That later seasons owned to thee no less; 215
For, spite of thy sweet influence and the touch
Of other kindred hands that opened out
The springs of tender thought in infancy,
And spite of all which singly I had watched
Of elegance, and each minuter charm 220
In Nature or in life, still to the last —
Even to the very going-out of youth,
The period which our story now hath reached —
I too exclusively esteemed that love,
And sought that beauty, which as Milton sings 225
Hath terror in it. Thou didst soften down
This over-sternness; but for thee, sweet friend,
My soul, too reckless of mild grace, had been
Far longer what by Nature it was framed —
Longer retained its countenance severe — 230
A rock with torrents roaring, with the clouds
Familiar, and a favorite of the stars;
But thou didst plant its crevices with flowers,
Hang it with shrubs that twinkle in the breeze,
And teach the little birds to build their nests 235
And warble in its chambers. At a time
When Nature, destined to remain so long
Foremost in my affections, had fallen back
Into a second place, well pleased to be
A handmaid to a nobler than herself — 240
When every day brought with it some new sense
Of exquisite regard for common things,
And all the earth was budding with these gifts
Of more refined humanity — thy breath,
Dear sister, was a kind of gentler spring 245
That went before my steps.
With such a theme
Coleridge — with this my argument — of thee
Shall I be silent? O most loving soul,
Placed on this earth to love and understand, 250
And from thy presence shed the light of love,
Shall I be mute ere thou be spoken of?
Thy gentle spirit to my heart of hearts
Did also find its way; and thus the life
Of all things and the mighty unity 255
In all which we behold, and feel, and are,
Admitted more habitually a mild
Interposition, closelier gathering thoughts
Of man and his concerns, such as become
A human creature, be he who he may, 260
Poet, or destined to an humbler name;
And so the deep enthusiastic joy,
The rapture of the hallelujah sent
From all that breathes and is, was chastened, stemmed,
And balanced, by a reason which indeed 265
Is reason, duty, and pathetic truth —
And God and man divided, as they ought,
Between them the great system of the world,
Where man is sphered, and which God animates.
And now, O friend, this history is brought 270
To its appointed close: the discipline
And consummation of the poet’s mind
In every thing that stood most prominent
Have faithfully been pictured. We have reached
The time, which was our object from the first, 275
When we may (not presumptuously, I hope)
Suppose my powers so far confirmed, and such
My knowledge, as to make me capable
Of building up a work that should endure.
Yet much hath been omitted, as need was — 280
Of books how much! and even of the other wealth
Which is collected among woods and fields,
Far more. For Nature’s secondary grace,
That outward illustration which is hers,
Hath hitherto been barely touched upon: 285
The charm more superficial, and yet sweet,
Which from her works finds way, contemplated
As they hold forth a genuine counterpart
And softening mirror of the moral world.
Yes, having tracked the main essential power — 290
Imagination — up her way sublime,
In turn might fancy also be pursued
Through all her transmigrations, till she too
Was purified, had learned to ply her craft
By judgement steadied. Then might we return, 295
And in the rivers and the groves behold
Another face, might hear them from all sides
Calling upon the more instructed mind
To link their images — with subtle skill
Sometimes, and by elaborate research — 300
With forms and definite appearances
Of human life, presenting them sometimes
To the involuntary sympathy
Of our internal being, satisfied
And soothed with a conception of delight 305
Where meditation cannot come, which thought
Could never heighten. Above all, how much
Still nearer to ourselves is overlooked
In human nature and that marvellous world
As studied first in my own heart, and then 310
In life, among the passions of mankind
And qualities commixed and modified
By the infinite varieties and shades
Of individual character. Herein
It was for me (this justice bids me say) 315
No useless preparation to have been
The pupil of a public school, and forced
In hardy independence to stand up
Among conflicting passions and the shock
Of various tempers, to endure and note 320
What was not understood, though known to be —
Among the mysteries of love and hate,
Honour and shame, looking to right and left,
Unchecked by innocence too delicate,
And moral notions too intolerant, 325
Sympathies too contracted. Hence, when called
To take a station among men, the step
Was easier, the transition more secure,
More profitable also; for the mind
Learns from such timely exercise to keep 330
In wholesome separation the two natures —
The one that feels, the other that observes.
Let one word more of personal circumstance —
Not needless, as it seems — be added here.
Since I withdrew unwillingly from France, 335
The story hath demanded less regard
To time and place; and where I lived and how,
Hath been no longer scrupulously marked.
Three years, until a permanent abode
Received me with that sister of my heart 340
Who ought by rights the dearest to have been
Conspicuous through this biographic verse —
Star seldom utterly concealed from view —
I led an undomestic wanderer’s life.
In London chiefly was my home, and thence 345
Excursively, as personal friendships, chance
Or inclination led, or slender means
Gave leave, I roamed about from place to place,
Tarrying in pleasant nooks, wherever found,
Through England or through Wales. A youth — he bore 350
The name of Calvert; it shall live, if words
Of mine can give it life — without respect
To prejudice or custom, having hope
That I had some endowments by which good
Might be promoted, in his last decay 355
From his own family withdrawing part
Of no redundant patrimony, did
By a bequest sufficient for my needs
Enable me to pause for choice, and walk
At large and unrestrained, nor damped too soon 360
By mortal cares. Himself no poet, yet
Far less a
common spirit of the world,
He deemed that my pursuits and labors lay
Apart from all that leads to wealth, or even
Perhaps to necessary maintenance, 365
Without some hazard to the finer sense,
He cleared a passage for me, and the stream
Flowed in the bent of Nature.
Having now
Told what best merits mention, further pains 370
Our present labour seems not to require,
And I have other tasks. Call back to mind
The mood in which this poem was begun,
O friend — the termination of my course
Is nearer now, much nearer, yet even then 375
In that distraction and intense desire
I said unto the life which I had lived,
‘Where art thou? Hear I not a voice from thee
Which ‘tis reproach to hear?’ Anon I rose
As if on wings, and saw beneath me stretched 380
Vast prospect of the world which I had been,
And was; and hence this song, which like a lark
I have protracted, in the unwearied heavens
Singing, and often with more plaintive voice
Attempered to the sorrows of the earth — 385
Yet centring all in love, and in the end
All gratulant if rightly understood.
Whether to me shall be allotted life,
And with life power to accomplish aught of worth
Sufficient to excuse me in men’s sight 390
For having given this record of myself,
Is all uncertain, but, belov`ed friend,
When looking back thou seest, in clearer view
Than any sweetest sight of yesterday,
That summer when on Quantock’s grassy hills 395
Far ranging, and among the sylvan coombs,
Thou in delicious words, with happy heart,
Didst speak the vision of that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner, and rueful woes
Didst utter of the Lady Christabel; 400
And I, associate in such labour, walked
Murmuring of him, who — joyous hap — was found,
After the perils of his moonlight ride,
Near the loud waterfall, or her who sate
In misery near the miserable thorn; 405
When thou dost to that summer turn thy thoughts,
And hast before thee all which then we were,
To thee, in memory of that happiness,
It will be known — by thee at least, my friend,
Felt — that the history of a poet’s mind 410
Is labour not unworthy of regard:
To thee the work shall justify itself.
The last and later portions of this gift
Which I for thee design have been prepared
In times which have from those wherein we first 415
Together wandered in wild poesy
Differed thus far, that they have been, my friend,
Times of much sorrow, of a private grief
Keen and enduring, which the frame of mind
That in this meditative history 420
Hath been described, more deeply makes me feel,
Yet likewise hath enabled me to bear
More firmly; and a comfort now, a hope,
One of the dearest which this life can give,
Is mine: that thou art near, and wilt be soon 425
Restored to us in renovated health —
When, after the first mingling of our tears,
‘Mong other consolations, we may find
Some pleasure from this offering of my love.
Oh, yet a few short years of useful life, 430
And all will be complete — thy race be run,
Thy monument of glory will be raised.
Then, though too weak to tread the ways of truth,
This age fall back to old idolatry,
Though men return to servitude as fast 435
As the tide ebbs, to ignominy and shame
By nations sink together, we shall still
Find solace in the knowledge which we have,
Blessed with true happiness if we may be
United helpers forward of a day 440
Of firmer trust, joint labourers in the work —
Should Providence such grace to us vouchsafe —
Of their redemption, surely yet to come.
Prophets of Nature, we to them will speak
A lasting inspiration, sanctified 445
By reason and by truth; what we have loved
Others will love, and we may teach them how:
Instruct them how the mind of man becomes
A thousand times more beautiful than the earth
On which he dwells, above this frame of things 450
(Which, ‘mid all revolutions in the hopes
And fears of men, doth still remain unchanged)
In beauty exalted, as it is itself
Of substance and of fabric more divine.
THE 14 BOOK PRELUDE, 1850
BOOK FIRST
INTRODUCTION—CHILDHOOD AND SCHOOL-TIME
OH 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 10
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, 20
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? 30
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, 40
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 50
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 60
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 70
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, 80
Nor e’er lost sight of what I mused upon,
Save when, amid the stately grove 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, 90
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
Aeolian 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 anything but present good?” 100
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
Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth Page 111