[Footnote e: Dr. Cradock suggested the reading “rocky cove.” Rocky cave is tautological, and Wordsworth would hardly apply the epithet to an ordinary boat-house.–Ed.]
[Footnote f: The “craggy steep till then the horizon’s bound,” is probably the ridge of Ironkeld, reaching from high Arnside to the Tom Heights above Tarn Hows; while the “huge peak, black and huge, as if with voluntary power instinct,” may he either the summit of Wetherlam, or of Pike o’Blisco. Mr. Rawnsley, however, is of opinion that if Wordsworth rowed off from the west bank of Fasthwaite, he might see beyond the craggy ridge of Loughrigg the mass of Nab-Scar, and Rydal Head would rise up “black and huge.” If he rowed from the east side, then Pike o’Stickle, or Harrison Stickle, might rise above Ironkeld, over Borwick Ground.–Ed.]
[Footnote g: Compare S. T. Coleridge.
“When very many are skating together, the sounds and the noises give an impulse to the icy trees, and the woods all round the lake _tinkle_.”
‘The Friend’, vol. ii. p. 325 (edition 1818).–Ed.]
[Footnote h: The two preceding paragraphs were published in ‘The Friend’, December 28, 1809, under the title of the ‘Growth of Genius from the Influences of Natural Objects on the Imagination, in Boyhood and Early Youth’, and were afterwards inserted in all the collective editions of Wordsworth’s poems, from 1815 onwards. For the changes of the text in these editions, see vol. ii. pp. 66-69.–Ed.]
[Footnote i: The becks amongst the Furness Fells, in Yewdale, and elsewhere.–Ed.]
[Footnote j: Possibly from the top of some of the rounded moraine hills on the western side of the Hawkshead Valley.–Ed.]
[Footnote k: The pupils in the Hawkshead school, in Wordsworth’s time, boarded in the houses of village dames. Wordsworth lived with one Anne Tyson, for whom he ever afterwards cherished the warmest regard, and whose simple character he has immortalised. (See especially in the fourth book of ‘The Prelude’, p. 187, etc.) Wordsworth lived in her cottage at Hawkshead during nine eventful years. It still remains externally unaltered, and little, if at all, changed in the interior. It may be reached through a picturesque archway, near the principal inn of the village (The Lion); and is on the right of a small open yard, which is entered through this archway. To the left, a lane leads westwards to the open country. It is a humble dwelling of two storeys. The floor of the basement flat-paved with the blue flags of Coniston slate–is not likely to have been changed since Wordsworth’s time. The present door with its “latch” (see book ii. l. 339), is probably the same as that referred to in the poem, as in use in 1776, and onwards. For further details see notes to book iv.–Ed.]
[Footnote l: Compare Pope’s ‘Rape of the Lock’, canto iii. l. 54:
‘Gained but one trump, and one plebeian card.’
Ed.]
[Footnote m: Compare Walton’s ‘Compleat Angler’, part i. 4:
‘I was for that time lifted above earth, And possess’d joys not promised in my birth.’
Ed.]
[Footnote n: The notes to this edition are explanatory rather than critical; but as this image has been objected to–as inaccurate, and out of all analogy with Wordsworth’s use and wont–it may be mentioned that the noise of the breaking up of the ice, after a severe winter in these lakes, when it cracks and splits in all directions, is exactly as here described. It is not of course, in any sense peculiar to the English lakes; but there are probably few districts where the peculiar noise referred to can be heard so easily or frequently. Compare Coleridge’s account of the Lake of Ratzeburg in winter, in ‘The Friend’, vol. ii. p. 323 (edition of 1818), and his reference to “the thunders and ‘howlings’ of the breaking ice.”–Ed.]
[Footnote o: I here insert a very remarkable MS. variation of the text, or rather (I think) one of these experiments in dealing with his theme, which were common with Wordsworth. I found it in a copy of the Poems belonging to the poet’s son:
I tread the mazes of this argument, and paint How nature by collateral interest
And by extrinsic passion peopled first My mind with beauteous objects: may I well Forget what might demand a loftier song, For oft the Eternal Spirit, He that has His Life in unimaginable things,
And he who painting what He is in all The visible imagery of all the World
Is yet apparent chiefly as the Soul Of our first sympathies–O bounteous power In Childhood, in rememberable days
How often did thy love renew for me Those naked feelings which, when thou would’st form A living thing, thou sendest like a breeze Into its infant being! Soul of things
How often did thy love renew for me Those hallowed and pure motions of the sense Which seem in their simplicity to own
An intellectual charm: That calm delight Which, if I err not, surely must belong To those first-born affinities which fit Our new existence to existing things,
And, in our dawn of being, constitute The bond of union betwixt life and joy. Yes, I remember, when the changeful youth And twice five seasons on my mind had stamped The faces of the moving year, even then A child, I held unconscious intercourse With the eternal beauty, drinking in
A pure organic pleasure from the lines Of curling mist, or from the smooth expanse Of waters coloured by the clouds of Heaven.
Ed.]
[Footnote p: Snowdrops still grow abundantly in many an orchard and meadow by the road which skirts the western side of Esthwaite Lake.–Ed.]
[Footnote q: Compare the ‘Ode, Intimations of Immortality’, stanza ix.–Ed.]
* * * * *
BOOK SECOND
SCHOOL-TIME–continued …
Thus far, O Friend! have we, though leaving much Unvisited, endeavoured to retrace
The simple ways in which my childhood walked; Those chiefly that first led me to the love Of rivers, woods, and fields. The passion yet 5 Was in its birth, sustained as might befal By nourishment that came unsought; for still From week to week, from month to month, we lived A round of tumult. Duly were our games
Prolonged in summer till the day-light failed: 10 No chair remained before the doors; the bench And threshold steps were empty; fast asleep The labourer, and the old man who had sate A later lingerer; yet the revelry
Continued and the loud uproar: at last, 15 When all the ground was dark, and twinkling stars Edged the black clouds, home and to bed we went, Feverish with weary joints and beating minds. Ah! is there one who ever has been young, Nor needs a warning voice to tame the pride 20 Of intellect and virtue’s self-esteem?
One is there, though the wisest and the best Of all mankind, who covets not at times Union that cannot be;–who would not give, If so he might, to duty and to truth 25 The eagerness of infantine desire?
A tranquillising spirit presses now On my corporeal frame, so wide appears
The vacancy between me and those days Which yet have such self-presence in my mind, 30 That, musing on them, often do I seem
Two consciousnesses, conscious of myself And of some other Being. A rude mass
Of native rock, left midway in the square Of our small market village, was the goal 35 Or centre of these sports; [A] and when, returned After long absence, thither I repaired, Gone was the old grey stone, and in its place A smart Assembly-room usurped the ground That had been ours. There let the fiddle scream, 40 And be ye happy! Yet, my Friends! I know That more than one of you will think with me Of those soft starry nights, and that old Dame From whom the stone was named, who there had sate, And watched her table with its huckster’s wares 45 Assiduous, through the length of sixty years.
We ran a boisterous course; the year span round With giddy motion. But the time approached That brought with it a regular desire
For calmer pleasures, when the winning forms 50 Of Nature were collaterally attached
To every scheme of holiday delight And every boyish sport, less grateful else And languidly pursued.
When summer came,
Our pastime was, on bright half-holidays, 55 To sweep, along the plain of Windermere With rival oars; [B] and the selected bourne Was now an Island musical with birds
That sang and ceased not; now a Sister Isle Beneath the oaks’ umbrageous covert, sown 60 With lilies of the valley like a field; [C] And now a third small Island, where survived In solitude the ruins of a shrine
Once to Our Lady dedicate, and served Daily with chaunted rites. [D] In such a race 65 So ended, disappointment could be none, Uneasiness, or pain, or jealousy:
We rested in the shade, all pleased alike, Conquered and conqueror. Thus the pride of strength, And the vain-glory of superior skill, 70 Were tempered; thus was gradually produced A quiet independence of the heart;
And to my Friend who knows me I may add, Fearless of blame, that hence for future days Ensued a diffidence and modesty, 75 And I was taught to feel, perhaps too much, The self-sufficing power of Solitude.
Our daily meals were frugal, Sabine fare! More than we wished we knew the blessing then Of vigorous hunger–hence corporeal strength 80 Unsapped by delicate viands; for, exclude A little weekly stipend, and we lived
Through three divisions of the quartered year In penniless poverty. But now to school From the half-yearly holidays returned, 85 We came with weightier purses, that sufficed To furnish treats more costly than the Dame Of the old grey stone, from her scant board, supplied. Hence rustic dinners on the cool green ground, Or in the woods, or by a river side 90 Or shady fountains, while among the leaves Soft airs were stirring, and the mid-day sun Unfelt shone brightly round us in our joy. Nor is my aim neglected if I tell
How sometimes, in the length of those half-years, 95 We from our funds drew largely;–proud to curb, And eager to spur on, the galloping steed; And with the courteous inn-keeper, whose stud Supplied our want, we haply might employ Sly subterfuge, if the adventure’s bound 100 Were distant: some famed temple where of yore The Druids worshipped, [E] or the antique walls Of that large abbey, where within the Vale Of Nightshade, to St. Mary’s honour built, [F] Stands yet a mouldering pile with fractured arch, 105 Belfry, [G] and images, and living trees, A holy scene! Along the smooth green turf Our horses grazed. To more than inland peace Left by the west wind sweeping overhead From a tumultuous ocean, trees and towers 110 In that sequestered valley may be seen, Both silent and both motionless alike;
Such the deep shelter that is there, and such The safeguard for repose and quietness.
Our steeds remounted and the summons given, 115 With whip and spur we through the chauntry flew In uncouth race, and left the cross-legged knight, And the stone-abbot, [H] and that single wren Which one day sang so sweetly in the nave Of the old church, that–though from recent showers 120 The earth was comfortless, and touched by faint Internal breezes, sobbings of the place And respirations, from the roofless walls The shuddering ivy dripped large drops–yet still So sweetly ‘mid the gloom the invisible bird 125 Sang to herself, that there I could have made My dwelling-place, and lived for ever there To hear such music. Through the walls we flew And down the valley, and, a circuit made In wantonness of heart, through rough and smooth 130 We scampered homewards. Oh, ye rocks and streams, And that still spirit shed from evening air! Even in this joyous time I sometimes felt Your presence, when with slackened step we breathed Along the sides of the steep hills, or when 135 Lighted by gleams of moonlight from the sea We beat with thundering hoofs the level sand.
Midway on long Winander’s eastern shore, Within the crescent of a pleasant bay, [I] A tavern stood; [K] no homely-featured house, 140 Primeval like its neighbouring cottages, But ’twas a splendid place, the door beset With chaises, grooms, and liveries, and within Decanters, glasses, and the blood-red wine. In ancient times, and ere the Hall was built 145 On the large island, had this dwelling been More worthy of a poet’s love, a hut,
Proud of its own bright fire and sycamore shade. But–though the rhymes were gone that once inscribed The threshold, and large golden characters, 150 Spread o’er the spangled sign-board, had dislodged The old Lion and usurped his place, in slight And mockery of the rustic painter’s hand–[L] Yet, to this hour, the spot to me is dear With all its foolish pomp. The garden lay 155 Upon a slope surmounted by a plain
Of a small bowling-green; beneath us stood A grove, with gleams of water through the trees And over the tree-tops; [M] nor did we want Refreshment, strawberries and mellow cream. 160 There, while through half an afternoon we played On the smooth platform, whether skill prevailed Or happy blunder triumphed, bursts of glee Made all the mountains ring. But, ere night-fall, When in our pinnace we returned at leisure 165 Over the shadowy lake, and to the beach Of some small island steered our course with one, The Minstrel of the Troop, and left him there, [N] And rowed off gently, while he blew his flute Alone upon the rock–oh, then, the calm 170 And dead still water lay upon my mind
Even with a weight of pleasure, and the sky, Never before so beautiful, sank down
Into my heart, and held me like a dream! Thus were my sympathies enlarged, and thus 175 Daily the common range of visible things Grew dear to me: already I began
To love the sun; a boy I loved the sun, Not as I since have loved him, as a pledge And surety of our earthly life, a light 180 Which we behold and feel we are alive; [O] Nor for his bounty to so many worlds–
But for this cause, that I had seen him lay His beauty on the morning hills, had seen The western mountain [P] touch his setting orb, 185 In many a thoughtless hour, when, from excess Of happiness, my blood appeared to flow For its own pleasure, and I breathed with joy. And, from like feelings, humble though intense, To patriotic and domestic love 190 Analogous, the moon to me was dear;
For I could dream away my purposes, Standing to gaze upon her while she hung Midway between the hills, as if she knew No other region, but belonged to thee, [Q] 195 Yea, appertained by a peculiar right
To thee and thy grey huts, thou one dear Vale! [R]
Those incidental charms which first attached My heart to rural objects, day by day
Grew weaker, and I hasten on to tell 200 How Nature, intervenient till this time And secondary, now at length was sought For her own sake. But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules,
Split like a province into round and square? 205 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?” [S] Thou, my Friend! art one 210 More deeply read in thy own thoughts; to thee Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop
To our infirmity. No officious slave 215 Art thou of that false secondary power
By which we multiply distinctions; then, Deem that our puny boundaries are things That we perceive, and not that we have made. To thee, unblinded by these formal arts, 220 The unity of all hath been revealed,
And thou wilt doubt, with me less aptly skilled Than many are to range the faculties
In scale and order, class the cabinet Of their sensations, and in voluble phrase 225 Run through the history and birth of each As of a single independent thing.
Hard task, vain hope, to analyse the mind, If each most obvious and particular thought, Not in a mystical and idle sense, 230 But in the words of Reason deeply weighed, Hath no beginning.
Blest the infant Babe,
(For with my best conjecture I would trace Our Being’s earthly progress,) blest the Babe, Nursed in his Mother’s arms, who sinks to sleep 235 Rocked on his Mother’s breast; who with his soul Drinks in the feelings of his Mother’s eye! For him, in one dear Presence, there exists A virtue which irradiates and exalts
Objects through widest intercourse of sense. 240 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. Is there a flower, to which he points with hand 245 Too weak to gather it, already love
Drawn from love’s purest earthly fount for him Hath beautified that flower; already shades Of pity cast from inward tenderness
Do fall around him upon aught that bears 250 Unsightly marks of violence or harm.
Emphatically such a Being lives,
Frail creature as he is, helpless as frail, An inmate of this active universe.
For feeling has to him imparted power 255 That through the growing faculties of sense Doth like an agent of the one great Mind Create, creator and receiver both,
Working but in alliance with the works Which it beholds. Such, verily, is the first 260 Poetic spirit of our human life,
By uniform control of after years, In most, abated or suppressed; in some, Through every change of growth and of decay, Pre-eminent till death.
From early days, 265 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, 270 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: 275 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 280 By its own spirit! All that I beheld
Was dear, and hence to finer influxes The mind lay open to a more exact
And close communion. Many are our joys In youth, but oh! what happiness to live 285 When every hour brings palpable access
Of knowledge, when all knowledge is delight, And sorrow is not there! The seasons came, And every season wheresoe’er I moved
Unfolded transitory qualities, 290 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”–[T] 295 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 unwatchful eye, 300 No difference is, and hence, from the same source, Sublimer joy; for I would walk alone,
Under the quiet stars, and at that time Have felt whate’er there is of power in sound To breathe an elevated mood, by form 305 Or image unprofaned; and I would stand, If the night blackened with a coming storm, Beneath some rock, listening to notes that are The ghostly language of the ancient earth, Or make their dim abode in distant winds. 310 Thence did I drink the visionary power; And 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, 315 Remembering how she felt, but what she felt Remembering not, retains an obscure sense Of possible sublimity, whereto
With growing faculties she doth aspire, With faculties still growing, feeling still 320 That whatsoever point they gain, they yet Have something to pursue.
And not alone,
‘Mid gloom and tumult, but no less ‘mid fair And tranquil scenes, that universal power And fitness in the latent qualities 325 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 [U] 330 I travelled round our little lake, [V] five miles Of pleasant wandering. Happy time! more dear For this, that one was by my side, a Friend, [W] Then passionately loved; with heart how full Would he peruse these lines! For many years 335 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 [X] Far earlier, ere one smoke-wreath had risen 340 From human dwelling, or the vernal thrush Was audible; and sate among the woods
Alone upon some jutting eminence, [Y] At the first gleam of dawn-light, when the Vale, Yet slumbering, lay in utter solitude. 345 How shall I seek the origin? where find Faith in the marvellous things which then I felt? Oft in these moments such a holy calm
Would overspread my soul, that bodily eyes Were utterly forgotten, and what I saw 350 Appeared like something in myself, a dream, A prospect in the mind. [Z]
‘Twere long to tell
What spring and autumn, what the winter snows, And what the summer shade, what day and night, Evening and morning, sleep and waking, thought 355 From sources inexhaustible, poured forth To feed the spirit of religious love
In which I walked with Nature. But let this Be not forgotten, that I still retained My first creative sensibility; 360 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 his own, at war 365 With general tendency, but, for the most, Subservient strictly to external things With which it communed. An auxiliar light Came from my mind, which on the setting sun Bestowed new splendour; the melodious birds, 370 The fluttering breezes, fountains that run 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, 375 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 380 Is more poetic as resembling more
Creative agency. The song would speak Of that interminable building reared
By observation of affinities
In objects where no brotherhood exists 385 To passive minds. My seventeenth year was come; And, whether from this habit rooted now So deeply in my mind; or from excess
In the great social principle of life Coercing all things into sympathy, 390 To unorganic ratures were transferred
My own enjoyments; or the power of truth Coming in revelation, did converse
With things that really are; I, at this time, Saw blessings spread around me like a sea. 395 Thus while the days flew by, and years passed on, 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 400 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; 405 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 high the transport, great the joy I felt, 410 Communing in this sort through earth and heaven With every form of creature, as it looked Towards the Uncreated with a countenance Of adoration, with an eye of love.
One song they sang, and it was audible, 415 Most audible, then, when the fleshly ear, O’ercome by humblest prelude of that strain, Forgot her functions, and slept undisturbed.
If this be error, and another faith Find easier access to the pious mind, 420 Yet were I grossly destitute of all
Those human sentiments that 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 425 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 430 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 435 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 440 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, 445 Ye winds and sounding cataracts! ’tis 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 450 And purest passion.
Thou, my Friend! wert reared In the great city, ‘mid far other scenes; [a] But we, by different roads, at length have gained The self-same bourne. And for this cause to thee I speak, unapprehensive of contempt, 455 The insinuated scoff of coward tongues, And all that silent language which so oft In conversation between man and man
Blots from the human countenance all trace Of beauty and of love. For thou hast sought 460 The truth in solitude, and, since the days That gave thee liberty, full long desired, To serve in Nature’s temple, thou hast been The most assiduous of her ministers;
In many things my brother, chiefly here 465 In this our 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 470 Be many, and a blessing to mankind. [b]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: The “square” of the “small market village” of Hawkshead still remains; and the presence of the new “assembly-room” does not prevent us from realising it as open, with the “rude mass of native rock left midway” in it–the “old grey stone,” which was the centre of the village sports.–Ed.]
[Footnote B: Compare ‘The Excursion’, book ix. ll. 487-90:
‘When, on thy bosom, spacious Windermere! A Youth, I practised this delightful art; Tossed on the waves alone, or ‘mid a crew Of joyous comrades.’
Ed.]
[Footnote C: Compare ‘The Excursion’, book ix. l. 544, describing “a fair Isle with birch-trees fringed,” where they gathered leaves of that shy plant (its flower was shed), the lily of the vale.–Ed.]
[Footnote D: These islands in Windermere are easily identified. In the Lily of the Valley Island the plant still grows, though not abundantly; but from Lady Holme the
‘ruins of a shrine
Once to Our Lady dedicate’
have disappeared as completely as the shrine in St. Herbert’s Island, Derwentwater. The third island:
‘musical with birds,
That sang and ceased not–‘
may have been House Holme, or that now called Thomson’s Holme. It could hardly have been Belle Isle; since, from its size, it could not be described as a “Sister Isle” to the one where the lily of the valley grew “beneath the oaks’ umbrageous covert.”–Ed.]
[Footnote E: Doubtless the circle was at Conishead Priory, on the Cartmell Sands; or that in the vale of Swinside, on the north-east side of Black Combe; more probably the former. The whole district is rich in Druidical remains, but Wordsworth would not refer to the Keswick circle, or to Long Meg and her Daughters in this connection; and the proximity of the temple on the Cartmell Shore to the Furness Abbey ruins, and the ease with which it could be visited on holidays by the boys from Hawkshead school, make it almost certain that he refers to it.–Ed.]
[Footnote F: Furness Abbey, founded by Stephen in 1127, in the glen of the deadly Nightshade–Bekansghyll–so called from the luxuriant abundance of the plant, and dedicated to St. Mary. (Compare West’s ‘Antiquities of Furness’.)–Ed.]
[Footnote G: What was the belfry is now a mass of detached ruins.–Ed.]
[Footnote H: Doubtless the Cartmell Sands beyond Ulverston, at the estuary of the Leven.–Ed.]
[Footnote I: At Bowness.–Ed.]
[Footnote K: The White Lion Inn at Bowness.–Ed.]
[Footnote L: Compare the reference to the “rude piece of self-taught art,” at the Swan Inn, in the first canto of ‘The Waggoner’, p. 81. William Hutchinson, in his ‘Excursion to the Lakes in 1773 and 1774’ (second edition, 1776, p. 185), mentions “the White Lion Inn at Bownas.”–Ed.]
[Footnote M: Dr. Cradock told me that William Hutchinson–referred to in the previous note–describes “Bownas church and its cottages,” as seen from the lake, arising “‘above the trees’.” Wordsworth, reversing the view, sees “gleams of water through the trees and ‘over the tree tops'”–another instance of minutely exact description.–Ed.]
[Footnote N: Robert Greenwood, afterwards Senior Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge.–Ed.]
[Footnote O: Compare ‘Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey’, vol. ii. p. 51.–Ed.]
[Footnote P: Wetherlam, or Coniston Old Man, or both.–Ed.]
[Footnote Q:
“The moon, as it hung over the southernmost shore of Esthwaite, with Gunner’s How, as seen from Hawkshead rising up boldly to the spectator’s left hand, would be thus described.”
(H. D. Rawnsley.)–Ed.]
[Footnote R: Esthwaite. Compare ‘Peter Bell’ (vol. ii. p. 13):
‘Where deep and low the hamlets lie
Beneath their little patch of sky
And little lot of stars.’
Ed.]
[Footnote S: See in the Appendix to this volume, Note II, p. 388.–Ed.]
[Footnote T: See ‘Paradise Lost’, ix. l. 249.–Ed.]
[Footnote U: The daily work in Hawkshead School began–by Archbishop Sandys’ ordinance–at 6 A.M. in summer, and 7 A.M. in winter.–Ed.]
[Footnote V: Esthwaite.–Ed.]
[Footnote W: The Rev. John Fleming, of Rayrigg, Windermere, or, possibly, the Rev. Charles Farish, author of ‘The Minstrels of Winandermere’ and ‘Black Agnes’. Mr. Carter, who edited ‘The Prelude’ in 1850, says it was the former, but this is not absolutely certain.–Ed.]
[Footnote X: A “cottage latch”–probably the same as that in use in Dame Tyson’s time–is still on the door of the house where she lived at Hawkshead.–Ed.]
[Footnote Y: Probably on the western side of the Vale, above the village. There is but one “‘jutting’ eminence” on this side of the valley. It is an old moraine, now grass-covered; and, from this point, the view both of the village and of the vale is noteworthy. The jutting eminence, however, may have been a crag, amongst the Colthouse heights, to the north-east of Hawkshead.–Ed.]
[Footnote Z: Compare in the ‘Ode, Intimations of Immortality’:
‘… those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings,’ etc.
Ed.]
[Footnote a: Coleridge’s school days were spent at Christ’s Hospital in London. With the above line compare S. T. C.’s ‘Frost at Midnight’:
‘I was reared
In the great city, pent ‘mid cloisters dim.’
Ed.]
[Footnote b: Compare ‘Stanzas written in my Pocket Copy of Thomsons “Castle of Indolence,”‘ vol. ii. p. 305.–Ed.]
* * * * *
BOOK THIRD
RESIDENCE AT CAMBRIDGE
It was a dreary morning when the wheels Rolled over a wide plain o’erhung with clouds, And nothing cheered our way till first we saw The long-roofed chapel of King’s College lift Turrets and pinnacles in answering files, 5 Extended high above a dusky grove, [A]
Advancing, we espied upon the road
A student clothed in gown and tasselled cap, Striding along as if o’ertasked by Time, Or covetous of exercise and air; 10 He passed–nor was I master of my eyes
Till he was left an arrow’s flight behind. As near and nearer to the spot we drew, It seemed to suck us in with an eddy’s force. Onward we drove beneath the Castle; caught, 15 While crossing Magdalene Bridge, a glimpse of Cam; And at the ‘Hoop’ alighted, famous Inn. [B]
My spirit was up, my thoughts were full of hope; Some friends I had, acquaintances who there Seemed friends, poor simple school-boys, now hung round 20 With honour and importance: in a world
Of welcome faces up and down I roved; Questions, directions, warnings and advice, Flowed in upon me, from all sides; fresh day Of pride and pleasure! to myself I seemed 25 A man of business and expense, and went From shop to shop about my own affairs, To Tutor or to Tailor, as befel,
From street to street with loose and careless mind.
I was the Dreamer, they the Dream; I roamed 30 Delighted through the motley spectacle; Gowns, grave, or gaudy, doctors, students, streets, Courts, cloisters, flocks of churches, gateways, towers: Migration strange for a stripling of the hills, A northern villager.
As if the change 35 Had waited on some Fairy’s wand, at once Behold me rich in monies, and attired
In splendid garb, with hose of silk, and hair Powdered like rimy trees, when frost is keen. My lordly dressing-gown, I pass it by, 40 With other signs of manhood that 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. 45
The Evangelist St. John my patron was: Three Gothic courts are his, and in the first Was my abiding-place, a nook obscure; [C] Right underneath, the College kitchens made A humming sound, less tuneable than bees, 50 But hardly less industrious; with shrill notes Of sharp command and scolding intermixed. Near me hung Trinity’s loquacious clock, Who never let the quarters, night or day, Slip by him unproclaimed, and told the hours 55 Twice over with a male and female voice. Her pealing organ was my neighbour too; And from my pillow, looking forth by light Of moon or favouring stars, I could behold The antechapel where the statue stood 60 Of Newton with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind for ever
Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
Of College labours, of the Lecturer’s room All studded round, as thick as chairs could stand, 65 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 a balance! of excessive hopes, 70 Tremblings withal and commendable fears, Small jealousies, and triumphs good or bad, Let others that know more speak as they know. Such glory was but little sought by me, And little won. Yet from the first crude days 75 Of settling time in this untried abode, I was disturbed at times by prudent thoughts, Wishing to hope without a hope, some fears About my future worldly maintenance,
And, more than all, a strangeness in the mind, 80 A feeling that I was not for that hour, Nor for that place. But wherefore be cast down? For (not to speak of Reason and her pure Reflective acts to fix the moral law
Deep in the conscience, nor of Christian Hope, 85 Bowing her head before her sister Faith As one far mightier), hither I had come, Bear witness Truth, endowed with holy powers And faculties, whether to work or feel. Oft when the dazzling show no longer new 90 Had ceased to dazzle, ofttimes did I quit My comrades, leave the crowd, buildings and groves, And as I paced alone the level fields
Far from those lovely sights and sounds sublime With which I had been conversant, the mind 95 Drooped not; but there into herself returning, With prompt rebound seemed fresh as heretofore. At least I more distinctly recognised
Her native instincts: let me dare to speak A higher language, say that now I felt 100 What independent solaces were mine,
To mitigate the injurious sway of place Or circumstance, how far soever changed In youth, or to be changed in manhood’s prime; Or for the few who shall be called to look 105 On the long shadows in our evening years, Ordained precursors to the night of death. As if awakened, summoned, roused, constrained, I looked for universal things; perused
The common countenance of earth and sky: 110 Earth, nowhere unembellished by some trace Of that first Paradise whence man was driven; And sky, whose beauty and bounty are expressed By the proud name she bears–the name of Heaven. I called on both to teach me what they might; 115 Or turning the mind in upon herself
Pored, watched, expected, listened, spread my thoughts And spread them with a wider creeping; felt Incumbencies more awful, visitings
Of the Upholder of the tranquil soul, 120 That tolerates the indignities of Time, And, from the centre of Eternity
All finite motions overruling, lives In glory immutable. But peace! enough
Here to record that I was mounting now 125 To such community with highest truth–
A track pursuing, not untrod before, From strict analogies by thought supplied Or consciousnesses not to be subdued.
To every natural form, rock, fruit or flower, 130 Even the loose stones that cover the high-way, I gave a moral life: I saw them feel,
Or linked them to some feeling: the great mass Lay bedded in a quickening soul, and all That I beheld respired with inward meaning. 135 Add that whate’er of Terror or of Love
Or Beauty, Nature’s daily face put on From transitory passion, unto this
I was as sensitive as waters are
To the sky’s influence in a kindred mood 140 Of passion; was obedient as a lute
That waits upon the touches of the wind. Unknown, unthought of, yet I was most rich– I had a world about me–’twas my own;
I made it, for it only lived to me, 145 And to the God who sees into the heart. Such sympathies, though rarely, were betrayed By outward gestures and by visible looks: Some called it madness–so indeed it was, If child-like fruitfulness in passing joy, 150 If steady moods of thoughtfulness matured To inspiration, sort with such a name;
If prophecy be madness; if things viewed By poets in old time, and higher up
By the first men, earth’s first inhabitants, 155 May in these tutored days no more be seen With undisordered sight. But leaving this, It was no madness, for the bodily eye
Amid my strongest workings evermore Was searching out the lines of difference 160 As they lie hid in all external forms,
Near or remote, minute or vast, an eye Which from a tree, a stone, a withered leaf, To the broad ocean and the azure heavens Spangled with kindred multitudes of stars, 165 Could find no surface where its power might sleep; Which spake perpetual logic to my soul, And by an unrelenting agency
Did bind my feelings even as in a chain.
And here, O Friend! have I retraced my life 170 Up to an eminence, and told a tale
Of matters which not falsely may be called The glory of my youth. Of genius, power, Creation and divinity itself
I have been speaking, for my theme has been 175 What passed within me. Not of outward things Done visibly for other minds, words, signs, Symbols or actions, but of my own heart Have I been speaking, and my youthful mind. O Heavens! how awful is the might of souls, 180 And what they do within themselves while yet The yoke of earth is new to them, the world Nothing but a wild field where they were sown. This is, in truth, heroic argument,
This genuine prowess, which I wished to touch 185 With hand however weak, but in the main It lies far hidden from the reach of words. Points have we all of us within our souls Where all stand single; this I feel, and make Breathings for incommunicable powers; 190 But is not each a memory to himself?
And, therefore, now that we must quit this theme, I am not heartless, for there’s not a man That lives who hath not known his god-like hours, And feels not what an empire we inherit 195 As natural beings in the strength of Nature.
No more: for now into a populous plain We must descend. A Traveller I am,
Whose tale is only of himself; even so, So be it, if the pure of heart be prompt 200 To follow, and if thou, my honoured Friend! Who in these thoughts art ever at my side, Support, as heretofore, my fainting steps.
It hath been told, that when the first delight That flashed upon me from this novel show 205 Had failed, the mind returned into herself; Yet true it is, that I had made a change In climate, and my nature’s outward coat Changed also slowly and insensibly.
Full oft the quiet and exalted thoughts 210 Of loneliness gave way to empty noise
And superficial pastimes; now and then Forced labour, and more frequently forced hopes; And, worst of all, a treasonable growth Of indecisive judgments, that impaired 215 And shook the mind’s simplicity.–And yet This was a gladsome time. Could I behold– Who, less insensible than sodden clay
In a sea-river’s bed at ebb of tide, Could have beheld,–with undelighted heart, 220 So many happy youths, so wide and fair
A congregation in its budding-time Of health, and hope, and beauty, all at once So many divers samples from the growth
Of life’s sweet season–could have seen unmoved 225 That miscellaneous garland of wild flowers Decking the matron temples of a place
So famous through the world? To me, at least, It was a goodly prospect: for, in sooth, Though I had learnt betimes to stand unpropped, 230 And independent musings pleased me so
That spells seemed on me when I was alone, Yet could I only cleave to solitude
In lonely places; if a throng was near That way I leaned by nature; for my heart 235 Was social, and loved idleness and joy.
Not seeking those who might participate My deeper pleasures (nay, I had not once, Though not unused to mutter lonesome songs, Even with myself divided such delight, 240 Or looked that way for aught that might be clothed In human language), easily I passed
From the remembrances of better things, And slipped into the ordinary works
Of careless youth, unburthened, unalarmed. 245 _Caverns_ there were within my mind which sun Could never penetrate, yet did there not Want store of leafy _arbours_ where the light Might enter in at will. Companionships, Friendships, acquaintances, were welcome all. 250 We sauntered, played, or rioted; we talked Unprofitable talk at morning hours;
Drifted about along the streets and walks, Read lazily in trivial books, went forth To gallop through the country in blind zeal 255 Of senseless horsemanship, or on the breast Of Cam sailed boisterously, and let the stars Come forth, perhaps without one quiet thought.
Such was the tenor of the second act In this new life. Imagination slept, 260 And yet not utterly. I could not print
Ground where the grass had yielded to the steps Of generations of illustrious men,
Unmoved. I could not always lightly pass Through the same gateways, sleep where they had slept, 265 Wake where they waked, range that inclosure old, That garden of great intellects, undisturbed. Place also by the side of this dark sense Of noble feeling, that those spiritual men, Even the great Newton’s own ethereal self, 270 Seemed humbled in these precincts thence to be The more endeared. Their several memories here (Even like their persons in their portraits clothed With the accustomed garb of daily life) Put on a lowly and a touching grace 275 Of more distinct humanity, that left
All genuine admiration unimpaired.
Beside the pleasant Mill of Trompington [D] I laughed with Chaucer in the hawthorn shade; Heard him, while birds were warbling, tell his tales 280 Of amorous passion. And that gentle Bard, Chosen by the Muses for their Page of State– Sweet Spenser, moving through his clouded heaven With the moon’s beauty and the moon’s soft pace, I called him Brother, Englishman, and Friend! 285 Yea, our blind Poet, who, in his later day, Stood almost single; uttering odious truth– Darkness before, and danger’s voice behind, Soul awful–if the earth has ever lodged An awful soul–I seemed to see him here 290 Familiarly, and in his scholar’s dress
Bounding before me, yet a stripling youth– A boy, no better, with his rosy cheeks
Angelical, keen eye, courageous look, And conscious step of purity and pride. 295 Among the band of my compeers was one
Whom chance had stationed in the very room Honoured by Milton’s name. O temperate Bard! Be it confest that, for the first time, seated Within thy innocent lodge and oratory, 300 One of a festive circle, I poured out
Libations, to thy memory drank, till pride And gratitude grew dizzy in a brain
Never excited by the fumes of wine Before that hour, or since. Then, forth I ran 305 From the assembly; through a length of streets, Ran, ostrich-like, to reach our chapel door In not a desperate or opprobrious time, Albeit long after the importunate bell
Had stopped, with wearisome Cassandra voice 310 No longer haunting the dark winter night. Call back, O Friend! [E] a moment to thy mind, The place itself and fashion of the rites. With careless ostentation shouldering up My surplice, [F] through the inferior throng I clove 315 Of the plain Burghers, who in audience stood On the last skirts of their permitted ground, Under the pealing organ. Empty thoughts! I am ashamed of them: and that great Bard, And thou, O Friend! who in thy ample mind 320 Hast placed me high above my best deserts, Ye will forgive the weakness of that hour, In some of its unworthy vanities,
Brother to many more.
In this mixed sort
The months passed on, remissly, not given up 325 To wilful alienation from the right,
Or walks of open scandal, but in vague And loose indifference, easy likings, aims Of a low pitch–duty and zeal dismissed, Yet Nature, or a happy course of things 330 Not doing in their stead the needful work. The memory languidly revolved, the heart Reposed in noontide rest, the inner pulse Of contemplation almost failed to beat. Such life might not inaptly be compared 335 To a floating island, an amphibious spot Unsound, of spongy texture, yet withal
Not wanting a fair face of water weeds And pleasant flowers. [G] The thirst of living praise, Fit reverence for the glorious Dead, the sight 340 Of those long vistas, sacred catacombs, Where mighty minds lie visibly entombed, Have often stirred the heart of youth, and bred A fervent love of rigorous discipline.– Alas! such high emotion touched not me. 345 Look was there none within these walls to shame My easy spirits, and discountenance
Their light composure, far less to instil A calm resolve of mind, firmly addressed To puissant efforts. Nor was this the blame 350 Of others, but my own; I should, in truth, As far as doth concern my single self,
Misdeem most widely, lodging it elsewhere: For I, bred up ‘mid Nature’s luxuries,
Was a spoiled child, and rambling like the wind, 355 As I had done in daily intercourse
With those crystalline rivers, solemn heights, And mountains, ranging like a fowl of the air, I was ill-tutored for captivity;
To quit my pleasure, and, from month to month, 360 Take up a station calmly on the perch
Of sedentary peace. Those lovely forms Had also left less space within my mind, Which, wrought upon instinctively, had found A freshness in those objects of her love, 365 A winning power, beyond all other power. Not that I slighted books, [H]–that were to lack All sense,–but other passions in me ruled, Passions more fervent, making me less prompt To in-door study than was wise or well, 370 Or suited to those years. Yet I, though used In magisterial liberty to rove,
Culling such flowers of learning as might tempt A random choice, could shadow forth a place (If now I yield not to a flattering dream) 375 Whose studious aspect should have bent me down To instantaneous service; should at once Have made me pay to science and to arts And written lore, acknowledged my liege lord, A homage frankly offered up, like that 380 Which I had paid to Nature. Toil and pains In this recess, by thoughtful Fancy built, Should spread from heart to heart; and stately groves, Majestic edifices, should not want
A corresponding dignity within. 385 The congregating temper that pervades
Our unripe years, not wasted, should be taught To minister to works of high attempt–
Works which the enthusiast would perform with love. Youth should be awed, religiously possessed 390 With a conviction of the power that waits On knowledge, when sincerely sought and prized For its own sake, on glory and on praise If but by labour won, and fit to endure The passing day; should learn to put aside 395 Her trappings here, should strip them off abashed Before antiquity and stedfast truth
And strong book-mindedness; and over all A healthy sound simplicity should reign, A seemly plainness, name it what you will, 400 Republican or pious.
If these thoughts
Are a gratuitous emblazonry
That mocks the recreant age _we_ live in, then Be Folly and False-seeming free to affect Whatever formal gait of discipline 405 Shall raise them highest in their own esteem– Let them parade among the Schools at will, But spare the House of God. Was ever known The witless shepherd who persists to drive A flock that thirsts not to a pool disliked? 410 A weight must surely hang on days begun And ended with such mockery. Be wise,
Ye Presidents and Deans, and, till the spirit Of ancient times revive, and youth be trained At home in pious service, to your bells 415 Give seasonable rest, for ’tis a sound
Hollow as ever vexed the tranquil air; And your officious doings bring disgrace On the plain steeples of our English Church, Whose worship, ‘mid remotest village trees, 420 Suffers for this. Even Science, too, at hand In daily sight of this irreverence,
Is smitten thence with an unnatural taint, Loses her just authority, falls beneath Collateral suspicion, else unknown. 425 This truth escaped me not, and I confess, That having ‘mid my native hills given loose To a schoolboy’s vision, I had raised a pile Upon the basis of the coming time,
That fell in ruins round me. Oh, what joy 430 To see a sanctuary for our country’s youth Informed with such a spirit as might be Its own protection; a primeval grove,
Where, though the shades with cheerfulness were filled, Nor indigent of songs warbled from crowds 435 In under-coverts, yet the countenance
Of the whole place should bear a stamp of awe; A habitation sober and demure
For ruminating creatures; a domain For quiet things to wander in; a haunt 440 In which the heron should delight to feed By the shy rivers, and the pelican
Upon the cypress spire in lonely thought Might sit and sun himself.–Alas! Alas! In vain for such solemnity I looked; 445 Mine eyes were crossed by butterflies, ears vexed By chattering popinjays; the inner heart Seemed trivial, and the impresses without Of a too gaudy region.
Different sight
Those venerable Doctors saw of old, 450 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 the ponderous books they hung Like caterpillars eating out their way 455 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. 460 O seat of Arts! renowned throughout the world! Far different service in those homely days The Muses’ modest nurslings underwent
From their first childhood: in that glorious time When Learning, like a stranger come from far, 465 Sounding through Christian lands her trumpet, roused Peasant and king; when boys and youths, the growth Of ragged villages and crazy huts,
Forsook their homes, and, errant in the quest Of Patron, famous school or friendly nook, 470 Where, pensioned, they in shelter might sit down, From town to town and through wide scattered realms Journeyed with ponderous folios in their hands; And often, starting from some covert place, Saluted the chance comer on the road, 475 Crying, “An obolus, a penny give
To a poor scholar!” [I]–when illustrious men, Lovers of truth, by penury constrained, Bucer, Erasmus, or Melancthon, read
Before the doors or windows of their cells 480 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, 485 Their highest promise. If the mariner,
When at reluctant distance he hath passed Some tempting island, could but know the ills That must have fallen upon him had he brought His bark to land upon the wished-for shore, 490 Good cause would oft be his to thank the surf Whose white belt scared him thence, or wind that blew Inexorably adverse: for myself
I grieve not; happy is the gowned youth, Who only misses what I missed, who falls 495 No lower than I fell.
I did not love,
Judging not ill perhaps, the timid course Of our scholastic studies; could have wished To see the river flow with ampler range And freer pace; but more, far more, I grieved 500 To see displayed among an eager few,
Who in the field of contest persevered, Passions unworthy of youth’s generous heart And mounting spirit, pitiably repaid,
When so disturbed, whatever palms are won. 505 From these I turned to travel with the shoal Of more unthinking natures, easy minds
And pillowy; yet not wanting love that makes The day pass lightly on, when foresight sleeps, And wisdom and the pledges interchanged 510 With our own inner being are forgot.
Yet was this deep vacation not given up To utter waste. Hitherto I had stood
In my own mind remote from social life, (At least from what we commonly so name,) 515 Like a lone shepherd on a promontory
Who lacking occupation looks far forth Into the boundless sea, and rather makes Than finds what he beholds. And sure it is, That this first transit from the smooth delights 520 And wild outlandish walks of simple youth To something that resembles an approach Towards human business, to a privileged world Within a world, a midway residence
With all its intervenient imagery, 525 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 530 To higher things; more naturally matured, For permanent possession, better fruits, Whether of truth or virtue, to ensue.
In serious mood, but oftener, I confess, With playful zest of fancy did we note 535 (How could we less?) the manners and the ways Of those who lived distinguished by the badge Of good or ill report; or those with whom By frame of Academic discipline
We were perforce connected, men whose sway 540 And known 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 unsecured, grotesque 545 In character, tricked out like aged trees Which through the lapse of their infirmity Give ready place to any random seed
That chooses to be reared upon their trunks.
Here on my view, confronting vividly 550 Those shepherd swains whom I had lately left, Appeared a different aspect of old age; How different! yet both distinctly marked, Objects embossed to catch the general eye, Or portraitures for special use designed, 555 As some might seem, so aptly do they serve To illustrate Nature’s book of rudiments– That book upheld as with maternal care
When she would enter on her tender scheme Of teaching comprehension with delight, 560 And mingling playful with pathetic thoughts.
The surfaces of artificial life
And manners finely wrought, the delicate race Of colours, lurking, gleaming up and down Through that state arras woven with silk and gold; 565 This wily interchange of snaky hues,
Willingly or unwillingly revealed, I neither knew nor cared for; and as such Were wanting here, I took what might be found Of less elaborate fabric. At this day 570 I smile, in many a mountain solitude
Conjuring up scenes as obsolete in freaks Of character, in points of wit as broad, As aught by wooden images performed
For entertainment of the gaping crowd 575 At 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 580 Of texture midway between 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 eager strifes Collaterally pourtrayed, as in mock fight, 585 A tournament of blows, some hardly dealt Though short of mortal combat; and whate’er Might in this pageant be supposed to hit An artless rustic’s notice, this way less, More that way, was not wasted upon me–590 And yet the spectacle may well demand
A more substantial name, no mimic show, Itself a living part of a live whole,
A creek in the vast sea; for, all degrees And shapes of spurious fame and short-lived praise 595 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, 600 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, 605 (The idol weak as the idolater),
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 610 Left to herself 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 615 By after-meditation. But delight
That, in an easy temper lulled asleep, Is still with Innocence its own reward, This was not wanting. Carelessly I roamed As through a wide museum from whose stores 620 A casual rarity is singled out
And has its brief perusal, then gives way To others, all supplanted in their turn; Till ‘mid this crowded neighbourhood of things That are by nature most unneighbourly, 625 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 to the memory something cleaves at last, 630 Whence profit may be drawn in times to come.
Thus in submissive idleness, my Friend! The labouring time of autumn, winter, spring, Eight months! rolled pleasingly away; the ninth Came and returned me to my native hills. 635
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: Wordsworth went from York to Cambridge, entering it by the coach road from the north-west. This was doubtless the road which now leads to the city from Girton. “The long-roofed chapel of King’s College” must have been seen from that road.–Ed.]
[Footnote B: The Hoop Inn still exists, not now so famous as in the end of last century.–Ed.]
[Footnote C: He entered St. John’s College in October 1787. His rooms in the College were unknown to the officials a dozen years ago, although they are pretty clearly indicated by Wordsworth in this passage. They were in the first of the three courts of St. John’s; they were above the College kitchens; and from the window of his bedroom he could look into the antechapel of Trinity, with its statue of Newton. They have been recently removed in connection with sundry improvements in the college kitchen. For details, see the ‘Life of Wordsworth’ which will follow this edition of his Works.–Ed.]
[Footnote D: A village two and a half miles south of Cambridge.
“There are still some remains of the mill here celebrated by Chaucer in his Reve’s Tale.”
(Lewis’ ‘Topographical Dictionary of England’, vol. iv. p. 390.)–Ed.]
[Footnote E: S. T. C., who entered Cambridge when Wordsworth left it.–Ed.]
[Footnote F: On certain days a surplice is worn, instead of a gown, by the undergraduates.–Ed.]
[Footnote G: Compare the poem ‘Floating Island’, by Dorothy Wordsworth.–Ed.]
[Footnote H: The following extract from a letter of Dorothy Wordsworth’s illustrates the above and other passages of this book. It was written from Forncett, on the 26th of June, 1791. She is speaking of her two brothers, William and Christopher. Of Christopher she says:
“His abilities, though not so great, perhaps, as his brother’s, may be of more use to him, as he has not fixed his mind upon any particular species of reading or conceived an aversion to any. He is not fond of mathematics, but has resolution sufficient to study them; because it will be impossible for him to obtain a fellowship without them. William lost the chance, indeed the certainty, of a fellowship, by not combating his inclinations. He gave way to his natural dislike to studies so dry as many parts of the mathematics, consequently could not succeed in Cambridge. He reads Italian, Spanish, French, Greek, Latin, and English; but never opens a mathematical book…. Do not think from what I have said that he reads not at all; for he does read a great deal, and not only poetry, in these languages he is acquainted with, but History also,” etc. etc.
Ed.]
[Footnote I: ‘Date obolum Belisario’. Belisarius, a general of the Emperor Justinian’s, died 564 A.D. The story of his begging charity is probably a legend, but the “begging scholar” was common in Christendom throughout the Middle Ages, and was met with in the last century.–Ed.]
* * * * *
BOOK FOURTH
SUMMER VACATION
Bright was the summer’s noon when quickening steps Followed each other till a dreary moor
Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose top [A] Standing alone, as from a rampart’s edge, I overlooked the bed of Windermere, 5 Like a vast river, stretching in the sun. With exultation, at my feet I saw
Lake, islands, promontories, gleaming bays, A universe of Nature’s fairest forms
Proudly revealed with instantaneous burst, 10 Magnificent, and beautiful, and gay.
I bounded down the hill shouting amain For the old Ferryman; to the shout the rocks Replied, and when the Charon of the flood Had staid his oars, and touched the jutting pier, [B] 15 I did not step into the well-known boat Without a cordial greeting. Thence with speed Up the familiar hill I took my way [C]
Towards that sweet Valley [D] where I had been reared; ‘Twas but a short hour’s walk, ere veering round 20 I saw the snow-white church upon her hill [E] Sit like a throned Lady, sending out
A gracious look all over her domain. [F] Yon azure smoke betrays the lurking town; With eager footsteps I advance and reach 25 The cottage threshold where my journey closed. Glad welcome had I, with some tears, perhaps, From my old Dame, so kind and motherly, [G] While she perused me with a parent’s pride. The thoughts of gratitude shall fall like dew 30 Upon thy grave, good creature! While my heart Can beat never will I 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 35 Of calm enjoyments, after eighty years, And more than eighty, of untroubled life, [H] Childless, yet by the strangers to thy blood Honoured with little less than filial love. What joy was mine to see thee once again, 40 Thee and thy dwelling, and a crowd of things About its narrow precincts all beloved, [I] 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? 45 The rooms, the court, the garden were not left Long unsaluted, nor the sunny seat
Round the stone table under the dark pine, [K] Friendly to studious or to festive hours; Nor that unruly child of mountain birth, 50 The famous brook, who, soon as he was boxed Within our garden, [L] found himself at once, As if by trick insidious and unkind,
Stripped of his voice [M] and left to dimple down (Without an effort and without a will) 55 A channel paved by man’s officious care. [N] I looked at him and smiled, and smiled again, And in the press of twenty thousand thoughts, [O] “Ha,” quoth I, “pretty prisoner, are you there!” Well might sarcastic Fancy then have whispered, 60 “An emblem here behold of thy own life; In its late course of even days with all Their smooth enthralment;” but the heart was full, Too full for that reproach. My aged Dame Walked proudly at my side: she guided me; 65 I willing, nay–nay, wishing to be led. –The face of every neighbour whom I met Was like a volume to me; some were hailed Upon the road, some busy at their work, Unceremonious greetings interchanged 70 With half the length of a long field between. Among my schoolfellows I scattered round Like recognitions, but with some constraint Attended, doubtless, with a little pride, But with more shame, for my habiliments, 75 The transformation wrought by gay attire. Not less delighted did I take my place
At our domestic table: and, [P] dear Friend In this endeavour simply to relate
A Poet’s history, may I leave untold 80 The thankfulness with which I laid me down In my accustomed bed, more welcome now
Perhaps than if it had been more desired Or been more often thought of with regret; That lowly bed whence I had heard the wind 85 Roar and the rain beat hard, where I so oft Had lain awake on summer nights to watch The moon in splendour couched among the leaves Of a tall ash, that near our cottage stood; [Q] Had watched her with fixed eyes while to and fro 90 In the dark summit of the waving tree
She rocked with every impulse of the breeze.
Among the favourites whom it pleased me well To see again, was one by ancient right
Our inmate, a rough terrier of the hills; 95 By birth and call of nature pre-ordained 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 100 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 this dog was used 105 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, roving high and low 110 I have been harassed with the toil of verse, Much pains and little progress, and at once Some lovely Image in the song rose up
Full-formed, like Venus rising from the sea; Then have I darted forwards to let 115 My hand upon his back with stormy joy,
Caressing him again and yet again. And when at evening on the public way
I sauntered, like a river murmuring And talking to itself when all things 120 Are still, the creature trotted on before; Such was his custom; but whene’er he met A passenger approaching, he would turn
To give me timely notice, and straightway, Grateful for that admonishment, I 125 My voice, composed my gait, and, with the air And mien of one whose thoughts are free, advanced 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. 130
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–135 Those walks in all their freshness now came back Like a returning Spring. 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, 140 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; 145 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 herself; even so with me It fared that evening. Gently did my soul 150 Put off her veil, and, self-transmuted, stood Naked, as in the presence of her God.
While on I walked, a comfort seemed to touch A heart that had not been disconsolate: Strength came where weakness was not known to be, 155 At least not felt; and restoration came Like an intruder knocking at the door
Of unacknowledged weariness. I took The balance, and with firm hand weighed myself. –Of that external scene which round me lay, 160 Little, in this abstraction, did I see; Remembered less; but I had inward hopes And swellings of the spirit, was rapt and soothed, Conversed with promises, had glimmering views How life pervades the undecaying mind; 165 How the immortal soul with God-like 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 170 His being armed with strength that cannot fail. Nor was there want of milder thoughts, of love Of innocence, and holiday repose;
And more than pastoral quiet, ‘mid the stir Of boldest projects, and a peaceful end 175 At last, or glorious, by endurance won. Thus musing, in a wood I sate me down
Alone, continuing there to muse: the slopes And heights meanwhile were slowly overspread With darkness, and before a rippling breeze 180 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, moved by the straggling wind, Came ever and anon a breath-like sound, 185 Quick as the pantings of the faithful dog, The off and on companion of my walk;
And such, at times, believing them to be, I turned my head to look if he were there; Then into solemn thought I passed once more. 190
A freshness also found I at this time In human Life, the daily life of those
Whose occupations really I loved;
The peaceful scene oft filled me with surprise Changed like a garden in the heat of spring 195 After an eight-days’ absence. For (to omit The things which were the same and yet appeared Fair otherwise) amid this rural solitude, A narrow Vale where each was known to all, ‘Twas not indifferent to a youthful mind 200 To mark some sheltering bower or sunny nook, Where an old man had used to sit alone, Now vacant; pale-faced babes whom I had left In arms, now rosy prattlers at the feet Of a pleased grandame tottering up and down; 205 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 a subtler sense, And often looking round was moved to smiles 210 Such as a delicate work of humour breeds; I read, without design, the opinions, thoughts, Of those plain-living people now observed With clearer knowledge; with another eye I saw the quiet woodman in the woods, 215 The shepherd roam the hills. With new delight, This chiefly, did I note 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), 220 A mantle such as Spanish Cavaliers
Wore in old time. Her smooth domestic life, Affectionate without disquietude,
Her talk, her business, pleased me; and no less Her clear though shallow stream of piety 225 That ran on Sabbath days a fresher course; With thoughts unfelt till now I saw her read Her Bible on hot Sunday afternoons,
And loved the book, when she had dropped asleep And made of it a pillow for her head. 230
Nor less do I remember to have felt, Distinctly manifested at this time,
A human-heartedness about my love
For objects hitherto the absolute wealth Of my own private being and no more: 235 Which I had loved, even as a blessed 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 or regret, 240 A pensive 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, 245 Acquaintances of every little child,
And Jupiter, my own beloved star!
Whatever shadings of mortality,
Whatever imports from the world of death Had come among these objects heretofore, 250 Were, in the main, of mood less tender: strong, Deep, gloomy were they, and severe; the scatterings Of awe or tremulous dread, that had given way In later youth to yearnings of a love
Enthusiastic, to delight and hope. 255
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 deep, 260 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, reflected in the depth 265 Of the clear flood, from things which there abide In their true dwelling; now is crossed by gleam Of his own image, by a sun-beam now,
And wavering motions sent he knows not whence, Impediments that make his task more sweet; 270 Such pleasant office have we long pursued Incumbent o’er the surface of past time With like success, nor often have appeared Shapes fairer or less doubtfully discerned Than these to which the Tale, indulgent Friend! 275 Would now direct thy notice. Yet in spite Of pleasure won, and knowledge not withheld, There was an inner falling off–I loved, Loved deeply all that had been loved before, More deeply even than ever: but a swarm 280 Of heady schemes jostling each other, gawds, And feast and dance, and public revelry, And sports and games (too grateful in themselves, Yet in themselves less grateful, I believe, Than as they were a badge glossy and fresh 285 Of manliness and freedom) all conspired To lure my mind from firm habitual quest Of feeding pleasures, to depress the zeal And damp those yearnings which had once been mine– A wild, unworldly-minded youth, given up 290 To his own eager thoughts. It would demand Some skill, and longer time than may be spared, To paint these vanities, and how they wrought In haunts where they, till now, had been unknown. It seemed the very garments that I wore 295 Preyed on my strength, and stopped the quiet stream Of self-forgetfulness.
Yes, that heartless chase Of trivial pleasures was a poor exchange For books and nature at that early age. ‘Tis true, some casual knowledge might be gained 300 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 305 Intense desire through meditative peace; And yet, for chastisement of these regrets, The memory of one particular hour
Doth here rise up against me. ‘Mid a throng Of maids and youths, old men, and matrons staid, 310 A medley of all tempers, I had passed
The night in dancing, gaiety, and mirth, With din of instruments and shuffling feet, And glancing forms, and tapers glittering, And unaimed prattle flying up and down; [R] 315 Spirits upon the stretch, and here and there Slight shocks of young love-liking interspersed, Whose transient pleasure mounted to the head, And tingled through the veins. Ere we retired, The cock had crowed, and now the eastern sky 320 Was kindling, not unseen, from humble copse And open field, through which the pathway wound, And homeward led my steps. Magnificent
The morning rose, in memorable pomp, Glorious as e’er I had beheld–in front, 325 The sea lay laughing at a distance; near, The solid mountains shone, bright as the clouds, Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean light; And in the meadows and the lower grounds Was all the sweetness of a common dawn–330 Dews, vapours, and the melody of birds, [S] And labourers going forth to till the fields. Ah! need I say, dear Friend! that to the brim My heart was full; I made no vows, but vows Were then made for me; bond unknown to me 335 Was given, that I should be, else sinning greatly, A dedicated Spirit. On I walked
In thankful blessedness, which yet survives. [T]
Strange rendezvous! My mind was at that time A parti-coloured show of grave and gay, 340 Solid and light, short-sighted and profound; Of inconsiderate habits and sedate,
Consorting in one mansion unreproved. The worth I knew of powers that I possessed, Though slighted and too oft misused. Besides, 345 That summer, swarming as it did with thoughts Transient and idle, lacked not intervals When Folly from the frown of fleeting Time Shrunk, and the mind experienced in herself Conformity as just as that of old 350 To the end and written spirit of God’s works, Whether held forth in Nature or in Man, Through pregnant vision, separate or conjoined.
When from our better selves we have too long Been parted by the hurrying world, and droop, 355 Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, How gracious, how benign, is Solitude;
How potent a mere image of her sway; Most potent when impressed upon the mind With an appropriate human centre–hermit, 360 Deep in the bosom of the wilderness;
Votary (in vast cathedral, where no foot Is treading, where no other face is seen) Kneeling at prayers; or watchman on the top Of lighthouse, beaten by Atlantic waves; 365 Or as the soul of that great Power is met Sometimes embodied on a public road,
When, for the night deserted, it assumes A character of quiet more profound
Than pathless wastes.
Once, when those summer months 370 Were flown, and autumn brought its annual show Of oars with oars contending, sails with sails, Upon Winander’s spacious breast, it chanced That–after I had left a flower-decked room (Whose in-door pastime, lighted up, survived 375 To a late hour), and spirits overwrought Were making night do penance for a day
Spent in a round of strenuous idleness–[U] My homeward course led up a long ascent, Where the road’s watery surface, to the top 380 Of that sharp rising, glittered to the moon And bore the semblance of another stream Stealing with silent lapse to join the brook That murmured in the vale. [V] All else was still; No living thing appeared in earth or air, 385 And, save the flowing water’s peaceful voice, Sound there was none–but, lo! an uncouth shape, Shown by a sudden turning of the road,
So near that, slipping back into the shade Of a thick hawthorn, I could mark him well, 390 Myself unseen. He was of stature tall,
A span above man’s common measure, tall, Stiff, lank, and upright; a more meagre man Was never seen before by night or day.
Long were his arms, pallid his hands; his mouth 395 Looked ghastly in the moonlight: from behind, A mile-stone propped him; I could also ken That he was clothed in military garb,
Though faded, yet entire. Companionless, No dog attending, by no staff sustained, 400 He stood, and in his very dress appeared A desolation, a simplicity,
To which the trappings of a gaudy world Make a strange back-ground. From his lips, ere long, Issued low muttered sounds, as if of pain 405 Or some uneasy thought; yet still his form Kept the same awful steadiness–at his feet His shadow lay, and moved not. From self-blame Not wholly free, I watched him thus; at length Subduing my heart’s specious cowardice, 410