The Prelude. William Wordsworth

summer came,

       Our pastime was, on bright half-holidays,

       To sweep along the plain of Windermere

       With rival oars; 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

       With lilies of the valley like a field;

       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. In such a race

       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,

       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,

       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

       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,

       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

       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,

       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

       Were distant: some famed temple where of yore

       The Druids worshipped, or the antique walls

       Of that large abbey, where within the Vale

       Of Nightshade, to St. Mary's honour built,

       Stands yet a mouldering pile with fractured arch,

       Belfry, 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

       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,

       With whip and spur we through the chauntry flew

       In uncouth race, and left the cross-legged knight,

       And the stone-abbot, and that single wren

       Which one day sang so sweetly in the nave

       Of the old church, that—though from recent showers

       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

       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

       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

       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,

       A tavern stood; no homely-featured house,

       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

       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,

       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—

       Yet, to this hour, the spot to me is dear

       With all its foolish pomp. The garden lay

       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; nor did we want

       Refreshment, strawberries and mellow cream.

       ​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

       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,

       And rowed off