The Prelude, or Growth of a Poet's Mind Read Online

Different sight

Those venerable doctors saw of old

When all who dwelt within these famous walls

Led in abstemiousness a studious life,

When, in forlorn and naked chambers cooped

And crowded, o'er their ponderous books they sate

Like caterpillars eating out their way

In silence, or with keen devouring noise

Not to be tracked or fathered. Princes then

At matins froze, and couched at curfew-time,

Trained up through piety and zeal to prize

Spare diet, patient labour, and plain weeds.

O seat of Arts, renowned throughout the world,

Far different service in those homely days

The nurslings of the Muses underwent

From their first childhood. In that glorious time

When Learning, like a stranger come from far,

Sounding through Christian lands her trumpet, rouzed

The peasant and the king; when boys and youths,

The growth of ragged villages and huts,

Forsook their homes and – errant in the quest

Of patron, famous school or friendly nook,

Where, pensioned, they in shelter might sit down –

From town to town and through wide scattered realms

Journeyed with their huge folios in their hands,

And often, starting from some covert place,

Saluted the chance comer on the road,

Crying, »An obolus, a penny give

To a poor scholar«; when illustrious men,

Lovers of truth, by penury constrained,

Bucer, Erasmus, or Melancthon, read

Before the doors or windows of their cells

By moonshine through mere lack of taper light.

But peace to vain regrets. We see but darkly

Even when we look behind us; and best things

Are not so pure by nature that they needs

Must keep to all – as fondly all believe –

Their highest promise. If the mariner,

When at reluctant distance he hath passed

Some fair enticing island, did but know

What fate might have been his, could he have brought

His bark to land upon the wished-for spot,

Good cause full often would he have to bless

The belt of churlish surf that scared him thence,

Or haste of the inexorable wind.

For me, I grieve not; happy is the man

Who only misses what I missed, who falls

No lower than I fell. I did not love,

As hath been noticed heretofore, the guise

Of our scholastic studies – could have wished

The river to have had an ampler range

And freer pace. But this I tax not; far,

Far more I grieved to see among the band

Of those who in the field of contest stood

As combatants, passions that did to me

Seem low and mean – from ignorance of mine,

In part, and want of just forbearance; yet

My wiser mind grieves now for what I saw.

Willingly did I part from these, and turn

Out of their track to travel with the shoal

Of more unthinking natures, easy minds

And pillowy, and not wanting love that makes

The day pass lightly on, when foresight sleeps,

And wisdom and the pledges interchanged

With our own inner being, are forgot.

To books, our daily fare prescribed, I turned

With sickly appetite; and when I went,

At other times, in quest of my own food,

I chaced not steadily the manly deer,

But laid me down to any casual feast

Of wild wood-honey; or, with truant eyes

Unruly, peeped about for vagrant fruit.

And as for what pertains to human life,

The deeper passions working round me here –

Whether of envy, jealousy, pride, shame,

Ambition, emulation, fear, or hope,

Or those of dissolute pleasure – were by me

Unshared, and only now and then observed,

So little was their hold upon my being,

As outward things that might administer

To knowledge or instruction. Hushed meanwhile

Was the under-soul, locked up in such a calm,

That not a leaf of the great nature stirred.

Yet was this deep vacation not given up

To utter waste. Hitherto I had stood

In my own mind remote from human life,

At least from what we commonly so name,

Even as a shepherd on a promontory,

Who, lacking occupation, looks far forth

Into the endless sea, and rather makes

Than finds what he beholds. And sure it is,

That this first transit from the smooth delights

And wild outlandish walks of simple youth

To something that resembled an approach

Towards mortal business, to a privileged world

Within a world, a midway residence

With all its intervenient imagery,

Did better suit my visionary mind –

Far better, than to have been bolted forth,

Thrust out abruptly into fortune's way

Among the conflicts of substantial life –

By a more just gradation did lead on

To higher things, more naturally matured

For permanent possession, better fruits,

Whether of truth or virtue, to ensue.

In playful zest of fancy did we note –

How could we less? – the manners and the ways

Of those who in the livery were arrayed

Of good or evil fame, of those with whom

By frame of academic discipline

Perforce we were connected, men whose sway,

And whose authority of office, served

To set our minds on edge, and did no more.

Nor wanted we rich pastime of this kind –

Found everywhere, but chiefly in the ring

Of the grave elders, men unscoured, grotesque

In character, tricked out like aged trees

Which through the lapse of their infirmity

Give ready place to any random seed

That chuses to be reared upon their trunks.

Here on my view, confronting as it were

Those shepherd swains whom I had lately left,

Did flash a different image of old age –

How different – yet both withal alike

A book of rudiments for the unpractised sight,

Objects embossed, and which with sedulous care

Nature holds up before the eye of youth

In her great school – with further view, perhaps,

To enter early on her tender scheme

Of teaching comprehension with delight

And mingling playful with pathetic thoughts.

The surfaces of artificial life

And manners finely spun, the delicate race

Of colours, lurking, gleaming up and down

Through that state arras woven with silk and gold –

This wily interchange of snaky hues,

Willingly and unwillingly revealed,

I had not learned to watch, and at this time

Perhaps, had such been in my daily sight,

I might have been indifferent thereto

As hermits are to tales of distant things.

Hence, for these rarities elaborate

Having no relish yet, I was content

With the more homely produce rudely piled

In this our coarser warehouse. At this day

I smile in many a mountain solitude

At passages and fragments that remain

Of that inferior exhibition, played

By wooden images, a theatre

For wake or fair. And oftentimes do flit

Remembrances before me of old men,

Old humourists, who have been long in their graves,

And, having almost in my mind put off

Their human names, have into phantoms passed

Of texture midway betwixt life and books.

I play the loiterer, 'tis enough to note

That here in dwarf proportions were expressed

The limbs of the great world – its goings-on

Collaterally pourtrayed as in mock fight,

A tournament of blows, some hardly dealt

Though short of mortal combat – and whate'er

Might of this pageant be supposed to hit

A simple rustic's notice, this way less,

More that way, was not wasted upon me.

And yet this spectacle may well demand

A more substantial name, no mimic show,

Itself a living part of a live whole,

A creek of the vast sea. For, all degrees

And shapes of spurious fame and short-lived praise

Here sate in state, and, fed with daily alms,

Retainers won away from solid good.

And here was Labour, his own Bond-slave; Hope

That never set the pains against the prize;

Idleness, halting with his weary clog;

And poor misguided Shame, and witless Fear,

And simple Pleasure, foraging for Death;

Honour misplaced, and Dignity astray;

Feuds, factions, flatteries, Enmity and Guile,

Murmuring Submission and bald Government

(The idol weak as the idolator)

And Decency and Custom starving Truth,

And blind Authority beating with his staff

The child that might have led him; Emptiness

Followed as of good omen, and meek Worth

Left to itself unheard of and unknown.

Of these and other kindred notices

I cannot say what portion is in truth

The naked recollection of that time

And what may rather have been called to life

By after-meditation. But delight,

That, in an easy temper lulled asleep,

Is still with innocence its own reward,

This surely was not wanting. Carelessly

I gazed, roving as through a cabinet

Or wide museum, thronged with fishes, gems,

Birds, crocodiles, shells, where little can be seen,

Well understood, or naturally endeared,

Yet still does every step bring something forth

That quickens, pleases, stings – and here and there

A casual rarity is singled out

And has its brief perusal, then gives way

To others, all supplanted in their turn.

Meanwhile, amid this gaudy congress framed

Of things by nature most unneighbourly,

The head turns round, and cannot right itself;

And, though an aching and a barren sense

Of gay confusion still be uppermost,

With few wise longings and but little love,

Yet something to the memory sticks at last

Whence profit may be drawn in times to come.

Thus in submissive idleness, my friend,

The labouring time of autumn, winter, spring –

Nine months – rolled pleasingly away, the tenth

Returned me to my native hills again.

Book Fourth

Summer Vacation

A pleasant sight it was when, having clomb

The Heights of Kendal, and that dreary moor

Was crossed, at length as from a rampart's edge

I overlooked the bed of Windermere.

I bounded down the hill, shouting amain

A lusty summons to the farther shore

For the old ferryman; and when he came

I did not step into the well-known boat

Without a cordial welcome. Thence right forth

I took my way, now drawing towards home,

To that sweet valley where I had been reared;

'Twas but a short hour's walk ere, veering round,

I saw the snow-white church upon its hill

Sit like a throned lady, sending out

A gracious look all over its domain.

Glad greetings had I, and some tears perhaps,

From my old dame, so motherly and good,

While she perused me with a parent's pride.

The thoughts of gratitude shall fall like dew

Upon thy grave, good creature: while my heart

Can beat I never will forget thy name.

Heaven's blessing be upon thee where thou liest

After thy innocent and busy stir

In narrow cares, thy little daily growth

Of calm enjoyments, after eighty years,

And more than eighty, of untroubled life –

Childless, yet by the strangers to thy blood

Honoured with little less than filial love.

Great joy was mine to see thee once again,

Thee and thy dwelling, and a throng of things

About its narrow precincts, all beloved

And many of them seeming yet my own.

Why should I speak of what a thousand hearts

Have felt, and every man alive can guess?

The rooms, the court, the garden were not left

Long unsaluted, and the spreading pine

And broad stone table underneath its boughs –

Our summer seat in many a festive hour –

And that unruly child of mountain birth,

The froward brook, which, soon as he was boxed

Within our garden, found himself at once

As if by trick insidious and unkind,

Stripped of his voice, and left to dimple down

Without an effort and without a will

A channel paved by the hand of man.

I looked at him and smiled, and smiled again,

And in the press of twenty thousand thoughts,

»Ha«, quoth I, »pretty prisoner, are you there!«

– And now, reviewing soberly that hour,

I marvel that a fancy did not flash

Upon me, and a strong desire, straitway,

At sight of such an emblem that shewed forth

So aptly my late course of even days

And all their smooth enthralment, to pen down

A satire on myself. My aged dame

Was with me, at my side; she guided me,

I willing, nay – nay, wishing to be led.

The face of every neighbour whom I met

Was as a volume to me; some I hailed

Far off, upon the road, or at their work –

Unceremonious greetings, interchanged

With half the length of a long field between.

Among my schoolfellows I scattered round

A salutation that was more constrained

Though earnest – doubtless with a little pride,

But with more shame, for my habiliments,

The transformation and the gay attire.

Delighted did I take my place again

At our domestic table; and, dear friend,

Relating simply as my wish hath been

A poet's history, can I leave untold

The joy with which I laid me down at night

In my accustomed bed, more welcome now

Perhaps than if it had been more desired,

Or been more often thought of with regret –

That bed whence I had heard the roaring wind

And clamorous rain, that bed where I so oft

Had lain awake on breezy nights to watch

The moon in splendour couched among the leaves

Of a tall ash that near our cottage stood,

Had watched her with fixed eyes, while to and fro

In the dark summit of the moving tree

She rocked with every impulse of the wind.

Among the faces which it pleased me well

To see again was one by ancient right

Our inmate, a rough terrier of the hills,

By birth and call of nature preordained

To hunt the badger and unearth the fox

Among the impervious crags. But having been

From youth our own adopted, he had passed

Into a gentler service; and when first

The boyish spirit flagged, and day by day

Along my veins I kindled with the stir,

The fermentation and the vernal heat

Of poesy, affecting private shades

Like a sick lover, then his dog was used

To watch me, an attendant and a friend,

Obsequious to my steps early and late,

Though often of such dilatory walk

Tired, and uneasy at the halts I made.

A hundred times when in these wanderings

I have been busy with the toil of verse –

Great pains and little progress – and at once

Some fair enchanting image in my mind

Rose up, full-formed like Venus from the sea,

Have I sprung forth towards him and let loose

My hand upon his back with stormy joy,

Caressing him again and yet again.

And when in the public roads at eventide

I sauntered, like a river murmuring

And talking to itself, at such a season

It was his custom to jog on before;

But, duly whensoever he had met

A passenger approaching, would he turn

To give me timely notice, and straitway,

Punctual to such admonishment, I hushed

My voice, composed my gait, and shaped myself

To give and take a greeting that might save

My name from piteous rumours, such as wait

On men suspected to be crazed in brain.

Those walks, well worthy to be prized and loved –

Regretted, that word too was on my tongue,

But they were richly laden with all good,

And cannot be remembered but with thanks

And gratitude and perfect joy of heart –

Those walks did now like a returning spring

Come back on me again. When first I made

Once more the circuit of our little lake

If ever happiness hath lodged with man

That day consummate happiness was mine –

Wide-spreading, steady, calm, contemplative.

The sun was set, or setting, when I left

Our cottage door, and evening soon brought on

A sober hour, not winning or serene,

For cold and raw the air was, and untuned;

But as a face we love is sweetest then

When sorrow damps it, or, whatever look

It chance to wear, is sweetest if the heart

Have fulness in itself, even so with me

It fared that evening. Gently did my soul

Put off her veil, and, self-transmuted, stood

Naked as in the presence of her God.

As on I walked, a comfort seemed to touch

A heart that had not been disconsolate,

Strength came where weakness was not known to be,

At least not felt; and restoration came

Like an intruder knocking at the door

Of unacknowledged weariness. I took

The balance in my hand and weighed myself:

I saw but little, and thereat was pleased;

Little did I remember, and even this

Still pleased me more – but I had hopes and peace

And swellings of the spirits, was rapt and soothed,

Conversed with promises, had glimmering views

How life pervades the undecaying mind,

How the immortal soul with godlike power

Informs, creates, and thaws the deepest sleep

That time can lay upon her, how on earth

Man if he do but live within the light

Of high endeavours, daily spreads abroad

His being with a strength that cannot fail.

Nor was there want of milder thoughts, of love,

Of innocence, and holiday repose,

And more than pastoral quiet in the heart

Of amplest projects, and a peaceful end

At last, or glorious, by endurance won.

Thus musing, in a wood I sate me down

Alone, continuing there to muse. Meanwhile

The mountain heights were slowly overspread

With darkness, and before a rippling breeze

The long lake lengthened out its hoary line,

And in the sheltered coppice where I sate,

Around me, from among the hazel leaves –

Now here, now there, stirred by the straggling wind –

Came intermittingly a breath-like sound,

A respiration short and quick, which oft,

Yea, might I say, again and yet again,

Mistaking for the panting of my dog,

The off-and-on companion of my walk,

I turned my head to look if he were there.

A freshness also found I at this time

In human life, the life I mean of those

Whose occupations really I loved.

The prospect often touched me with surprize:

Crowded and full, and changed, as seemed to me,

Even as a garden in the heat of spring

After an eight-days' absence. For – to omit

The things which were the same and yet appeared

So different – amid this solitude,

The little vale where was my chief abode,

'Twas not indifferent to a youthful mind

To note, perhaps, some sheltered seat in which

An old man had been used to sun himself,

Now empty; pale-faced babes whom I had left

In arms, known children of the neighbourhood,

Now rosy prattlers, tottering up and down;

And growing girls whose beauty, filched away

With all its pleasant promises, was gone

To deck some slighted playmate's homely cheek.

Yes, I had something of another eye,

And often looking round was moved to smiles

Such as a delicate work of humour breeds.

I read, without design, the opinions, thoughts,

Of those plain-living people, in a sense

Of love and knowledge: with another eye

I saw the quiet woodman in the woods,

The shepherd on the hills. With new delight,

This chiefly, did I view my grey-haired dame,

Saw her go forth to church, or other work

Of state, equipped in monumental trim –

Short velvet cloak, her bonnet of the like,

A mantle such as Spanish cavaliers

Wore in old time. Her smooth domestic life –

Affectionate without uneasiness –

Her talk, her business, pleased me; and no less

Her clear though shallow stream of piety,

That ran on sabbath days a fresher course.

With thoughts unfelt till now I saw her read

Her bible on the Sunday afternoons,

And loved the book when she had dropped asleep

And made of it a pillow for her head.

Nor less do I remember to have felt

Distinctly manifested at this time,

A dawning, even as of another sense,

A human-heartedness about my love

For objects hitherto the gladsome air

Of my own private being, and no more –

Which I had loved, even as a blessèd spirit

Or angel, if he were to dwell on earth,

Might love in individual happiness.

But now there opened on me other thoughts,

Of change, congratulation and regret,

A new-born feeling. It spread far and wide:

The trees, the mountains shared it, and the brooks,

The stars of heaven, now seen in their old haunts –

White Sirius glittering o'er the southern crags,

Orion with his belt, and those fair Seven,

Acquaintances of every little child,

And Jupiter, my own belovèd star.

Whatever shadings of mortality

Had fallen upon these objects heretofore

Were different in kind: not tender – strong,

Deep, gloomy were they, and severe, the scatterings

Of childhood, and moreover, had given way

In later youth to beauty and to love

Enthusiastic, to delight and joy.

As one who hangs down-bending from the side

Of a slow-moving boat upon the breast

Of a still water, solacing himself

With such discoveries as his eye can make

Beneath him in the bottom of the deeps,

Sees many beauteous sights – weeds, fishes, flowers,

Grots, pebbles, roots of trees – and fancies more,

Yet often is perplexed, and cannot part

The shadow from the substance, rocks and sky,

Mountains and clouds, from that which is indeed

The region, and the things which there abide

In their true dwelling; now is crossed by gleam

Of his own image, by a sunbeam now,

And motions that are sent he knows not whence,

Impediments that make his task more sweet;

Such pleasant office have we long pursued

Incumbent o'er the surface of past time –

With like success. Nor have we often looked

On more alluring shows – to me at least –

More soft, or less ambiguously descried,

Than those which now we have been passing by,

And where we still are lingering. Yet in spite

Of all these new employments of the mind

There was an inner falling off. I loved,

Loved deeply, all that I had loved before,

More deeply even than ever; but a swarm

Of heady thoughts jostling each other, gawds

And feast and dance and public revelry

And sports and games – less pleasing in themselves

Than as they were a badge, glossy and fresh,

Of manliness and freedom – these did now

Seduce me from the firm habitual quest

Of feeding pleasures, from that eager zeal,

Those yearnings which had every day been mine,

A wild, unworldly-minded youth, given up

To Nature and to books, or, at the most,

From time to time by inclination shipped

One among many, in societies

That were, or seemed, as simple as myself.

But now was come a change – it would demand

Some skill, and longer time than may be spared,

To paint even to myself these vanities,

And how they wrought – but sure it is that now

Contagious air did oft environ me,

Unknown among these haunts in former days.

The very garments that I wore appeared

To prey upon my strength, and stopped the course

And quiet stream of self-forgetfulness.

Something there was about me that perplexed

Th' authentic sight of reason, pressed too closely

On that religious dignity of mind

That is the very faculty of truth,

Which wanting – either, from the very first

A function never lighted up, or else

Extinguished – man, a creature great and good,

Seems but a pageant plaything with vile claws,

And this great frame of breathing elements

A senseless idol.

This vague heartless chace

Of trivial pleasures was a poor exchange

For books and Nature at that early age.

'Tis true, some casual knowledge might be gained

Of character or life; but at that time,

Of manners put to school I took small note,

And all my deeper passions lay elsewhere –

Far better had it been to exalt the mind

By solitary study, to uphold

Intense desire by thought and quietness.

And yet, in chastisement of these regrets,

The memory of one particular hour

Doth here rise up against me.