The Prelude. William Wordsworth

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

       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,

       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.

      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. 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 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,

       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,

       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,

       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

       Of more distinct humanity, that left

       All genuine admiration unimpaired.

       ​Beside the pleasant Mill of Trompington

       I laughed with Chaucer in the hawthorn shade;

       Heard him, while birds were warbling, tell his tales

       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!

       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

       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.

       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,

       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

       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

       No longer haunting the dark winter night.

       Call back, O Friend! a moment to thy mind

       The place itself and fashion of the rites.

       With careless ostentation shouldering up

       My surplice, through the inferior throng I clove

       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

       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

       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

       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

       To a floating island, an amphibious spot

       Unsound, of spongy texture, yet withal

       Not wanting a fair face of water weeds

       And pleasant flowers. The thirst of living praise,

       Fit reverence for the glorious Dead, the sight

       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. 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 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, 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, Take up a station calmly on the perch Of sedentary peace. Those lovely forms Had also left less space within my mind,