The Prelude or Growth of a Poet's Mind: By William Wordsworth: Edited from the manuscripts with introduction, textual and critical notes by Ernest de Selincourt |
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 | The Prelude |  |
Through wild obliquities could I pursue
Among all objects of the fields and groves
These cravings; when the Foxglove, one by one,
Upwards through every stage of its tall stem,
Had shed its bells, and stood by the wayside
Dismantled, with a single one, perhaps,
Left at the ladder's top, with which the Plant
Appeared to stoop, as slender blades of grass
Tipp'd with a bead of rain or dew, behold!
If such a sight were seen, would Fancy bring
Some Vagrant thither with her Babes, and seat her
Upon the turf beneath the stately Flower
Drooping in sympathy, and making so
A melancholy Crest above the head
Of the lorn Creature, while her Little-Ones,
All unconcerned with her unhappy plight,
Were sporting with the purple cups that lay
Scatter'd upon the ground.
Among all objects of the fields and groves
These cravings; when the Foxglove, one by one,
Upwards through every stage of its tall stem,
Had shed its bells, and stood by the wayside
Dismantled, with a single one, perhaps,
Left at the ladder's top, with which the Plant
Appeared to stoop, as slender blades of grass
Tipp'd with a bead of rain or dew, behold!
If such a sight were seen, would Fancy bring
Some Vagrant thither with her Babes, and seat her
Upon the turf beneath the stately Flower
Drooping in sympathy, and making so
A melancholy Crest above the head
Of the lorn Creature, while her Little-Ones,
All unconcerned with her unhappy plight,
Were sporting with the purple cups that lay
Scatter'd upon the ground.
There was a Copse
An upright bank of wood and woody rock
That opposite our rural Dwelling stood,
In which a sparkling patch of diamond light
Was in bright weather duly to be seen
On summer afternoons, within the wood
At the same place. 'Twas doubtless nothing more
Than a black rock, which, wet with constant springs
Glister'd far seen from out its lurking-place
As soon as ever the declining sun
Had smitten it. Beside our Cottage hearth,
Sitting with open door, a hundred times
Upon this lustre have I gaz'd, that seem'd
To have some meaning which I could not find;
And now it was a burnished shield, I fancied,
Suspended over a Knight's Tomb, who lay
Inglorious, buried in the dusky wood;
An entrance now into some magic cave
Or Palace for a Fairy of the rock;
Nor would I, though not certain whence the cause
Of the effulgence, thither have repair'd
Without a precious bribe, and day by day
And month by month I saw the spectacle,
Nor ever once have visited the spot
Unto this hour. Thus sometimes were the shapes
Of wilful fancy grafted upon feelings
Of the imagination, and they rose
In worth accordingly. My present Theme
Is to retrace the way that led me on
Through Nature to the love of Human Kind;
Nor could I with such object overlook
The influence of this Power which turn'd itself
Instinctively to human passions, things
Least understood; of this adulterate Power,
For so it may be call'd, and without wrong,
When with that first compar'd. Yet in the midst
Of these vagaries, with an eye so rich
As mine was, through the chance, on me not wasted
Of having been brought up in such a grand
And lovely region, I had forms distinct
To steady me; these thoughts did oft revolve
About some centre palpable, which at once
Incited them to motion, and control'd,
And whatsoever shape the fit might take,
And whencesoever it might come, I still
At all times had a real solid world
Of images about me; did not pine
As one in cities bred might do; as Thou,
Beloved Friend! hast told me that thou didst,
Great Spirit as thou art, in endless dreams
Of sickliness, disjoining, joining things
Without the light of knowledge. Where the harm,
If, when the Woodman languish'd with disease
From sleeping night by night among the woods
Within his sod-built Cabin, Indian-wise,
I call'd the pangs of disappointed love
And all the long Etcetera of such thought
To help him to his grave? Meanwhile the Man,
If not already from the woods retir'd
To die at home, was haply, as I knew,
Pining alone among the gentle airs,
Birds, running Streams, and Hills so beautiful
On golden evenings, while the charcoal Pile
Breath'd up its smoke, an image of his ghost
Or spirit that full soon must take its flight.
An upright bank of wood and woody rock
290
In which a sparkling patch of diamond light
Was in bright weather duly to be seen
On summer afternoons, within the wood
At the same place. 'Twas doubtless nothing more
Than a black rock, which, wet with constant springs
Glister'd far seen from out its lurking-place
As soon as ever the declining sun
Had smitten it. Beside our Cottage hearth,
Sitting with open door, a hundred times
Upon this lustre have I gaz'd, that seem'd
To have some meaning which I could not find;
And now it was a burnished shield, I fancied,
Suspended over a Knight's Tomb, who lay
Inglorious, buried in the dusky wood;
An entrance now into some magic cave
Or Palace for a Fairy of the rock;
Nor would I, though not certain whence the cause
Of the effulgence, thither have repair'd
Without a precious bribe, and day by day
And month by month I saw the spectacle,
Nor ever once have visited the spot
Unto this hour. Thus sometimes were the shapes
Of wilful fancy grafted upon feelings
Of the imagination, and they rose
In worth accordingly. My present Theme
Is to retrace the way that led me on
Through Nature to the love of Human Kind;
Nor could I with such object overlook
The influence of this Power which turn'd itself
Instinctively to human passions, things
Least understood; of this adulterate Power,
For so it may be call'd, and without wrong,
When with that first compar'd. Yet in the midst
Of these vagaries, with an eye so rich
As mine was, through the chance, on me not wasted
Of having been brought up in such a grand
And lovely region, I had forms distinct
To steady me; these thoughts did oft revolve
About some centre palpable, which at once
Incited them to motion, and control'd,
And whatsoever shape the fit might take,
And whencesoever it might come, I still
292
Of images about me; did not pine
As one in cities bred might do; as Thou,
Beloved Friend! hast told me that thou didst,
Great Spirit as thou art, in endless dreams
Of sickliness, disjoining, joining things
Without the light of knowledge. Where the harm,
If, when the Woodman languish'd with disease
From sleeping night by night among the woods
Within his sod-built Cabin, Indian-wise,
I call'd the pangs of disappointed love
And all the long Etcetera of such thought
To help him to his grave? Meanwhile the Man,
If not already from the woods retir'd
To die at home, was haply, as I knew,
Pining alone among the gentle airs,
Birds, running Streams, and Hills so beautiful
On golden evenings, while the charcoal Pile
Breath'd up its smoke, an image of his ghost
Or spirit that full soon must take its flight.
| The Prelude | |