usages and local privilege, Was welcome, softened, if not solemnised. This notwithstanding, being brought more near To vice and guilt, forerunning wretchedness I trembled,—thought, at times, of human life With an indefinite terror and dismay, Such as the storms and angry elements Had bred in me; but gloomier far, a dim Analogy to uproar and misrule, Disquiet, danger, and obscurity. It might be told (but wherefore speak of things Common to all?) that, seeing, I was led Gravely to ponder—judging between good And evil, not as for the mind's delight But for her guidance—one who was to act, As sometimes to the best of feeble means I did, by human sympathy impelled: And, through dislike and most offensive pain, Was to the truth conducted; of this faith Never forsaken, that, by acting well, And understanding, I should learn to love The end of life, and every thing we know. Grave Teacher, stern Preceptress! for at times Thou canst put on an aspect most severe; London, to thee I willingly return. Erewhile my verse played idly with the flowers Enwrought upon thy mantle; satisfied With that amusement, and a simple look Of child-like inquisition now and then Cast upwards on thy countenance, to detect Some inner meanings which might harbour there. But how could I in mood so light indulge, Keeping such fresh remembrance of the day, When, having thridded the long labyrinth Of the suburban villages, I first Entered thy vast dominion? On the roof Of an itinerant vehicle I sate, With vulgar men about me, trivial forms Of houses, pavement, streets, of men and things,— Mean shapes on every side: but, at the instant, When to myself it fairly might be said, The threshold now is overpast, (how strange That aught external to the living mind Should have such mighty sway! yet so it was), A weight of ages did at once descend Upon my heart; no thought embodied, no Distinct remembrances, but weight and power,— Power growing under weight: alas! I feel That I am trifling: 'twas a moment's pause,— All that took place within me came and went As in a moment; yet with Time it dwells, And grateful memory, as a thing divine. The curious traveller, who, from open day, Hath passed with torches into some huge cave, The Grotto of Antiparos, or the Den In old time haunted by that Danish Witch, Yordas; he looks around and sees the vault Widening on all sides; sees, or thinks he sees, Erelong, the massy roof above his head, That instantly unsettles and recedes,— Substance and shadow, light and darkness, all Commingled, making up a canopy Of shapes and forms and tendencies to shape That shift and vanish, change and interchange Like spectres,—ferment silent and sublime! That after a short space works less and less, Till, every effort, every motion gone, The scene before him stands in perfect view Exposed, and lifeless as a written book!— But let him pause awhile, and look again, And a new quickening shall succeed, at first Beginning timidly, then creeping fast, Till the whole cave, so late a senseless mass, Busies the eye with images and forms Boldly assembled,—here is shadowed forth From the projections, wrinkles, cavities, A variegated landscape,—there the shape Of some gigantic warrior clad in mail, The ghostly semblance of a hooded monk. Veiled nun, or pilgrim resting on his staff: Strange congregation! yet not slow to meet Eyes that perceive through minds that can inspire. Even in such sort had I at first been moved, Nor otherwise continued to be moved, As I explored the vast metropolis, Fount of my country's destiny and the world's; That great emporium, chronicle at once And burial-place of passions, and their home Imperial, their chief living residence. With strong sensations teeming as it did Of past and present, such a place must needs Have pleased me, seeking knowledge at that time Far less than craving power; yet knowledge came, Sought or unsought, and influxes of power Came, of themselves, or at her call derived In fits of kindliest apprehensiveness, From all sides, when whate'er was in itself Capacious found, or seemed to find, in me A correspondent amplitude of mind; Such is the strength and glory of our youth! The human nature unto which I felt That I belonged, and reverenced with love, Was not a punctual presence, but a spirit Diffused through time and space, with aid derived Of evidence from monuments, erect, Prostrate, or leaning towards their common rest In earth, the widely scattered wreck sublime Of vanished nations, or more clearly drawn From books and what they picture and record. 'Tis true, the history of our native land, With those of Greece compared and popular Rome, And in our high-wrought modern narratives Stript of their harmonising soul, the life Of manners and familiar incidents, Had never much delighted me. And less Than other intellects had mine been used To lean upon extrinsic circumstance Of record or tradition; but a sense Of what in the Great City had been done And suffered, and was doing, suffering, still, Weighed with me, could support the test of thought; And, in despite of all that had gone by, Or was departing never to return, There I conversed with majesty and power Like independent natures. Hence the place Was thronged with impregnations like the Wilds In which my early feelings had been nursed— Bare hills and valleys, full of caverns, rocks, And audible seclusions, dashing lakes, Echoes and waterfalls, and pointed crags That into music touch the passing wind. Here then my young imagination found No uncongenial element; could here Among new objects serve or give command, Even as the heart's occasions might require, To forward reason's else too scrupulous march. The effect was, still more elevated views Of human nature. Neither vice nor guilt, Debasement undergone by body or mind, Nor all the misery forced upon my sight, Misery not lightly passed, but sometimes scanned Most feelingly, could overthrow my trust In what we may become; induce belief That I was ignorant, had been falsely taught, A solitary, who with vain conceits Had been inspired, and walked about in dreams. From those sad scenes when meditation turned, Lo! every thing that was indeed divine Retained its purity inviolate, Nay brighter shone, by this portentous gloom Set off; such opposition as aroused The mind of Adam, yet in Paradise Though fallen from bliss, when in the East he saw Darkness ere day's mid course, and morning light More orient in the western cloud, that drew O'er the blue firmament a radiant white, Descending slow with something heavenly fraught. Add also, that among the multitudes Of that huge city, oftentimes was seen Affectingly set forth, more than elsewhere Is possible, the unity of man, One spirit over ignorance and vice Predominant, in good and evil hearts; One sense for moral judgments, as one eye For the sun's light. The soul when smitten thus By a sublime idea, whencesoe'er Vouchsafed for union or communion, feeds On the pure bliss, and takes her rest with God. Thus from a very early age, O Friend! My thoughts by slow gradations had been drawn To human-kind, and to the good and ill Of human life: Nature had led me on; And oft amid the "busy hum" I seemed To travel independent of her help, As if I had forgotten her; but no, The world of human-kind outweighed not hers In my habitual thoughts; the scale of love, Though filling daily, still was light, compared With that in which her mighty objects lay. Contents—The Prelude Main Contents |
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A B C D E F G H I K L M N O O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Z a b b c d e e f g h i k m n o p q r s |
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... which ... |
MS. letter to Sir George Beaumont, 1805. |
Is yon assembled in the gay green field? |
MS. letter to Sir George Beaumont, 1805. |
... family of men, |
MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805. |
Sees annually; if storms be not abroad |
MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805. |
It is a summer Festival, a Fair, |
MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805. |
... heat of noon, |
MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805. |
... visitant! |
MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805. |
But one is here, ... |
MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805. |
... orchard, apples, pears, |
MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805. |
... calling, ... |
MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805. |
... rich, the old man now (l. 44) |
MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805. |
... green field: |
MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805. |
... seem, |
MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805. |
The lurking brooks for their ... |
MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805. |
And the blue sky that roofs ... |
MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805. |
"They all went to Stickle Tarn. A very fine, warm, sunny, beautiful morning. We walked to the fair. ... It was a lovely moonlight night. We talked much about our house on Helvellyn. The moonlight shone only upon the village. It did not eclipse the village lights; and the sound of dancing and merriment came along the still air. I walked with Coleridge and William up the lane and by the church...."Ed.
).—Ed."If any place can be said in any respect to have similar features to the western park of Van-shoo-yuen, which I have seen this day, it is at Lowther Hall in Westmoreland, which (when I knew it many years ago) ... I thought might be reckoned ... the finest scene in the British dominions."See Barrow's Travels in China, p. 134.—Ed.
'In Xanadu did Kubla KhanEd.
A stately pleasure-dome decree.'
'Nature then,Ed.
To me was all in all,' etc.
'Dear native regions, I foretell,The Fenwick note to this poem is as follows:
From what I feel at this farewell,
That, wheresoe'er my steps may tend,
And whensoe'er my course shall end,
If in that hour a single tie
Survive of local sympathy,
My soul will cast the backward view,
The longing look alone on you.
Thus, while the Sun sinks down to rest
Far in the regions of the west,
Though to the vale no parting beam
Be given, not one memorial gleam,
A lingering light he fondly throws
On the dear hills where first he rose.'
"The beautiful image with which this poem concludes suggested itself to me while I was resting in a boat along with my companions under the shade of a magnificent row of sycamores, which then extended their branches from the shore of the promontory upon with stands the ancient, and at that time the more picturesque, Hall of Coniston."There is nothing in either poem definitely to connect "Thurstonmere" with Coniston, although their identity is suggested by the Fenwick note. I find, however, that Thurston was the ancient name of Coniston; and this carries us back to the time of the worship of Thor. (See Lewis's Topographical Dictionary of England, vol. i. p. 662; also the Edinburgh Gazetteer (1822), articles "Thurston" and "Coniston.") The site of the grove "on the shore of the promontory" at Coniston Lake is easily identified, but the grove itself is gone.—Ed.
'Why in the EastEd.
Darkness ere day's mid-course, and Morning light
More orient in yon Western Cloud, that draws
O'er the blue Firmament a radiant white,
And slow descends, with something heav'nly fraught?'
Contents—The Prelude
Main Contents
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| Even as a river,—partly (it might seem) Yielding to old remembrances, and swayed In part by fear to shape a way direct, That would engulph him soon in the ravenous sea— Turns, and will measure back his course, far back, Seeking the very regions which he crossed In his first outset; so have we, my Friend! Turned and returned with intricate delay. Or as a traveller, who has gained the brow Of some aerial Down, while there he halts For breathing-time, is tempted to review The region left behind him; and, if aught Deserving notice have escaped regard, Or been regarded with too careless eye, Strives, from that height, with one and yet one more Last look, to make the best amends he may: So have we lingered. Now we start afresh With courage, and new hope risen on our toil Fair greetings to this shapeless eagerness, Whene'er it comes! needful in work so long, Thrice needful to the argument which now Awaits us! Oh, how much unlike the past! Free as a colt at pasture on the hill, I ranged at large, through London's wide domain, Month after month. Obscurely did I live, Not seeking frequent intercourse with men, By literature, or elegance, or rank, Distinguished. Scarcely was a year thus spent Ere I forsook the crowded solitude, With less regret for its luxurious pomp, And all the nicely-guarded shows of art, Than for the humble book-stalls in the streets, Exposed to eye and hand where'er I turned. France lured me forth; the realm that I had crossed So lately, journeying toward the snow-clad Alps. But now, relinquishing the scrip and staff, And all enjoyment which the summer sun Sheds round the steps of those who meet the day With motion constant as his own, I went Prepared to sojourn in a pleasant town, Washed by the current of the stately Loire. Through Paris lay my readiest course, and there Sojourning a few days, I visited, In haste, each spot of old or recent fame, The latter chiefly; from the field of Mars Down to the suburbs of St. Antony, And from Mont Martyr southward to the Dome Of Geneviève. In both her clamorous Halls, The National Synod and the Jacobins, I saw the Revolutionary Power Toss like a ship at anchor, rocked by storms; The Arcades I traversed, in the Palace huge Of Orléans; coasted round and round the line Of Tavern, Brothel, Gaming-house, and Shop, Great rendezvous of worst and best, the walk Of all who had a purpose, or had not; I stared and listened, with a stranger's ears, To Hawkers and Haranguers, hubbub wild! And hissing Factionists with ardent eyes, In knots, or pairs, or single. Not a look Hope takes, or Doubt or Fear is forced to wear, But seemed there present; and I scanned them all, Watched every gesture uncontrollable, Of anger, and vexation, and despite, All side by side, and struggling face to face, With gaiety and dissolute idleness. Where silent zephyrs sported with the dust Of the Bastille, I sate in the open sun, And from the rubbish gathered up a stone, And pocketed the relic, in the guise Of an enthusiast; yet, in honest truth, I looked for something that I could not find, Affecting more emotion than I felt; For 'tis most certain, that these various sights, However potent their first shock, with me Appeared to recompense the traveller's pains Less than the painted Magdalene of Le Brun, A beauty exquisitely wrought, with hair Dishevelled, gleaming eyes, and rueful cheek Pale and bedropped with everflowing tears. But hence to my more permanent abode I hasten; there, by novelties in speech, Domestic manners, customs, gestures, looks, And all the attire of ordinary life, Attention was engrossed; and, thus amused, I stood, 'mid those concussions, unconcerned, Tranquil almost, and careless as a flower Glassed in a green-house, or a parlour shrub That spreads its leaves in unmolested peace, While every bush and tree, the country through, Is shaking to the roots: indifference this Which may seem strange: but I was unprepared With needful knowledge, had abruptly passed Into a theatre, whose stage was filled And busy with an action far advanced. Like others, I had skimmed, and sometimes read With care, the master pamphlets of the day; Nor wanted such half-insight as grew wild Upon that meagre soil, helped out by talk And public news; but having never seen A chronicle that might suffice to show Whence the main organs of the public power Had sprung, their transmigrations, when and how Accomplished, giving thus unto events A form and body; all things were to me Loose and disjointed, and the affections left Without a vital interest. At that time, Moreover, the first storm was overblown, And the strong hand of outward violence Locked up in quiet. For myself, I fear Now in connection with so great a theme To speak (as I must be compelled to do) Of one so unimportant; night by night Did I frequent the formal haunts of men, Whom, in the city, privilege of birth Sequestered from the rest, societies Polished in arts, and in punctilio versed; Whence, and from deeper causes, all discourse Of good and evil of the time was shunned With scrupulous care; but these restrictions soon Proved tedious, and I gradually withdrew Into a noisier world, and thus ere long Became a patriot; and my heart was all Given to the people, and my love was theirs. A band of military Officers, Then stationed in the city, were the chief Of my associates: some of these wore swords That had been seasoned in the wars, and all Were men well-born; the chivalry of France. In age and temper differing, they had yet One spirit ruling in each heart; alike (Save only one, hereafter to be named) Were bent upon undoing what was done: This was their rest and only hope; therewith No fear had they of bad becoming worse, For worst to them was come; nor would have stirred, Or deemed it worth a moment's thought to stir, In any thing, save only as the act Looked thitherward. One, reckoning by years, Was in the prime of manhood, and erewhile He had sate lord in many tender hearts; Though heedless of such honours now, and changed: His temper was quite mastered by the times, And they had blighted him, had eaten away The beauty of his person, doing wrong Alike to body and to mind: his port, Which once had been erect and open, now Was stooping and contracted, and a face, Endowed by Nature with her fairest gifts Of symmetry and light and bloom, expressed, As much as any that was ever seen, A ravage out of season, made by thoughts Unhealthy and vexatious. With the hour, That from the press of Paris duly brought Its freight of public news, the fever came, A punctual visitant, to shake this man, Disarmed his voice and fanned his yellow cheek Into a thousand colours; while he read, Or mused, his sword was haunted by his touch Continually, like an uneasy place In his own body. 'Twas in truth an hour Of universal ferment; mildest men Were agitated; and commotions, strife Of passion and opinion, filled the walls Of peaceful houses with unquiet sounds. The soil of common life, was, at that time, Too hot to tread upon. Oft said I then, And not then only, "What a mockery this Of history, the past and that to come! Now do I feel how all men are deceived, Reading of nations and their works, in faith, Faith given to vanity and emptiness; Oh! laughter for the page that would reflect To future times the face of what now is!" The land all swarmed with passion, like a plain Devoured by locusts,—Carra, Gorsas,—add A hundred other names, forgotten now, Nor to be heard of more; yet, they were powers, Like earthquakes, shocks repeated day by day, And felt through every nook of town and field. Such was the state of things. Meanwhile the chief Of my associates stood prepared for flight To augment the band of emigrants in arms Upon the borders of the Rhine, and leagued With foreign foes mustered for instant war. This was their undisguised intent, and they Were waiting with the whole of their desires The moment to depart. An Englishman, Born in a land whose very name appeared To license some unruliness of mind; A stranger, with youth's further privilege, And the indulgence that a half-learnt speech Wins from the courteous; I, who had been else Shunned and not tolerated, freely lived With these defenders of the Crown, and talked, And heard their notions; nor did they disdain The wish to bring me over to their cause. But though untaught by thinking or by books To reason well of polity or law, And nice distinctions, then on every tongue, Of natural rights and civil; and to acts Of nations and their passing interests, (If with unworldly ends and aims compared) Almost indifferent, even the historian's tale Prizing but little otherwise than I prized Tales of the poets, as it made the heart Beat high, and filled the fancy with fair forms, Old heroes and their sufferings and their deeds; Yet in the regal sceptre, and the pomp Of orders and degrees, I nothing found Then, or had ever, even in crudest youth, That dazzled me, but rather what I mourned And ill could brook, beholding that the best Ruled not, and feeling that they ought to rule. For, born in a poor district, and which yet Retaineth more of ancient homeliness, Than any other nook of English ground, It was my fortune scarcely to have seen, Through the whole tenor of my school-day time, The face of one, who, whether boy or man, Was vested with attention or respect Through claims of wealth or blood; nor was it least Of many benefits, in later years Derived from academic institutes And rules, that they held something up to view Of a Republic, where all stood thus far Upon equal ground; that we were brothers all In honour, as in one community, Scholars and gentlemen; where, furthermore, Distinction open lay to all that came, And wealth and titles were in less esteem Than talents, worth, and prosperous industry. Add unto this, subservience from the first To presences of God's mysterious power Made manifest in Nature's sovereignty, And fellowship with venerable books, To sanction the proud workings of the soul, And mountain liberty. It could not be But that one tutored thus should look with awe Upon the faculties of man, receive Gladly the highest promises, and hail, As best, the government of equal rights And individual worth. And hence, O Friend! If at the first great outbreak I rejoiced Less than might well befit my youth, the cause In part lay here, that unto me the events Seemed nothing out of nature's certain course, A gift that was come rather late than soon. No wonder, then, if advocates like these, Inflamed by passion, blind with prejudice, And stung with injury, at this riper day, Were impotent to make my hopes put on The shape of theirs, my understanding bend In honour to their honour: zeal, which yet Had slumbered, now in opposition burst Forth like a Polar summer: every word They uttered was a dart, by counter-winds Blown back upon themselves; their reason seemed Confusion-stricken by a higher power Than human understanding, their discourse Maimed, spiritless; and, in their weakness strong, I triumphed. Meantime, day by day, the roads Were crowded with the bravest youth of France, And all the promptest of her spirits, linked In gallant soldiership, and posting on To meet the war upon her frontier bounds. Yet at this very moment do tears start Into mine eyes: I do not say I weep— I wept not then,—but tears have dimmed my sight, In memory of the farewells of that time, Domestic severings, female fortitude At dearest separation, patriot love And self-devotion, and terrestrial hope, Encouraged with a martyr's confidence; Even files of strangers merely seen but once, And for a moment, men from far with sound Of music, martial tunes, and banners spread, Entering the city, here and there a face, Or person singled out among the rest, Yet still a stranger and beloved as such; Even by these passing spectacles my heart Was oftentimes uplifted, and they seemed Arguments sent from Heaven to prove the cause Good, pure, which no one could stand up against, Who was not lost, abandoned, selfish, proud, Mean, miserable, wilfully depraved, Hater perverse of equity and truth. Among that band of Officers was one, Already hinted at, of other mould— A patriot, thence rejected by the rest, And with an oriental loathing spurned, As of a different caste. A meeker man Than this lived never, nor a more benign, Meek though enthusiastic. Injuries Made him more gracious, and his nature then Did breathe its sweetness out most sensibly, As aromatic flowers on Alpine turf, When foot hath crushed them. He through the events Of that great change wandered in perfect faith, As through a book, an old romance, or tale Of Fairy, or some dream of actions wrought Behind the summer clouds. By birth he ranked With the most noble, but unto the poor Among mankind he was in service bound, As by some tie invisible, oaths professed To a religious order. Man he loved As man; and, to the mean and the obscure, And all the homely in their homely works, Transferred a courtesy which had no air Of condescension; but did rather seem A passion and a gallantry, like that Which he, a soldier, in his idler day Had paid to woman: somewhat vain he was, Or seemed so, yet it was not vanity, But fondness, and a kind of radiant joy Diffused around him, while he was intent On works of love or freedom, or revolved Complacently the progress of a cause, Whereof he was a part: yet this was meek And placid, and took nothing from the man That was delightful. Oft in solitude With him did I discourse about the end Of civil government, and its wisest forms; Of ancient loyalty, and chartered rights, Custom and habit, novelty and change; Of self-respect, and virtue in the few For patrimonial honour set apart, And ignorance in the labouring multitude. For he, to all intolerance indisposed, Balanced these contemplations in his mind; And I, who at that time was scarcely dipped Into the turmoil, bore a sounder judgment Than later days allowed; carried about me, With less alloy to its integrity, The experience of past ages, as, through help Of books and common life, it makes sure way To youthful minds, by objects over near Not pressed upon, nor dazzled or misled By struggling with the crowd for present ends. But though not deaf, nor obstinate to find Error without excuse upon the side Of them who strove against us, more delight We took, and let this freely be confessed, In painting to ourselves the miseries Of royal courts, and that voluptuous life Unfeeling, where the man who is of soul The meanest thrives the most; where dignity, True personal dignity, abideth not; A light, a cruel, and vain world cut off From the natural inlets of just sentiment, From lowly sympathy and chastening truth; Where good and evil interchange their names, And thirst for bloody spoils abroad is paired With vice at home. We added dearest themes— Man and his noble nature, as it is The gift which God has placed within his power, His blind desires and steady faculties Capable of clear truth, the one to break Bondage, the other to build liberty On firm foundations, making social life, Through knowledge spreading and imperishable, As just in regulation, and as pure As individual in the wise and good. We summoned up the honourable deeds Of ancient Story, thought of each bright spot, That would be found in all recorded time, Of truth preserved and error passed away; Of single spirits that catch the flame from Heaven, And how the multitudes of men will feed And fan each other; thought of sects, how keen They are to put the appropriate nature on, Triumphant over every obstacle Of custom, language, country, love, or hate, And what they do and suffer for their creed; How far they travel, and how long endure; How quickly mighty Nations have been formed, From least beginnings; how, together locked By new opinions, scattered tribes have made One body, spreading wide as clouds in heaven. To aspirations then of our own minds Did we appeal; and, finally, beheld A living confirmation of the whole Before us, in a people from the depth Of shameful imbecility uprisen, Fresh as the morning star. Elate we looked Upon their virtues; saw, in rudest men, Self-sacrifice the firmest; generous love, And continence of mind, and sense of right, Uppermost in the midst of fiercest strife. Oh, sweet it is, in academic groves, Or such retirement, Friend! as we have known In the green dales beside our Rotha's stream, Greta, or Derwent, or some nameless rill, To ruminate, with interchange of talk, On rational liberty, and hope in man, Justice and peace. But far more sweet such toil— Toil, say I, for it leads to thoughts abstruse— If nature then be standing on the brink Of some great trial, and we hear the voice Of one devoted, one whom circumstance Hath called upon to embody his deep sense In action, give it outwardly a shape, And that of benediction, to the world. Then doubt is not, and truth is more than truth,— A hope it is, and a desire; a creed Of zeal, by an authority Divine Sanctioned, of danger, difficulty, or death. Such conversation, under Attic shades, Did Dion hold with Plato; ripened thus For a Deliverer's glorious task,—and such He, on that ministry already bound, Held with Eudemus and Timonides, Surrounded by adventurers in arms, When those two vessels with their daring freight, For the Sicilian Tyrant's overthrow, Sailed from Zacynthus,—philosophic war, Led by Philosophers. With harder fate, Though like ambition, such was he, O Friend! Of whom I speak. So Beaupuis (let the name Stand near the worthiest of Antiquity) Fashioned his life; and many a long discourse, With like persuasion honoured, we maintained: He, on his part, accoutred for the worst. He perished fighting, in supreme command, Upon the borders of the unhappy Loire, For liberty, against deluded men, His fellow country-men; and yet most blessed In this, that he the fate of later times Lived not to see, nor what we now behold, Who have as ardent hearts as he had then. Along that very Loire, with festal mirth Resounding at all hours, and innocent yet Of civil slaughter, was our frequent walk; Or in wide forests of continuous shade, Lofty and over-arched, with open space Beneath the trees, clear footing many a mile— A solemn region. Oft amid those haunts, From earnest dialogues I slipped in thought, And let remembrance steal to other times, When, o'er those interwoven roots, moss-clad, And smooth as marble or a waveless sea, Some Hermit, from his cell forth-strayed, might pace In sylvan meditation undisturbed; As on the pavement of a Gothic church Walks a lone Monk, when service hath expired, In peace and silence. But if e'er was heard,— Heard, though unseen,—a devious traveller, Retiring or approaching from afar With speed and echoes loud of trampling hoofs From the hard floor reverberated, then It was Angelica thundering through the woods Upon her palfrey, or that gentle maid Erminia, fugitive as fair as she. Sometimes methought I saw a pair of knights Joust underneath the trees, that as in storm Rocked high above their heads; anon, the din Of boisterous merriment, and music's roar, In sudden proclamation, burst from haunt Of Satyrs in some viewless glade, with dance Rejoicing o'er a female in the midst, A mortal beauty, their unhappy thrall. The width of those huge forests, unto me A novel scene, did often in this way Master my fancy while I wandered on With that revered companion. And sometimes— When to a convent in a meadow green, By a brook-side, we came, a roofless pile, And not by reverential touch of Time Dismantled, but by violence abrupt— In spite of those heart-bracing colloquies, In spite of real fervour, and of that Less genuine and wrought up within myself— I could not but bewail a wrong so harsh, And for the Matin-bell to sound no more Grieved, and the twilight taper, and the cross High on the topmost pinnacle, a sign (How welcome to the weary traveller's eyes!) Of hospitality and peaceful rest. And when the partner of those varied walks Pointed upon occasion to the site Of Romorentin, home of ancient kings, To the imperial edifice of Blois, Or to that rural castle, name now slipped From my remembrance, where a lady lodged, By the first Francis wooed, and bound to him In chains of mutual passion, from the tower, As a tradition of the country tells, Practised to commune with her royal knight By cressets and love-beacons, intercourse 'Twixt her high-seated residence and his Far off at Chambord on the plain beneath; Even here, though less than with the peaceful house Religious, 'mid those frequent monuments Of Kings, their vices and their better deeds, Imagination, potent to inflame At times with virtuous wrath and noble scorn, Did also often mitigate the force Of civic prejudice, the bigotry, So call it, of a youthful patriot's mind; And on these spots with many gleams I looked Of chivalrous delight. Yet not the less, Hatred of absolute rule, where will of one Is law for all, and of that barren pride In them who, by immunities unjust, Between the sovereign and the people stand, His helper and not theirs, laid stronger hold Daily upon me, mixed with pity too And love; for where hope is, there love will be For the abject multitude. And when we chanced One day to meet a hunger-bitten girl, Who crept along fitting her languid gait Unto a heifer's motion, by a cord Tied to her arm, and picking thus from the lane Its sustenance, while the girl with pallid hands Was busy knitting in a heartless mood Of solitude, and at the sight my friend In agitation said, "'Tis against 'that' That we are fighting," I with him believed That a benignant spirit was abroad Which might not be withstood, that poverty Abject as this would in a little time Be found no more, that we should see the earth Unthwarted in her wish to recompense The meek, the lowly, patient child of toil, All institutes for ever blotted out That legalised exclusion, empty pomp Abolished, sensual state and cruel power, Whether by edict of the one or few; And finally, as sum and crown of all, Should see the people having a strong hand In framing their own laws; whence better days To all mankind. But, these things set apart, Was not this single confidence enough To animate the mind that ever turned A thought to human welfare? That henceforth Captivity by mandate without law Should cease; and open accusation lead To sentence in the hearing of the world, And open punishment, if not the air Be free to breathe in, and the heart of man Dread nothing. From this height I shall not stoop To humbler matter that detained us oft In thought or conversation, public acts, And public persons, and emotions wrought Within the breast, as ever-varying winds Of record or report swept over us; But I might here, instead, repeat a tale, Told by my Patriot friend, of sad events, That prove to what low depth had struck the roots, How widely spread the boughs, of that old tree Which, as a deadly mischief, and a foul And black dishonour, France was weary of. Oh, happy time of youthful lovers, (thus The story might begin). Oh, balmy time, In which a love-knot, on a lady's brow, Is fairer than the fairest star in Heaven! So might—and with that prelude did begin The record; and, in faithful verse, was given The doleful sequel. But our little bark On a strong river boldly hath been launched; And from the driving current should we turn To loiter wilfully within a creek, Howe'er attractive, Fellow voyager! Would'st thou not chide? Yet deem not my pains lost: For Vaudracour and Julia (so were named The ill-fated pair) in that plain tale will draw Tears from the hearts of others, when their own Shall beat no more. Thou, also, there may'st read, At leisure, how the enamoured youth was driven, By public power abased, to fatal crime, Nature's rebellion against monstrous law; How, between heart and heart, oppression thrust Her mandates, severing whom true love had joined, Harassing both; until he sank and pressed The couch his fate had made for him; supine, Save when the stings of viperous remorse, Trying their strength, enforced him to start up, Aghast and prayerless. Into a deep wood He fled, to shun the haunts of human kind; There dwelt, weakened in spirit more and more; Nor could the voice of Freedom, which through France Full speedily resounded, public hope, Or personal memory of his own worst wrongs, Rouse him; but, hidden in those gloomy shades, His days he wasted,—an imbecile mind. Contents—The Prelude Main Contents |
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"The convention is getting chosen—really in a decisive spirit. Some two hundred of our best Legislators may be re-elected, the Mountain bodily. Robespierre, with Mayor Pétion, Buzot, Curate Grègoire and some threescore Old Constituents; though we men had only thirty voices. All these and along with them friends long known to the Revolutionary fame: Camille Desmoulins, though he stutters in speech, Manuel Tallein and Company; Journalists Gorsas, Carra, Mersier, Louvet of Faubias; Clootz, Speaker of Mankind, Collet d'Herbois, tearing a passion to rags; Fahre d'Egalantine Speculative Pamphleteer; Legendre, the solid Butcher; nay Marat though rural France can hardly believe it, or even believe there is a Marat, except in print."Ed.
"Save only one, hereafter to be named," [line 132]and the note on Beaupuy, in the appendix to this volume, p. 401.—Ed.
"Many statesmen and philosophers assisted him (i. e. Dion); "as for instance, Eudemus, the Cyprian, on whose death Aristotle wrote his dialogue of the Soul, and Timonides the Leucadian."(See Plutarch's Dion.) Timonides wrote an account of Dion's campaign in Sicily in certain letters to Speusippus, which are referred to both by Plutarch and by Diogenes Laertius,—Ed.
'La donna il palafreno à dietro volta,Ed.
E per la selva à tutta briglia il caccia;
Ne per la rara più, che per la folta,
La più sicura e miglior via procaccia.
The lady turned her palfrey round,
And through the forest drove him on amain;
Nor did she choose the glade before the thickest wood,
Riding the safest ever, and the better way.'
"Rivus Romentini, petite ville du Blaisois, et capitale de la Sologne, aujourd'hui sous-préfecture du départ. de Loir-et-Cher."It was taken in 1356 and in 1429 by the English, in 1562 by the Catholics, in 1567 by the Calvinists, and in 1589 by the Royalists.
"Henri IV. l'érigea en comté pour sa maîtresse Charlotte des Essarts, 1560. François I. y rendit un édit célèbre qui attribuait aux prélats la connaissance du crime d'hérésie, et la répression des assemblées illicites."(Dictionnaire Historique de la France, par Ludovic Lalaune. Paris, 1872.)—Ed.
"Louis XII., qui était né à Blois, y séjourna souvent, et reconstruisit complétement le château, où la cour habita fréquemment au XVI'e. siècle."(Dict. Histor. de la France, Lalaune.) The town is full of historical reminiscences of Louis XII., Francis I., Henry III., and Catherine and Mary de Medici. Wordsworth went from Orleans to Blois, in the spring of 1792.—Ed.
"célèbre château du Blaisois (Loir-et-Cher), construit par Francois I., sur l'emplacement d'une maison de plaisance des comtes de Blois. Donné par Louis XV. à son beau-père Stanislas, puis au Maréchal de Saxe, il revint ensuit à la couronne; et en 1777 Louis XVI. en accorda la jouissance à la famille de Polignac."(Lalaune.)
Contents—The Prelude
Main Contents
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| It was a beautiful and silent day That overspread the countenance of earth, Then fading with unusual quietness,— A day as beautiful as e'er was given To soothe regret, though deepening what it soothed, When by the gliding Loire I paused, and cast Upon his rich domains, vineyard and tilth, Green meadow-ground, and many-coloured woods, Again, and yet again, a farewell look; Then from the quiet of that scene passed on, Bound to the fierce Metropolis. From his throne The King had fallen, and that invading host— Presumptuous cloud, on whose black front was written The tender mercies of the dismal wind That bore it—on the plains of Liberty Had burst innocuous. Say in bolder words, They—who had come elate as eastern hunters Banded beneath the Great Mogul, when he Erewhile went forth from Agra or Lahore, Rajahs and Omrahs in his train, intent To drive their prey enclosed within a ring Wide as a province, but, the signal given, Before the point of the life-threatening spear Narrowing itself by moments—they, rash men, Had seen the anticipated quarry turned Into avengers, from whose wrath they fled In terror. Disappointment and dismay Remained for all whose fancies had run wild With evil expectations; confidence And perfect triumph for the better cause. The State, as if to stamp the final seal On her security, and to the world Show what she was, a high and fearless soul, Exulting in defiance, or heart-stung By sharp resentment, or belike to taunt With spiteful gratitude the baffled League, That had stirred up her slackening faculties To a new transition, when the King was crushed, Spared not the empty throne, and in proud haste Assumed the body and venerable name Of a Republic. Lamentable crimes, 'Tis true, had gone before this hour, dire work Of massacre, in which the senseless sword Was prayed to as a judge; but these were past, Earth free from them for ever, as was thought,— Ephemeral monsters, to be seen but once! Things that could only show themselves and die. Cheered with this hope, to Paris I returned, And ranged, with ardour heretofore unfelt, The spacious city, and in progress passed The prison where the unhappy Monarch lay, Associate with his children and his wife In bondage; and the palace, lately stormed With roar of cannon by a furious host. I crossed the square (an empty area then!) Of the Carrousel, where so late had lain The dead, upon the dying heaped, and gazed On this and other spots, as doth a man Upon a volume whose contents he knows Are memorable, but from him locked up, Being written in a tongue he cannot read, So that he questions the mute leaves with pain, And half upbraids their silence. But that night I felt most deeply in what world I was, What ground I trod on, and what air I breathed. High was my room and lonely, near the roof Of a large mansion or hotel, a lodge That would have pleased me in more quiet times; Nor was it wholly without pleasure then. With unextinguished taper I kept watch, Reading at intervals; the fear gone by Pressed on me almost like a fear to come. I thought of those September massacres, Divided from me by one little month, Saw them and touched: the rest was conjured up From tragic fictions or true history, Remembrances and dim admonishments. The horse is taught his manage, and no star Of wildest course but treads back his own steps; For the spent hurricane the air provides As fierce a successor; the tide retreats But to return out of its hiding-place In the great deep; all things have second-birth; The earthquake is not satisfied at once; And in this way I wrought upon myself, Until I seemed to hear a voice that cried, To the whole city, "Sleep no more." The trance Fled with the voice to which it had given birth; But vainly comments of a calmer mind Promised soft peace and sweet forgetfulness. The place, all hushed and silent as it was, Appeared unfit for the repose of night, Defenceless as a wood where tigers roam. With early morning towards the Palace-walk Of Orléans eagerly I turned; as yet The streets were still; not so those long Arcades; There, 'mid a peal of ill-matched sounds and cries, That greeted me on entering, I could hear Shrill voices from the hawkers in the throng, Bawling, "Denunciation of the Crimes Of Maximilian Robespierre;" the hand, Prompt as the voice, held forth a printed speech, The same that had been recently pronounced, When Robespierre, not ignorant for what mark Some words of indirect reproof had been Intended, rose in hardihood, and dared The man who had an ill surmise of him To bring his charge in openness; whereat, When a dead pause ensued, and no one stirred, In silence of all present, from his seat Louvet walked single through the avenue, And took his station in the Tribune, saying, "I, Robespierre, accuse thee!" Well is known The inglorious issue of that charge, and how He, who had launched the startling thunderbolt, The one bold man, whose voice the attack had sounded, Was left without a follower to discharge His perilous duty, and retire lamenting That Heaven's best aid is wasted upon men Who to themselves are false. But these are things Of which I speak, only as they were storm Or sunshine to my individual mind, No further. Let me then relate that now— In some sort seeing with my proper eyes That Liberty, and Life, and Death would soon To the remotest corners of the land Lie in the arbitrement of those who ruled The capital City; what was struggled for, And by what combatants victory must be won; The indecision on their part whose aim Seemed best, and the straightforward path of those Who in attack or in defence were strong Through their impiety—my inmost soul Was agitated; yea, I could almost Have prayed that throughout earth upon all men, By patient exercise of reason made Worthy of liberty, all spirits filled With zeal expanding in Truth's holy light, The gift of tongues might fall, and power arrive From the four quarters of the winds to do For France, what without help she could not do, A work of honour; think not that to this I added, work of safety: from all doubt Or trepidation for the end of things Far was I, far as angels are from guilt. Yet did I grieve, nor only grieved, but thought Of opposition and of remedies: An insignificant stranger and obscure, And one, moreover, little graced with power Of eloquence even in my native speech, And all unfit for tumult or intrigue, Yet would I at this time with willing heart Have undertaken for a cause so great |