Of subtler origin; how I have felt, Not seldom even in that tempestuous time, Those hallow'd 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 that fit Our new existence to existing things, And, in our dawn of being, constitute The bond of union between life and joy.
Yes, I remember when the changeful earth, And twice five Summers on my mind had stamp'd The faces of the moving year, even then
I held unconscious intercourse with beauty Old as creation, drinking in a pure Organic pleasure from the silver wreaths Of curling mist, or from the level plain Of waters colour'd by impending clouds.
The sands of Westmoreland, the creeks and bays Of Cumbria's rocky limits, they can tell How, when the Sea threw off his evening shade, And to the shepherd's hut on distant hills Sent welcome notice of the rising Moon, How I have stood, to fancies such as these A stranger, linking with the spectacle No conscious memory of a kindred sight, And bringing with me no peculiar sense Of quietness or peace; yet have I stood,
Even while mine eye hath moved o'er many a league Of shining water, gathering as it seem'd Through every hair-breadth in that field of light New pleasure like a bee among the flowers. Thus oft amid those fits of vulgar joy Which, through all seasons, on a child's pursuits Are prompt attendants, 'mid that giddy bliss Which, like a tempest, works along the blood And is forgotten; even then I felt Gleams like the flashing of a shield; And common face of Nature spake to me Rememberable things; sometimes, 'tis true, By chance collisions and quaint accidents, (Like those ill-sorted unions, work supposed Of evil-minded fairies,) yet not vain Nor profitless, if haply they impress'd Collateral objects and appearances, Albeit lifeless then, and doom'd to sleep
Until maturer seasons call'd them forth To impregnate and to elevate the mind. - And if the vulgar joy by its own weight Wearied itself out of the memory,
The scenes which were a witness of that joy Remain'd in their substantial lineaments Depicted on the brain, and to the eye Were visible, a daily sight; and thus, By the impressive discipline of fear, By pleasure and repeated happiness, So frequently repeated, and by force Of obscure feelings representative
Of things forgotten, these same scenes so bright, So beautiful, so majestic in themselves, Though yet the day was distant, did become Habitually dear, and all their forms
And changeful colours by invisible links Were fasten'd to th' affections.
I began My story early, not misled, I trust, By an infirmity of love for days
Disown'd by memory,-ere the breath of Spring Planting my snowdrops among winter snows: Nor will it seem to thee, O Friend! so prompt In sympathy, that I have lengthen'd out With fond and feeble tongue a tedious tale. Meanwhile my hope has been, that I might fetch Invigorating thoughts from former years; Might fix the wavering balance of my mind, And haply meet reproaches too, whose power May spur me on, in manhood now mature, To honourable toil. Yet should these hopes Prove vain, and thus should neither I be taught To understand myself, nor thou to know With better knowledge how the heart was framed Of him thou lovest; need I dread from thee Harsh judgments, if the song be loth to quit Those recollected hours that have the charm Of visionary things, those lovely forms And sweet sensations that throw back our life, And almost make remotest infancy
A visible scene, on which the Sun is shining? One end at least hath been attain'd: my mind Hath been revived, and, if this genial mood Desert me not, forthwith shall be brought down Through later years the story of my life.
The road lies plain before me;
'tis a theme Single and of determined bounds; and hence I choose it rather at this time than work Of ampler or more varied argument, Where I might be discomfited and lost: And certain hopes are with me, that to thee This labour will be welcome, honour'd Friend!
THUS far, O Friend! have we, though leaving much Unvisited, endeavour'd to retrace
The simple ways in which my childhood walk'd; Those chiefly that first led me to the love Of rivers, woods, and fields. The passion yet Was in its birth, sustain'd, as might befall, 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 Prolong'd in Summer till the daylight fail'd: No chair remain'd before the doors; the bench And threshold-steps were empty; fast asleep The labourer, and the old man who had sat A later lingerer; yet the revelry
Continued and the loud uproar: at last,
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 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 The eagerness of infantine desire? A tranquillizing 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, 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 Or centre of these sports; and when, return'd After long absence, thither I repair'd,
Gone was the old gray stone, and in its place A smart Assembly-room usurp'd the ground That had been ours. There let the fiddle scream, 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 sat, And watch'd her table with its huckster's wares Assiduous, through the length of sixty years.
We ran a boisterous course; the year span round With giddy motion. But the time approach'd That brought with it a regular desire
For calmer pleasures, when the winning forms Of Nature were collaterally attach'd 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, 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 chanted rites. In such a race So ended, disappointment could be none, Uneasiness, or pain, or jealousy:
We rested in the shade, all pleased alike,
Conquer'd, and conqueror. Thus the pride of strength
And the vainglory of superior skill
Were temper'd; 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 wish'd we knew the blessing then Of vigorous hunger, hence corporeal strength Unsapp'd by delicate viands; for, exclude A little weekly stipend, and we lived Through three divisions of the quarter'd year In penniless poverty. But now to school From the half-yearly holidays return'd,
We came with weightier purses, that sufficed To furnish treats more costly than the Dame Of th' old gray 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 worshipp'd, or the antique walls Of that large abbey, where within the Vale Of Nightshade, to Saint 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 sequester'd 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-legg'd 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, touch'd by faint Internal breezes, sobbings of the place
And respirations, from the roofless walls
The shuddering ivy dripp'd large drops-yet still
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