Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  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