Were edged with twinkling stars, to bed we went,
With weary joints, and with a beating mind.
Ah! is there one who ever has been young,
Nor needs a monitory voice to tame 20
The pride of virtue, and of intellect?
And is there one, the wisest and the best
Of all mankind, who does not sometimes wish
For things which cannot be, who would not give,
If so he might, to duty and to truth 25
The eagerness of infantine desire?
A tranquillizing 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 30
That, sometimes, when I think of them, I seem
Two consciousnesses, conscious of myself
And of some other Being. A grey Stone
Of native rock, left midway in the Square
Of our small market Village, was the home 35
And centre of these joys, and when, return’d
After long absence, thither I repair’d,
I found that it was split, and gone to build
A smart Assembly-room that perk’d and flar’d
With wash and rough-cast elbowing the ground 40
Which had been ours. But 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 nam’d who there had sate 45
And watch’d her Table with its huckster’s wares
Assiduous, thro’ the length of sixty years.
We ran a boisterous race; the year span round
With giddy motion. But the time approach’d
That brought with it a regular desire 50
For calmer pleasures, when the beauteous forms
Of Nature were collaterally attach’d
To every scheme of holiday delight,
And every boyish sport, less grateful else,
And languidly pursued. 55
When summer came
It was the pastime of our afternoons
To beat along the plain of Windermere
With rival oars, and the selected bourne
Was now an Island musical with birds 60
That sang for ever; now a Sister Isle
Beneath the oaks’ umbrageous covert, sown
With lillies of the valley, like a field;
And now a third small Island where remain’d
An old stone Table, and a moulder’d Cave, 65
A Hermit’s history. In such a race,
So ended, disappointment could be none,
Uneasiness, or pain, or jealousy:
We rested in the shade, all pleas’d alike,
Conquer’d and Conqueror. Thus the pride of strength, 70
And the vain-glory of superior skill
Were interfus’d with objects which subdu’d
And temper’d them, and gradually produc’d
A quiet independence of the heart.
And to my Friend, who knows me, I may add, 75
Unapprehensive of reproof, that hence
Ensu’d a diffidence and modesty,
And I was taught to feel, perhaps too much,
The self-sufficing power of solitude.
No delicate viands sapp’d our bodily strength; 80
More than we wish’d we knew the blessing then
Of vigorous hunger, for our daily meals
Were frugal, Sabine fare! and then, exclude
A little weekly stipend, and we lived
Through three divisions of the quarter’d year 85
In pennyless poverty. But now, to School
Return’d, from the half-yearly holidays,
We came with purses more profusely fill’d,
Allowance which abundantly suffic’d
To gratify the palate with repasts 90
More costly than the Dame of whom I spake,
That ancient Woman, and her board supplied.
Hence inroads into distant Vales, and long
Excursions far away among the hills,
Hence rustic dinners on the cool green ground, 95
Or in the woods, or near a river side,
Or by some shady fountain, while soft airs
Among the leaves were stirring, and the sun
Unfelt, shone sweetly round us in our joy.
Nor is my aim neglected, if I tell 100
How twice in the long length of those half-years
We from our funds, perhaps, with bolder hand
Drew largely, anxious for one day, at least,
To feel the motion of the galloping Steed;
And with the good old Inn-keeper, in truth, 105
On such occasion sometimes we employ’d
Sly subterfuge; for the intended bound
Of the day’s journey was too distant far
For any cautious man, a Structure famed
Beyond its neighbourhood, the antique Walls 110
Of that large Abbey which 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 115
Our Horses grazed: to more than inland peace
Left by the sea wind passing overhead
(Though wind of roughest temper) trees and towers
May in that Valley oftentimes be seen,
Both silent and both motionless alike; 120
Such is the shelter that is there, and such
The safeguard for repose and quietness.
Our steeds remounted, and the summons given,
With whip and spur we by the Chauntry flew
In uncouth race, and left the cross-legg’d Knight, 125
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, touch’d by faint
Internal breezes, sobbings of the place, 130
And respirations, from the roofless walls
The shuddering ivy dripp’d large drops, yet still,
So sweetly ‘mid the gloom the invisible Bird
Sang to itself, that there I could have made
My dwelling-place, and liv’d for ever there 135
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 scamper’d homeward. Oh! ye Rocks and Streams,
And that still Spirit of the evening air! 140
Even in this joyous time I sometimes felt
Your presence, when with slacken’d step we breath’d
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. 145
Upon the Eastern Shore of Windermere,
Above the crescent of a pleasant Bay,
There stood an Inn, no homely-featured Shed,
Brother of the surrounding Cottages,
But ‘twas a splendid place, the door beset 150
With Chaises, Grooms, and Liveries, and within
Decanters, Glasses, and the blood-red Wine.
In ancient times, or ere the Hall was built
On the large Island, had this Dwelling been
More worthy of a Poet’s love, a Hut, 155
Proud of its one bright fire, and sycamore shade.
But though the rhymes were gone which once inscribed
The threshold, and large golden characters
On the blue-frosted Signboard had usurp’d
The place of the old Lion, in contempt 1
60
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 the plain
Of a small Bowling-green; beneath us stood 165
A grove; with gleams of water through the trees
And over the tree-tops; nor did we want
Refreshment, strawberries and mellow cream.
And there, through half an afternoon, we play’d
On the smooth platform, and the shouts we sent 170
Made all the mountains ring. But ere the fall
Of night, when in our pinnace we return’d
Over the dusky Lake, and to the beach
Of some small Island steer’d our course with one,
The Minstrel of our troop, and left him there, 175
And row’d 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 180
Into my heart, and held me like a dream.
Thus daily were my sympathies enlarged,
And thus the common range of visible things
Grew dear to me: already I began
To love the sun, a Boy I lov’d the sun, 185
Not as I since have lov’d him, as a pledge
And surety of our earthly life, a light
Which while we view we feel we are alive;
But, for this cause, that I had seen him lay
His beauty on the morning hills, had seen 190
The western mountain touch his setting orb,
In many a thoughtless hour, when, from excess
Of happiness, my blood appear’d to flow
With its own pleasure, and I breath’d with joy.
And from like feelings, humble though intense, 195
To patriotic and domestic love
Analogous, the moon to me was dear;
For I would dream away my purposes,
Standing to look upon her while she hung
Midway between the hills, as if she knew 200
No other region; but belong’d to thee,
Yea, appertain’d by a peculiar right
To thee and thy grey huts, my darling Vale!
Those incidental charms which first attach’d
My heart to rural objects, day by day 205
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, 210
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 215
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 220
To our infirmity. Thou art no slave
Of that false secondary power, by which,
In weakness, we create distinctions, then
Deem that our puny boundaries are things
Which we perceive, and not which we have made. 225
To thee, unblinded by these outward shows,
The unity of all has been reveal’d
And thou wilt doubt with me, less aptly skill’d
Than many are to class the cabinet
Of their sensations, and, in voluble phrase, 230
Run through the history and birth of each,
As of a single independent thing.
Hard task to analyse a soul, in which,
Not only general habits and desires,
But each most obvious and particular thought, 235
Not in a mystical and idle sense,
But in the words of reason deeply weigh’d,
Hath no beginning.
Bless’d the infant Babe,
(For with my best conjectures I would trace 240
The progress of our Being) blest the Babe,
Nurs’d in his Mother’s arms, the Babe who sleeps
Upon his Mother’s breast, who, when his soul
Claims manifest kindred with an earthly soul,
Doth gather passion from his Mother’s eye! 245
Such feelings pass into his torpid life
Like an awakening breeze, and hence his mind
Even [in the first trial of its powers]
Is prompt and watchful, eager to combine
In one appearance, all the elements 250
And parts of the same object, else detach’d
And loth to coalesce. Thus, day by day,
Subjected to the discipline of love,
His organs and recipient faculties
Are quicken’d, are more vigorous, his mind spreads, 255
Tenacious of the forms which it receives.
In one beloved presence, nay and more,
In that most apprehensive habitude
And those sensations which have been deriv’d
From this beloved Presence, there exists 260
A virtue which irradiates and exalts
All objects through all intercourse of sense.
No outcast he, bewilder’d and depress’d;
Along his infant veins are interfus’d
The gravitation and the filial bond 265
Of nature, that connect him with the world.
Emphatically such a Being lives,
An inmate of this active universe;
From nature largely he receives; nor so
Is satisfied, but largely gives again, 270
For feeling has to him imparted strength,
And powerful in all sentiments of grief,
Of exultation, fear, and joy, his mind,
Even as an agent of the one great mind,
Creates, creator and receiver both, 275
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 suppress’d, in some, 280
Through every change of growth or of decay,
Pre-eminent till death.
From early days,
Beginning not long after that first time
In which, a Babe, by intercourse of touch, 285
I held mute dialogues with my Mother’s heart
I have endeavour’d to display the means
Whereby this infant sensibility,
Great birthright of our Being, was in me
Augmented and sustain’d. Yet is a path 290
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, 295
Seeking the visible world, nor knowing why.
The props of my affections were remov’d,
And yet the building stood, as if sustain’d
By its own spirit! All that I beheld
Was dear to me, and from this cause it came, 300
That now to Nature’s finer influxes
My mind lay open, to that more exact
And intimate communion which our hearts
Maintain with the minuter properties
Of objects which already are belov’d, 305
And of those only. Many are the joys
Of youth; but oh! what happiness to live
When every hour brings palpable access
&
nbsp; Of knowledge, when all knowledge is delight,
And sorrow is not there. The seasons came, 310
And every season to my notice brought
A store of transitory qualities
Which, but for this most watchful power of love
Had been neglected, left a register
Of permanent relations, else unknown, 315
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 320
From manifold distinctions, difference
Perceived in things, where to the common eye,
No difference is; and hence, from the same source
Sublimer joy; for I would walk alone,
In storm and tempest, or in starlight nights 325
Beneath the quiet Heavens; 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,
Beneath some rock, listening to sounds that are 330
The ghostly language of the ancient earth,
Or make their dim abode in distant winds.
Thence did I drink the visionary power.
I deem not profitless those fleeting moods
Of shadowy exultation: not for this, 335
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, to which, 340
With growing faculties she doth aspire,
With faculties still growing, feeling still
That whatsoever point they gain, they still
Have something to pursue.
And not alone, 345
In grandeur and in tumult, but no less
In tranquil scenes, that universal power
And fitness in the latent qualities
And essences of things, by which the mind
Is mov’d by feelings of delight, to me 350
Came strengthen’d with a superadded soul,
A virtue not its own. My morning walks
Were early; oft, before the hours of School
I travell’d round our little Lake, five miles
Of pleasant wandering, happy time! more dear 355
For this, that one was by my side, a Friend
Then passionately lov’d; with heart how full
Will he peruse these lines, this page, perhaps
A blank to other men! for many years
Have since flow’d in between us; and our minds, 360
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, and before the vernal thrush
Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth Page 89