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, no slave

Of that false secondary power by which

In weakness we create distinctions, then

Believe our puny boundaries are things

Which we perceive, and not which we have made.

To thee, unblinded by these outward shews,

The unity of all has been revealed;

And thou wilt doubt with me, less aptly skilled

Than many are to 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 to analyse a soul, in which

Not only general habits and desires,

But each most obvious and particular thought –

Not in a mystical and idle sense,

But in the words of reason deeply weighed –

Hath no beginning.

 

Blessed the infant babe –

For my best conjectures I would trace

The progress of our being – blest the babe

Nursed 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.

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

And parts of the same object, else detached

And loth to coalesce. Thus day by day

Subjected to the discipline of love,

His organs and recipient faculties

Are quickened, are more vigorous; his mind spreads,

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 derived

From this beloved presence – there exists

A virtue which irradiates and exalts

All objects through all 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.

Emphatically such a being lives,

An inmate of this active universe.

From Nature largely he receives, nor so

Is satisfied, but largely gives again;

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,

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 and suppressed, in some

Through every change of growth or of decay

Preeminent 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 obscure causes: I was left alone

Seeking this 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 to me, and from this cause it came

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 beloved,

And of those only.

 

Many are the joys

Of 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 brought a countless store

Of modes and temporary 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 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

Beneath the quiet heavens, and at that time

Would feel 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

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 these fleeting moods

Of shadowy exaltation; 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, to which

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

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 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

Will he peruse these lines, this page – perhaps

A blank to other men – 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, and before the vernal thrush

Was audible, among the hills I sate

Alone upon some jutting eminence

At the first hour of morning, when the vale

Lay quiet in an utter solitude.

How shall I trace the history, where seek

The origin of what I then have felt?

Oft in those moments such a holy calm

Did overspread my soul that I forgot

The agency of sight, and what I saw

Appeared like something in myself, a dream,

A prospect in my mind.

 

'Twere long to tell

What spring and autumn, what the winter snows,

And what the summer shade, what day and night,

The evening and the morning, what my dreams

And what my waking thoughts, supplied to nurse

That spirit of religious love in which

I walked with Nature. But let this at least

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 its own, at war

With general tendency, but for the most

Subservient strictly to the 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 gentle breezes, fountains that ran 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 – I mean to speak

Of that interminable building reared

By observation of affinities

In objects where no brotherhood exists

To common minds. My seventeenth year was come,

And, whether from this habit rooted now

So deeply in my mind, or from excess

Of the great social principle of life

Coercing all things into sympathy,

To unorganic natures I transferred

My own enjoyments, or, the power of truth

Coming in revelation, I conversed

With things that really are, I at this time

Saw blessings spread around me like a sea.

Thus did my days pass on, and now at length

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 such my transports were, for in all things

I saw one life, and felt that it was joy;

One song they sang and it was audible –

Most audible then when the fleshly ear,

O'ercome by grosser prelude of that strain,

Forgot its 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 which 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 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, wast reared

In the great city, 'mid far other scenes,

But we by different roads at length have gained

The self-same bourne. And from 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 betwixt man and man

Blots from the human countenance all trace

Of beauty and of love. For thou hast sought

The truth in solitude, and thou art one

The most intense of Nature's worshippers,

In many things my brother, chiefly here

In this my deep devotion. Fare thee well:

Health and the quiet of a healthful mind

Attend thee, seeking oft the haunts of men –

But yet more often living with thyself,

And for thyself – so haply shall thy days

Be many, and a blessing to mankind.

 

End of the second Part

 

 

The Prelude [1805]

Book First

Introduction: Childhood and School-time

Oh there is blessing in this gentle breeze,

That blows from the green fields and from the clouds

And from the sky; it beats against my cheek,

And seems half conscious of the joy it gives.

O welcome messenger! O welcome friend!

A captive greets thee, coming from a house

Of bondage, from yon city's walls set free,

A prison where he hath been long immured.

Now I am free, enfranchised and at large,

May fix my habitation 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 sweet stream

Shall with its murmurs lull me to my rest?

The earth is all before me – with a heart

Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty,

I look about, and should the guide I chuse

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,

As by miraculous gift 'tis 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 open field,

Or shall a twig or any floating thing

Upon the river point me out my course?

 

Enough that I am free, for months to come

May dedicate myself to chosen tasks,

May quit the tiresome sea and dwell on shore –

If not a settler on the soil, at least

To drink wild water, and to pluck green herbs,

And gather fruits fresh from their native bough.

Nay more, if I may trust myself, this hour

Hath brought a gift that consecrates my joy;

For I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven

Was blowing on my body, felt within

A corresponding mild creative breeze,

A vital breeze which travelled gently on

O'er things which it had made, and is become

A tempest, a redundant energy,

Vexing its own creation. 'Tis a power

That does not come unrecognised, a storm

Which, breaking up a long-continued frost,

Brings with it vernal promises, the hope

Of active days, of dignity and thought,

Of prowess in an honorable field,

Pure passions, virtue, knowledge, and delight,

The holy life of music and of verse.

 

Thus far, O friend, did I, not used to make

A present joy the matter of my song,

Pour out that day my soul in measured strains,

Even in the very words which I have here

Recorded.