<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=540157" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Prelude, Book 2: School-time (Continued)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">. Thus far, O Friend! have we, though leaving much <br> Unvisited, endeavour'd to retrace<br> My life through its first years, and measured back<br> The way I travell'd when I first began<br> To love the woods and fields; the passion yet<br> Was in its birth, sustain'd, as might befal,<br> By nourishment that came unsought, for still,<br> From week to week, from month to month, we liv'd<br> A round of tumult: duly were our games<br> Prolong'd in summer till the day-light fail'd;<br> No chair remain'd before the doors, the bench<br> And threshold steps were empty; fast asleep<br> The Labourer, and the old Man who had sate,<br> A later lingerer, yet the revelry<br> Continued, and the loud uproar: at last,<br> When all the ground was dark, and the huge clouds<br> Were edged with twinkling stars, to bed we went,<br> With weary joints, and with a beating mind.<br> Ah! is there one who ever has been young,<br> Nor needs a monitory voice to tame<br> The pride of virtue, and of intellect?<br> And is there one, the wisest and the best<br> Of all mankind, who does not sometimes wish<br> For things which cannot be, who would not give,<br> If so he might, to duty and to truth<br> The eagerness of infantine desire?<br> A tranquillizing spirit presses now<br> On my corporeal frame: so wide appears<br> The vacancy between me and those days,<br> Which yet have such self-presence in my mind<br> That, sometimes, when I think of them, I seem<br> Two consciousnesses, conscious of myself<br> And of some other Being. A grey Stone<br> Of native rock, left midway in the Square<br> Of our small market Village, was the home<br> And centre of these joys, and when, return'd<br> After long absence, thither I repair'd,<br> I found that it was split, and gone to build<br> A smart Assembly-room that perk'd and flar'd<br> With wash and rough-cast elbowing the ground<br> Which had been ours. But let the fiddle scream,<br> And be ye happy! yet, my Friends! I know<br> That more than one of you will think with me<br> Of those soft starry nights, and that old Dame<br> From whom the stone was nam'd who there had sate<br> And watch'd her Table with its huckster's wares<br> Assiduous, thro' the length of sixty years.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> We ran a boisterous race; the year span round<br> With giddy motion. But the time approach'd<br> That brought with it a regular desire<br> For calmer pleasures, when the beauteous forms<br> Of Nature were collaterally attach'd<br> To every scheme of holiday delight,<br> And every boyish sport, less grateful else,<br> And languidly pursued. When summer came<br> It was the pastime of our afternoons<br> To beat along the plain of Windermere<br> With rival oars, and the selected bourne<br> Was now an Island musical with birds<br> That sang for ever; now a Sister Isle<br> Beneath the oaks' umbrageous covert, sown<br> With lillies of the valley, like a field;<br> And now a third small Island where remain'd<br> An old stone Table, and a moulder'd Cave,<br> A Hermit's history. In such a race,<br> So ended, disappointment could be none,<br> Uneasiness, or pain, or jealousy:<br> We rested in the shade, all pleas'd alike,<br> Conquer'd and Conqueror. Thus the pride of strength,<br> And the vain-glory of superior skill<br> Were interfus'd with objects which subdu'd<br> And temper'd them, and gradually produc'd<br> A quiet independence of the heart.<br> And to my Friend, who knows me, I may add,<br> Unapprehensive of reproof, that hence<br> Ensu'd a diffidence and modesty,<br> And I was taught to feel, perhaps too much,<br> The self-sufficing power of solitude.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> No delicate viands sapp'd our bodily strength;<br> More than we wish'd we knew the blessing then<br> Of vigorous hunger, for our daily meals<br> Were frugal, Sabine fare! and then, exclude<br> A little weekly stipend, and we lived<br> Through three divisions of the quarter'd year<br> In pennyless poverty. But now, to School<br> Return'd, from the half-yearly holidays,<br> We came with purses more profusely fill'd,<br> Allowance which abundantly suffic'd<br> To gratify the palate with repasts<br> More costly than the Dame of whom I spake,<br> That ancient Woman, and her board supplied.<br> Hence inroads into distant Vales, and long<br> Excursions far away among the hills,<br> Hence rustic dinners on the cool green ground,<br> Or in the woods, or near a river side,<br> Or by some shady fountain, while soft airs<br> Among the leaves were stirring, and the sun<br> Unfelt, shone sweetly round us in our joy.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Nor is my aim neglected, if I tell<br> How twice in the long length of those half-years<br> We from our funds, perhaps, with bolder hand<br> Drew largely, anxious for one day, at least,<br> To feel the motion of the galloping Steed;<br> And with the good old Inn-keeper, in truth,<br> On such occasion sometimes we employ'd<br> Sly subterfuge; for the intended bound<br> Of the day's journey was too distant far<br> For any cautious man, a Structure famed<br> Beyond its neighbourhood, the antique Walls<br> Of that large Abbey which within the vale<br> Of Nightshade, to St. Mary's honour built,<br> Stands yet, a mouldering Pile, with fractured Arch,<br> Belfry, and Images, and living Trees,<br> A holy Scene! along the smooth green turf<br> Our Horses grazed: to more than inland peace<br> Left by the sea wind passing overhead<br> (Though wind of roughest temper) trees and towers<br> May in that Valley oftentimes be seen,<br> Both silent and both motionless alike;<br> Such is the shelter that is there, and such<br> The safeguard for repose and quietness.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Our steeds remounted, and the summons given,<br> With whip and spur we by the Chauntry flew<br> In uncouth race, and left the cross-legg'd Knight,<br> And the stone-Abbot, and that single Wren<br> Which one day sang so sweetly in the Nave<br> Of the old Church, that, though from recent showers<br> The earth was comfortless, and, touch'd by faint<br> Internal breezes, sobbings of the place,<br> And respirations, from the roofless walls<br> The shuddering ivy dripp'd large drops, yet still,<br> So sweetly 'mid the gloom the invisible Bird<br> Sang to itself, that there I could have made<br> My dwelling-place, and liv'd for ever there<br> To hear such music. Through the Walls we flew<br> And down the valley, and a circuit made<br> In wantonness of heart, through rough and smooth<br> We scamper'd homeward. Oh! ye Rocks and Streams,<br> And that still Spirit of the evening air!<br> Even in this joyous time I sometimes felt<br> Your presence, when with slacken'd step we breath'd<br> Along the sides of the steep hills, or when,<br> Lighted by gleams of moonlight from the sea,<br> We beat with thundering hoofs the level sand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Upon the Eastern Shore of Windermere,<br> Above the crescent of a pleasant Bay,<br> There stood an Inn, no homely-featured Shed,<br> Brother of the surrounding Cottages,<br> But 'twas a splendid place, the door beset<br> With Chaises, Grooms, and Liveries, and within<br> Decanters, Glasses, and the blood-red Wine.<br> In ancient times, or ere the Hall was built<br> On the large Island, had this Dwelling been<br> More worthy of a Poet's love, a Hut,<br> Proud of its one bright fire, and sycamore shade.<br> But though the rhymes were gone which once inscribed<br> The threshold, and large golden characters<br> On the blue-frosted Signboard had usurp'd<br> The place of the old Lion, in contempt<br> And mockery of the rustic painter's hand,<br> Yet to this hour the spot to me is dear<br> With all its foolish pomp. The garden lay<br> Upon a slope surmounted by the plain<br> Of a small Bowling-green; beneath us stood<br> A grove; with gleams of water through the trees<br> And over the tree-tops; nor did we want<br> Refreshment, strawberries and mellow cream.<br> And there, through half an afternoon, we play'd<br> On the smooth platform, and the shouts we sent<br> Made all the mountains ring. But ere the fall<br> Of night, when in our pinnace we return'd<br> Over the dusky Lake, and to the beach<br> Of some small Island steer'd our course with one,<br> The Minstrel of our troop, and left him there,<br> And row'd off gently, while he blew his flute<br> Alone upon the rock; Oh! then the calm<br> And dead still water lay upon my mind<br> Even with a weight of pleasure, and the sky<br> Never before so beautiful, sank down<br> Into my heart, and held me like a dream.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Thus daily were my sympathies enlarged,<br> And thus the common range of visible things<br> Grew dear to me: already I began<br> To love the sun, a Boy I lov'd the sun,<br> Not as I since have lov'd him, as a pledge<br> And surety of our earthly life, a light<br> Which while we view we feel we are alive;<br> But, for this cause, that I had seen him lay<br> His beauty on the morning hills, had seen<br> The western mountain touch his setting orb,<br> In many a thoughtless hour, when, from excess<br> Of happiness, my blood appear'd to flow<br> With its own pleasure, and I breath'd with joy.<br> And from like feelings, humble though intense,<br> To patriotic and domestic love<br> Analogous, the moon to me was dear;<br> For I would dream away my purposes,<br> Standing to look upon her while she hung<br> Midway between the hills, as if she knew<br> No other region; but belong'd to thee,<br> Yea, appertain'd by a peculiar right<br> To thee and thy grey huts, my darling Vale!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Those incidental charms which first attach'd<br> My heart to rural objects, day by day<br> Grew weaker, and I hasten on to tell<br> How Nature, intervenient till this time,<br> And secondary, now at length was sought<br> For her own sake. But who shall parcel out<br> His intellect, by geometric rules,<br> Split, like a province, into round and square?<br> Who knows the individual hour in which<br> His habits were first sown, even as a seed,<br> Who that shall point, as with a wand, and say,<br> 'This portion of the river of my mind<br> Came from yon fountain?' Thou, my Friend! art one<br> More deeply read in thy own thoughts; to thee<br> Science appears but, what in truth she is,<br> Not as our glory and our absolute boast,<br> But as a succedaneum, and a prop<br> To our infirmity. Thou art no slave<br> Of that false secondary power, by which,<br> In weakness, we create distinctions, then<br> Deem that our puny boundaries are things<br> Which we perceive, and not which we have made.<br> To thee, unblinded by these outward shows,<br> The unity of all has been reveal'd<br> And thou wilt doubt with me, less aptly skill'd<br> Than many are to class the cabinet<br> Of their sensations, and, in voluble phrase,<br> Run through the history and birth of each,<br> As of a single independent thing.<br> Hard task to analyse a soul, in which,<br> Not only general habits and desires,<br> But each most obvious and particular thought,<br> Not in a mystical and idle sense,<br> But in the words of reason deeply weigh'd,<br> Hath no beginning. Bless'd the infant Babe,<br> (For with my best conjectures I would trace<br> The progress of our Being) blest the Babe,<br> Nurs'd in his Mother's arms, the Babe who sleeps<br> Upon his Mother's breast, who, when his soul<br> Claims manifest kindred with an earthly soul,<br> Doth gather passion from his Mother's eye!<br> Such feelings pass into his torpid life<br> Like an awakening breeze, and hence his mind<br> Even [in the first trial of its powers]<br> Is prompt and watchful, eager to combine<br> In one appearance, all the elements<br> And parts of the same object, else detach'd<br> And loth to coalesce. Thus, day by day,<br> Subjected to the discipline of love,<br> His organs and recipient faculties<br> Are quicken'd, are more vigorous, his mind spreads,<br> Tenacious of the forms which it receives.<br> In one beloved presence, nay and more,<br> In that most apprehensive habitude<br> And those sensations which have been deriv'd<br> From this beloved Presence, there exists<br> A virtue which irradiates and exalts<br> All objects through all intercourse of sense.<br> No outcast he, bewilder'd and depress'd;<br> Along his infant veins are interfus'd<br> The gravitation and the filial bond<br> Of nature, that connect him with the world.<br> Emphatically such a Being lives,<br> An inmate of this active universe;<br> From nature largely he receives; nor so<br> Is satisfied, but largely gives again,<br> For feeling has to him imparted strength,<br> And powerful in all sentiments of grief,<br> Of exultation, fear, and joy, his mind,<br> Even as an agent of the one great mind,<br> Creates, creator and receiver both,<br> Working but in alliance with the works<br> Which it beholds.--Such, verily, is the first<br> Poetic spirit of our human life;<br> By uniform control of after years<br> In most abated or suppress'd, in some,<br> Through every change of growth or of decay,<br> Pre-eminent till death. From early days,<br> Beginning not long after that first time<br> In which, a Babe, by intercourse of touch,<br> I held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart<br> I have endeavour'd to display the means<br> Whereby this infant sensibility,<br> Great birthright of our Being, was in me<br> Augmented and sustain'd. Yet is a path<br> More difficult before me, and I fear<br> That in its broken windings we shall need<br> The chamois' sinews, and the eagle's wing:<br> For now a trouble came into my mind<br> From unknown causes. I was left alone,<br> Seeking the visible world, nor knowing why.<br> The props of my affections were remov'd,<br> And yet the building stood, as if sustain'd<br> By its own spirit! All that I beheld<br> Was dear to me, and from this cause it came,<br> That now to Nature's finer influxes<br> My mind lay open, to that more exact<br> And intimate communion which our hearts<br> Maintain with the minuter properties<br> Of objects which already are belov'd,<br> And of those only. Many are the joys<br> Of youth; but oh! what happiness to live<br> When every hour brings palpable access<br> Of knowledge, when all knowledge is delight,<br> And sorrow is not there. The seasons came,<br> And every season to my notice brought<br> A store of transitory qualities<br> Which, but for this most watchful power of love<br> Had been neglected, left a register<br> Of permanent relations, else unknown,<br> Hence life, and change, and beauty, solitude<br> More active, even, than 'best society',<br> Society made sweet as solitude<br> By silent inobtrusive sympathies,<br> And gentle agitations of the mind<br> From manifold distinctions, difference<br> Perceived in things, where to the common eye,<br> No difference is; and hence, from the same source<br> Sublimer joy; for I would walk alone,<br> In storm and tempest, or in starlight nights<br> Beneath the quiet Heavens; and, at that time,<br> Have felt whate'er there is of power in sound<br> To breathe an elevated mood, by form<br> Or image unprofaned; and I would stand,<br> Beneath some rock, listening to sounds that are<br> The ghostly language of the ancient earth,<br> Or make their dim abode in distant winds.<br> Thence did I drink the visionary power.<br> I deem not profitless those fleeting moods<br> Of shadowy exultation: not for this,<br> That they are kindred to our purer mind<br> And intellectual life; but that the soul,<br> Remembering how she felt, but what she felt<br> Remembering not, retains an obscure sense<br> Of possible sublimity, to which,<br> With growing faculties she doth aspire,<br> With faculties still growing, feeling still<br> That whatsoever point they gain, they still<br> Have something to pursue. And not alone,<br> In grandeur and in tumult, but no less<br> In tranquil scenes, that universal power<br> And fitness in the latent qualities<br> And essences of things, by which the mind<br> Is mov'd by feelings of delight, to me<br> Came strengthen'd with a superadded soul,<br> A virtue not its own. My morning walks<br> Were early; oft, before the hours of School<br> I travell'd round our little Lake, five miles<br> Of pleasant wandering, happy time! more dear<br> For this, that one was by my side, a Friend<br> Then passionately lov'd; with heart how full<br> Will he peruse these lines, this page, perhaps<br> A blank to other men! for many years<br> Have since flow'd in between us; and our minds,<br> Both silent to each other, at this time<br> We live as if those hours had never been.<br> Nor seldom did I lift our cottage latch<br> Far earlier, and before the vernal thrush<br> Was audible, among the hills I sate<br> Alone, upon some jutting eminence<br> At the first hour of morning, when the Vale<br> Lay quiet in an utter solitude.<br> How shall I trace the history, where seek<br> The origin of what I then have felt?<br> Oft in these moments such a holy calm<br> Did overspread my soul, that I forgot<br> That I had bodily eyes, and what I saw<br> Appear'd like something in myself, a dream,<br> A prospect in my mind. 'Twere long to tell<br> What spring and autumn, what the winter snows,<br> And what the summer shade, what day and night,<br> The evening and the morning, what my dreams<br> And what my waking thoughts supplied, to nurse<br> That spirit of religious love in which<br> I walked with Nature. But let this, at least<br> Be not forgotten, that I still retain'd<br> My first creative sensibility,<br> That by the regular action of the world<br> My soul was unsubdu'd. A plastic power<br> Abode with me, a forming hand, at times<br> Rebellious, acting in a devious mood,<br> A local spirit of its own, at war<br> With general tendency, but for the most<br> Subservient strictly to the external things<br> With which it commun'd. An auxiliar light<br> Came from my mind which on the setting sun<br> Bestow'd new splendor, the melodious birds,<br> The gentle breezes, fountains that ran on,<br> Murmuring so sweetly in themselves, obey'd<br> A like dominion; and the midnight storm<br> Grew darker in the presence of my eye.<br> Hence by obeisance, my devotion hence,<br> And hence my transport. Nor should this, perchance,<br> Pass unrecorded, that I still have lov'd<br> The exercise and produce of a toil<br> Than analytic industry to me<br> More pleasing, and whose character I deem<br> Is more poetic as resembling more<br> Creative agency. I mean to speak<br> Of that interminable building rear'd<br> By observation of affinities<br> In objects where no brotherhood exists<br> To common minds. My seventeenth year was come<br> And, whether from this habit, rooted now<br> So deeply in my mind, or from excess<br> Of the great social principle of life,<br> Coercing all things into sympathy,<br> To unorganic natures I transferr'd<br> My own enjoyments, or, the power of truth<br> Coming in revelation, I convers'd<br> With things that really are, I, at this time<br> Saw blessings spread around me like a sea.<br> Thus did my days pass on, and now at length<br> From Nature and her overflowing soul<br> I had receiv'd so much that all my thoughts<br> Were steep'd in feeling; I was only then<br> Contented when with bliss ineffable<br> I felt the sentiment of Being spread<br> O'er all that moves, and all that seemeth still,<br> O'er all, that, lost beyond the reach of thought<br> And human knowledge, to the human eye<br> Invisible, yet liveth to the heart,<br> O'er all that leaps, and runs, and shouts, and sings,<br> Or beats the gladsome air, o'er all that glides<br> Beneath the wave, yea, in the wave itself<br> And mighty depth of waters. Wonder not<br> If such my transports were; for in all things<br> I saw one life, and felt that it was joy.<br> One song they sang, and it was audible,<br> Most audible then when the fleshly ear,<br> O'ercome by grosser prelude of that strain,<br> Forgot its functions, and slept undisturb'd.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> If this be error, and another faith<br> Find easier access to the pious mind,<br> Yet were I grossly destitute of all<br> Those human sentiments which make this earth<br> So dear, if I should fail, with grateful voice<br> To speak of you, Ye Mountains and Ye Lakes,<br> And sounding Cataracts! Ye Mists and Winds<br> That dwell among the hills where I was born.<br> If, in my youth, I have been pure in heart,<br> If, mingling with the world, I am content<br> With my own modest pleasures, and have liv'd,<br> With God and Nature communing, remov'd<br> From little enmities and low desires,<br> The gift is yours; if in these times of fear,<br> This melancholy waste of hopes o'erthrown,<br> If, 'mid indifference and apathy<br> And wicked exultation, when good men,<br> On every side fall off we know not how,<br> To selfishness, disguis'd in gentle names<br> Of peace, and quiet, and domestic love,<br> Yet mingled, not unwillingly, with sneers<br> On visionary minds; if in this time<br> Of dereliction and dismay, I yet<br> Despair not of our nature; but retain<br> A more than Roman confidence, a faith<br> That fails not, in all sorrow my support,<br> The blessing of my life, the gift is yours,<br> Ye mountains! thine, O Nature! Thou hast fed<br> My lofty speculations; and in thee,<br> For this uneasy heart of ours I find<br> A never-failing principle of joy,<br> And purest passion. Thou, my Friend! wert rear'd<br> In the great City, 'mid far other scenes;<br> But we, by different roads at length have gain'd<br> The self-same bourne. And for this cause to Thee<br> I speak, unapprehensive of contempt,<br> The insinuated scoff of coward tongues,<br> And all that silent language which so oft<br> In conversation betwixt man and man<br> Blots from the human countenance all trace<br> Of beauty and of love. For Thou hast sought<br> The truth in solitude, and Thou art one,<br> The most intense of Nature's worshippers<br> In many things my Brother, chiefly here<br> In this my deep devotion. Fare Thee well!<br> Health, and the quiet of a healthful mind<br> Attend thee! seeking oft the haunts of men,<br> And yet more often living with Thyself,<br> And for Thyself, so haply shall thy days<br> Be many, and a blessing to mankind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Wordsworth">William Wordsworth</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=540157" data-title="The Prelude, Book 2: School-time (Continued) de William Wordsworth" data-description=". Thus far, O Friend! have we, though leaving much Unvisited, endeavour'd to retrace My life through its first years, and measured back The way I travell'd when I first began To love the woods and fields; the passion yet Was in its birth, su..."></div> </div> </div>

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