William Wordsworth — The Two-Part Prelude 1798-9 Book 1

Book 1 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, traveling over the green plains Near my "sweet birth-place," didst thou beauteous Stream Make ceaseless music through the night and day, Which with its steady cadence tempering [1.10] Our human waywardness, composed my thoughts To more than infant softness, giving me, Among the fretful dwellings of mankind, A knowledge, a dim earnest of the calm Which Nature breathes among the fields and groves? Beloved Derwent! Fairest of all Streams! Was it for this that I, a four year's child, A naked Boy, among thy silent pools Made one long bathing of a summer's day? Basked in the sun, or plunged into thy stream's [1.20] Alternate, all a summer's day, or coursed Over the sandy fields, and dashed the flowers Of yellow grunsel, or whom crag and hill, The woods and distant Skiddaw's lofty height Were bronzed with a deep radiance, stood alone, A naked Savage in the thunder shower? And afterwards, 'twas in a later day Though early, when upon the mountain-slope The frost and breath of frosty wind had snapped The last autumnal crocus, 'twas my joy [1.30] To wander half the night among the cliffs And the smooth hollows, where the woodcocks ran Along the moonlight turf. In thought and wish, That time, my shoulder all with springes hung, I was a fell destroyer. Gentle Powers! Who give us happiness and call it peace! When scudding on from snare to snare I plied My anxious visitation, hurrying on, Still hurrying hurrying onward, how my heart Panted; among the scattered yew-trees, and the crags [1.40] The looked upon me, how my bosom beat With expectation. Sometimes strong desire, Resistless, overpowered me, and the bird Which was the captive of another's toils 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, in spring-time, when on southern banks [1.50] The shining sun had from his knot of leaves Decoyed the primrose-flower, and when the vales And woods were warm, was I a rover then In the high places, on the longsome peaks, Among the mountains and the winds. Though mean And though inglorious were my views, then end Was ignoble. Oh, when I have hung Above the raven's nest, by knots of grass, Or half-inch fissures in the slipp'ry rock, But ill sustained, and almost, as it seemed, [1.60] Suspended by the blast which 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 ears! The sky seemed not a sky Of earth, and with what motion moved the clouds! The mind of man is fashioned and built up Even as strain of music: I believe That there are spirits, which, when they would form A favored being, from his very dawn [1.70] Of infancy do open out the clouds As at the touch of lightning, seeking him With gentle visitation; quiet Powers! Retired and seldom recognized, yet kind, And to the very meanest not unknown; With me, though rarely, in my early days They communed: others too there are who use, Yet haply aiming at the self-same end, Severer interventions, ministry More palpable, and of their school was I. [1.80] They guided me: one evening, led by them, I went alone into a Shepherd's boat, A skiff that to a willow-tree was tied Within a rocky cave, its usual home; The moon was up, the lake was shining clear Among the hoary mountains: from the shore I pushed, and struck the oars, and struck again In cadence, and my little Boat moved on Just like a man who walks with stately step Though bent on speed. It was an act of stealth [1.90] And troubled pleasure; not without the voice Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on, Leaving behind her still on either side Small circles glittering idly in the moon Until they melted all into one track Of sparkling light. A rocky steep uprose Above the cavern of the willow tree, And now, as suited one who proudly rowed With his best skill, I fixed a steady view Upon the top of that same craggy ridge, [1.100] The bound of the horizon, for behind Was nothing — but the stars and the grey sky. She was an elfin pinnace; twenty times I dipped my oars into the silent lake. And, as I rose upon the stroke, my Boat Went heaving through the water, like a swan — When from behind that rocky steep, till then The bound of the horizon, a huge Cliff, As if voluntary power instinct, Upreared its head: I struck, and struck again, [1.110] And, growing still in statue, the huge cliff Rose up between me and the starts, and still With measured motion, like a living thing, Strode after me. With trembling hands I turned, And through the silent water stole my way Back to the cavern of the willow-tree. There, in her mooring-place I left my bark, And through the meadows homeward went with grave And serious thoughts; and after I had seen That spectacle, for many days my brain [1.120] Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being; in my thoughts There was darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion; no familiar objects Of hourly objects, images of trees, Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields; But huge and mighty forms that do not live Like living men, moved slowly through my mind By day, and were the trouble of my dreams. Ah! Not in vain ye Beings of the hills! [1.130] And ye that walk the woods and open heaths By moon or star-light, thus from my first dawn Of childhood did ye love to intertwine The passions that build up our human soul, Not with the mean and vulgar works of man, But with high objects, with eternal things, With life and nature, purifying thus The elements of feeling and of thought, And sanctifying by such discipline Both pain and fear, until we recognize [1.140] A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me With stinted kindness. In November days, When vapours, rolling down the valleys, made A lonely scene more lonesome, among woods At noon, and 'mid the calm of summer nights When by the margin of the trembling lake Beneath the gloomy hills I homeward went In solitude, such intercourse was mine. And in the frosty season when the sun [1.150] Was set, and, visible for many a mile, The cottage windows through the twilight blazed, I heeded not the summons: clear and loud The village clock tolled six; I wheeled about Proud and exulting like an untired horse That cares not for its home. All shod with steel We hissed along the polished ice, in games Confederate, imitative of the chase And woodland pleasures, the resounding horn, The pack loud bellowing, and the hunted hare. [1.160] So through the darkness and the cold we flew, And not a voice was idle: with the din, Meanwhile, the precipices rang aloud, The leafless trees and every icy crag Tinkled like iron, while the distant hills Into the tumult sent an alien sound Of melancholy not unnoticed while the stars, Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west The orange sky of evening died away. Not seldom from the uproar I retired [1.170] Into a silent bay, or sportively Glanced sideway leaving the tumultuous throng To cut across the shadow of a star That gleamed upon the ice: and oftentimes When we had given our bodies to the wind And all the shadowy banks on either side Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still The rapid line of motion, then at once Have I, reclining back upon my heels, Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs [1.180] Wheeled by me, even as if the earth had rolled With visible motion her diurnal round; Behind me did they stretch in solemn train Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. Ye Powers of earth! Ye Genii of the springs! And ye that have your voices in the clouds And ye that are Familiars of the lakes And of the standing pools, I may not think A vulgar hope was yours when ye employed [1.190] Such ministry, when ye through many a year Thus by the agency of boyish sports On caves and trees, upon the woods and hills, Impressed upon all forms the characters Of danger and desire, and thus did make The surface of the universal earth With meanings of delight, of hope and fear, Work like a sea. Not uselessly employed I might pursue this theme through every change [1.200] Of exercise and sport to which the year Did summon us in its delightful round. We were a noisy crew: the sun in heaven Beheld not vales more beautiful than ours Nor saw a race in happiness and joy More worthy of the fields where they were sown. I would record with no reluctant voice Our home amusements by the warm peat fire At evening, when with pencil, and with slate In square divisions parcelled out, and all [1.210] With crosses and with cyphers scribbled o'er, We schemed and puzzled, head opposed to head In strife too humble to be named in verse, Or round the naked table, snow-white deal, Cherry or maple, sat in close array And to the combat — Lu or Whist — led on A thick-ribbed army, not as in the world Discarded and ungratefully thrown by Even for the very service they had wrought, But husbanded through many a long campaign. [1.220] Oh with what echoes on the board they fell — Ironic diamonds, hearts of sable hue, Queens gleaming through their splendour's last decay, Knaves wrapt in one assimilating gloom, And Kings indignant at the shame incurr'd By royal visages. Meanwhile abroad The heavy rain was falling, or the frost Raged bitterly with keen and silent tooth, And interrupting the impassioned game Oft from the neighbouring lake the splitting ice [1.230] While it sank down towards the water sent Among the meadows and the hills its long And frequent yellings, imitative some Of wolves that howl along the Bothnic main. Nor with less willing heart would I rehearse The woods of autumn and their hidden bowers With milk-white clusters hung; the rod and line. True symbol of the foolishness of hope, Which with its strong enchantment led me on [1.240] By rocks and pools where never summer-star Impressed its shadow, to forlorn cascades Among the windings of the mountain-brooks; The kite, in sultry calms from some high hill Sent up, ascending thence till it was lost Among the fleecy clouds, in gusty days Launched from the lower grounds, and suddenly Dash'd headlong—and rejected by the storm. All these and more with rival claims demand Grateful acknowledgment. It were a song [1.250] Venial, and such as if I rightly judge I might protract unblamed; but I perceive That much is overlooked, and we should ill Attain our object if from delicate fears Of breaking in upon the unity Of this my argument I should omit To speak of such effects as cannot here Be regularly classed, yet tend no less To the same point, the growth of mental power And love of Nature's works. [1.260] Ere I had seen Eight summers (and 'twas in the very week When I was first transplanted to thy vale, Beloved Hawkshead! when thy paths, thy shores And brooks were like a dream of novelty To my half-infant mind) I chanced to cross One of those open fields which, shaped like ears, Make green peninsulas on Esthwaite's lake, Twilight was coming on, yet through the gloom I saw distinctly on the opposite shore Beneath a tree and close by the lake side [1.270] A heap of garments, as if left by one Who there was bathing: half an hour I watched And no one owned them: meanwhile the calm lake Grew dark with all the shadows on its breast, And now and then a leaping fish disturbed The breathless stillness. The succeeding day There came a company, and in their boat Sounded with iron hooks, and with long poles. At length the dead man' mid that beauteous scene Of trees, and hills, and water, bolt upright [1.280] Rose with his ghastly face. I might advert To numerous accidents in flood or field, Quarry or moor, or 'mid the winter snows, Distresses and disasters, tragic facts Of rural history that impressed my mind With images, to which in following years Far other feelings were attached, with forms That yet exist with independent life And, like their archetypes, know no decay. There are in our existence spots of time [1.290] Which with distinct pre-eminence retain A fructifying virtue, whence, depressed By trivial occupations and the round Of ordinary intercourse, our minds (Especially the imaginative power) Are nourished, and invisibly repaired. Such moments chiefly seem to have their date In our first childhood, I remember well ('Tis of an early season that I speak, The twilight of rememberable life) [1.300] While I was yet an urchin, one who scarce Could hold a bridle, with ambitious hopes I mounted, and we rode towards the hills; We were a pair of horsemen: Honest James Was with me, my encourager and guide. We had not travelled long ere some mischance Disjoined me from my comrade, and through fear Dismounting, down the rough and stony moor I led my horse and, stumbling on, at length Came to a bottom where in former times [1.310] A man, the murderer of his wife, was hung In irons; mouldered was the gibbet mast, The bones were gone, the iron and the wood, Only a long green ridge of turf remained Whose shape was like a grave. I left the spot, And, reascending the bare slope, I saw A naked pool that lay beneath the hills, The beacon on the summit, and more near A girl who bore a pitcher on her head And seemed with difficult steps to force her way [1.320] Against the blowing wind. It was in truth An ordinary sight but I should need Colours and words that are unknown to man To paint the visionary dreariness Which, while I looked all round for my lost guide, Did, at that time, invest the naked pool, The beacon on the lonely eminence, The woman and her garments vexed and tossed By the strong wind. Nor less I recollect (Long after, though my childhood had not ceased) [1.330] Another scene which left a kindred power Implanted in my mind. One Christmas time, The day before the holidays began, Feverish, and tired and restless, I went forth Into the fields, impatient for the sight Of those three horses which should bear us home, My Brothers and myself. There was a crag, An eminence which from the meeting point Of two highways ascending overlooked [1.340] At least a long half-mile of those two roads, By each of which the expected steeds might come, The choice uncertain. Thither I repaired Up to the highest summit; 'twas a day Stormy, and rough, and wild, and on the grass I sat, half-sheltered by a naked wall; Upon my right hand was a single sheep, A whistling hawthorn on my left, and there, Those two companions at my side, I watched With eyes intensely straining as the mist [1.350] Gave intermitting prospects of the wood And plain beneath. Ere I to school returned That dreary time, ere I had been ten days A dweller in my Father's house, he died, And I and my two Brothers, orphans then, Followed his body to the grave. The event With all the sorrow which it brought appeared A chastisement, and when I called to mind That day so lately passed when from the crag I looked in such anxiety of hope, [1.360] With trite reflections of morality Yet with the deepest passion I bowed low To God, who thus corrected my desires; And afterwards the wind, and sleety rain, And all the business of the elements, The single sheep, and the one blasted tree, And the bleak music of that old stone wall, The noise of wood and water, and the mist Which on the line of each of those two roads Advanced in such indisputable shapes, [1.370] All these were spectacles and sounds to which I often would repair, and thence would drink As at a fountain, and I do not doubt That in this later time when storm and rain Beat on my roof at midnight, or by day When I am in the woods, unknown to me The workings of my spirit thence are brought. Nor sedulous° to trace diligent How Nature by collateral° interest indirect And by extrinsic passion peopled first [1.380] My mind with forms, or beautiful or grand, And made me love them, may I well forget How other pleasures have been mine, and joys Of subtler origin, how I have felt Not seldom, even in that tempestuous time, 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 that fit [1.390] 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 earth 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 level plain [1.400] Of waters coloured by the steady clouds. The sands of Westmoreland, the creeks and bays Of Cumbria's 2 rocky limits, they can tell How when the sea threw off his evening shade And to the Shepherd's hutt beneath the crags Did send sweet notice of the rising moon, How I have stood to images like these A stranger, linking with the spectacle No body of associated forms And bringing with me no peculiar sense [1.410] Of quietness or peace, yet I have stood Even while my eye has moved o'er three long leagues Of shining water, gathering as it seemed, Through the wide surface of that field of light New pleasure, like a bee among the flowers. Thus often in 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 [1.420] Gleams like the flashing of a shield; the earth And common face of Nature spake to me Rememberable things: sometimes, 'tis true, By quaint associations, yet not vain Nor profitless if haply they impressed Collateral objects and appearances, Albeit lifeless then, and doomed to sleep Until maturer seasons called them forth To impregnate and to elevate the mind. And if the vulgar joy by its own weight [1.430] Wearied itself out of memory, The scenes which were witness of that joy Remained, in their substantial lineaments Depicted on the brain, and to the eye Were visible, a daily sight: and thus By the impressive agency of fear, By pleasure and repeated happiness, So frequently repeated, and by force Of obscure feelings representative Of joys that were forgotten, these same scenes [1.440] So beauteous and majestic in themselves, Though yet the day was distant, did at length Become habitually dear, and all Their hues and forms were by invisible links Allied to the affections. I began My story early, feeling, as I fear, The weakness of a human love for days Disowned by memory, ere the birth of spring Planting my snow-drops among winter snows. [1.450] Nor will it seem to thee, my Friend, so prompt In sympathy, that I have lengthened out With fond and feeble tongue a tedious tale. Meanwhile my hope has been that I might fetch Reproaches from my former years, whose power May spur me on, in manhood now mature, To honourable toil. Yet, should it be That this is but an impotent desire, That I by such inquiry am not taught To understand myself, nor thou to know [1.460] With better knowledge how the heart was framed Of him thou lovest, need I dread from thee Harsh judgements if I am so loath to quit Those recollected hours that have the charm Of visionary things, and lovely forms And sweet sensations that throw back our life And make our infancy a visible scene On which that sun is shining?