The Prelude. William Wordsworth

sternly moved, I would relate

       How vanquished Mithridates northward passed,

       And, hidden in the cloud of years, became

       Odin, the Father of a race by whom

       Perished the Roman Empire: how the friends

       And followers of Sertorius, out of Spain

       Flying, found shelter in the Fortunate Isles,

       And left their usages, their arts and laws,

       To disappear by a slow gradual death,

       To dwindle and to perish one by one,

       Starved in those narrow bounds: but not the soul

       Of Liberty, which fifteen hundred years

       Survived, and, when the European came

       With skill and power that might not be withstood,

       Did, like a pestilence, maintain its hold

       And wasted down by glorious death that race

       Of natural heroes: or I would record

       How, in tyrannic times, some high-souled man,

       Unnamed among the chronicles of kings,

       Suffered in silence for Truth's sake: or tell,

       How that one Frenchman,(¹) through continued force Of meditation on the inhuman deeds Of those who conquered first the Indian Isles, Went single in his ministry across The Ocean; not to comfort the oppressed, ​But, like a thirsty wind, to roam about Withering the Oppressor: how Gustavus sought Help at his need in Dalecarlia's mines: How Wallace fought for Scotland; left the name Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower, All over his dear Country; left the deeds Of Wallace, like a family of Ghosts, To people the steep rocks and river banks, Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul Of independence and stern liberty. Sometimes it suits me better to invent A tale from my own heart, more near akin To my own passions and habitual thoughts; Some variegated story, in the main Lofty, but the unsubstantial structure melts Before the very sun that brightens it, Mist into air dissolving! Then a wish, My best and favourite aspiration, mounts With yearning toward some philosophic song Of Truth that cherishes our daily life; With meditations passionate from deep Recesses in man's heart, immortal verse Thoughtfully fitted to the Orphean lyre; But from this awful burthen I full soon Take refuge and beguile myself with trust ​That mellower years will bring a riper mind And clearer insight. Thus my days are past In contradiction; with no skill to part Vague longing, haply bred by want of power, From paramount impulse not to be withstood, A timorous capacity from prudence, From circumspection, infinite delay. Humility and modest awe themselves Betray me, serving often for a cloak To a more subtle selfishness; that now Locks every function up in blank reserve, Now dupes me, trusting to an anxious eye That with intrusive restlessness beats off Simplicity and self-presented truth. Ah! better far than this, to stray about Voluptuously through fields and rural walks, And ask no record of the hours, resigned To vacant musing, unreproved neglect Of all things, and deliberate holiday. Far better never to have heard the name Of zeal and just ambition, than to live Baffled and plagued by a mind that every hour Turns recreant to her task; takes heart again, Then feels immediately some hollow thought Hang like an interdict upon her hopes. ​This is my lot; for either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling toward the grave, Like a false steward who hath much received And renders nothing back. Was it for this That one, the fairest of all rivers, loved To blend his murmurs with my nurse's song, And, from his alder shades and rocky falls, And from his fords and shallows, sent a voice That flowed along my dreams? For this, didst thou, O Derwent! winding among grassy holms Where I was looking on, a babe in arms, Make ceaseless music that composed my thoughts To more than infant softness, giving me Amid the fretful dwellings of mankind A foretaste, a dim earnest, of the calm That Nature breathes among the hills and groves. When he had left the mountains and received On his smooth breast the shadow of those towers That yet survive, a shattered monument ​Of feudal sway, the bright blue river passed Along the margin of our terrace walk; A tempting playmate whom we dearly loved. Oh, many a time have I, a five years' child, In a small mill-race severed from his stream, Made one long bathing of a summer's day; Basked in the sun, and plunged and basked again Alternate, all a summer's day, or scoured The sandy fields, leaping through flowery groves Of yellow ragwort; or when rock and hill, The woods, and distant Skiddaw's lofty height, Were bronzed with deepest radiance, stood alone Beneath the sky, as if I had been born On Indian plains, and from my mother's hut Had run abroad in wantonness, to sport A naked savage, in the thunder shower.

      Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up

       Fostered alike by beauty and by fear:

       Much favoured in my birth-place, and no less

       In that beloved Vale to which erelong

       We were transplanted—there were we let loose

       For sports of wider range. Ere I had told

       Ten birth-days, when among the mountain slopes

       Frost, and the breath of frosty wind, had snapped

       ​The last autumnal crocus, 'twas my joy

       With store of springes o'er my shoulder hung

       To range the open heights where woodcocks run

       Along the smooth green turf. Through half the night,

       Scudding away from snare to snare, I plied

       That anxious visitation;—moon and stars

       Were shining o'er my head. I was alone,

       And seemed to be a trouble to the peace

       That dwelt among them. Sometimes it befel

       In these night wanderings, that a strong desire

       O'erpowered my better reason, and the bird

       Which was the captive of another's toil

       Became my prey; and when the deed was done

       I heard among the solitary hills

       Low breathings coming after me, and sounds

       Of undistinguishable motion, steps

       Almost as silent as the turf they trod.

      Nor less when spring had warmed the cultured Vale,

       Moved we as plunderers where the mother-bird

       Had in high places built her lodge; though mean

       Our object and inglorious, yet the end

       Was not ignoble. Oh! when I have hung

       Above the raven's nest, by knots of grass

       And half-inch fissures in the slippery rock

       ​But ill sustained, and almost (so it seemed)

       Suspended by the blast that blew amain,

       Shouldering the naked crag, oh, at that time

       While on the perilous ridge I hung alone,

       With what strange utterance did the loud dry wind

       Blow through my ear! the sky seemed not a sky

       Of earth—and with what motion moved the clouds!

      Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows

       Like harmony in music; there is a dark

       Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles

       Discordant elements, makes them cling together

       In one society. How strange that all

       The terrors, pains, and early miseries,

       Regrets, vexations, lassitudes interfused

       Within my mind, should e'er have borne a part,

       And that a needful part, in making up

       The calm existence