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 controul 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 the 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 unknown causes: I was left alone

Seeking the 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 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.

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

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

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,

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 by 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

That I had bodily eyes, 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 splendor; 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 overthrown,

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, wert reared

In the great city, 'mid far other scenes,

But we by different roads at length have gained

The self-same bourne. And for 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 –

And yet more often living with thyself,

And for thyself – so haply shall thy days

Be many, and a blessing to mankind.

 

Book Third

Residence at Cambridge

It was a dreary morning when the chaise

Rolled over the flat plains of Huntingdon

And through the open windows first I saw

The long-backed chapel of King's College rear

His pinnacles above the dusky groves.

Soon afterwards we espied upon the road

A student clothed in gown and tasselled cap;

He passed – nor was I master of my eyes

Till he was left a hundred yards behind.

The place as we approached seemed more and more

To have an eddy's force, and sucked us in

More eagerly at every step we took.

Onward we drove beneath the castle, down

By Magdalene Bridge we went and crossed the Cam,

And at the Hoop we landed, famous inn.

 

My spirit was up, my thoughts were full of hope;

Some friends I had – acquaintances who there

Seemed friends – poor simple schoolboys now hung round

With honour and importance. In a world

Of welcome faces up and down I roved –

Questions, directions, counsel and advice

Flowed in upon me from all sides. Fresh day

Of pride and pleasure: to myself I seemed

A man of business and expense, and went

From shop to shop about my own affairs,

To tutors or to tailors as befel,

From street to street with loose and careless heart.

I was the dreamer, they the dream; I roamed

Delighted through the motley spectacle:

Gowns grave or gaudy, doctors, students, streets,

Lamps, gateways, flocks of churches, courts and towers –

Strange transformation for a mountain youth,

A northern villager. As if by word

Of magic or some fairy's power, at once

Behold me rich in monies and attired

In splendid clothes, with hose of silk, and hair

Glittering like rimy trees when frost is keen –

My lordly dressing-gown, I pass it by,

With other signs of manhood which supplied

The lack of beard. The weeks went roundly on,

With invitations, suppers, wine, and fruit,

Smooth housekeeping within, and all without

Liberal and suiting gentleman's array.

 

The Evangelist St John my patron was;

Three gloomy courts are his, and in the first

Was my abiding-place, a nook obscure.

Right underneath, the college kitchens made

A humming sound, less tuneable than bees

But hardly less industrious; with shrill notes

Of sharp command and scolding intermixed.

Near me was Trinity's loquacious clock

Who never let the quarters, night or day,

Slip by him unproclaimed, and told the hours

Twice over with a male and female voice.

Her pealing organ was my neighbour too;

And from my bedroom I in moonlight nights

Could see right opposite, a few yards off,

The antechapel, where the statue stood

Of Newton with his prism and silent face.

 

Of college labours, of the lecturer's room

All studded round, as thick as chairs could stand,

With loyal students faithful to their books,

Half-and-half idlers, hardy recusants,

And honest dunces; of important days,

Examinations, when the man was weighed

As in the balance; of excessive hopes,

Tremblings withal and commendable fears,

Small jealousies and triumphs good or bad –

I make short mention. Things they were which then

I did not love, nor do I love them now:

Such glory was but little sought by me,

And little won. But it is right to say

That even so early, from the first crude days

Of settling-time in this my new abode,

Not seldom I had melancholy thoughts

From personal and family regards,

Wishing to hope without a hope – some fears

About my future worldly maintenance,

And, more than all, a strangeness in my mind,

A feeling that I was not for that hour

Nor for that place.