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 |  |
Among the band of my Compeers was one
My class-fellow at School, whose chance it was
To lodge in the Apartments which had been,
Time out of mind, honor'd by Milton's name;
The very shell reputed of the abode
Which he had tenanted. O temperate Bard!
One afternoon, the first time I set foot
In this thy innocent Nest and Oratory,
Seated with others in a festive ring
Of common-place convention, I to thee
Pour'd out libations, to thy memory drank,
Within my private thoughts, till my brain reel'd
Never so clouded by the fumes of wine
Before that hour, or since. Thence forth I ran
From that assembly, through a length of streets,
Ran, Ostrich-like, to reach our Chapel Door
In not a desperate or opprobrious time,
Albeit long after the importunate Bell
Had stopp'd, with wearisome Cassandra voice
No longer haunting the dark winter night.
Call back, O Friend! a moment to thy mind,
The place itself and fashion of the rites.
Upshouldering in a dislocated lump,
With shallow ostentatious carelessness,
My Surplice, gloried in, and yet despised,
I clove in pride through the inferior throng
Of the plain Burghers, who in audience stood
On the last skirts of their permitted ground,
Beneath the pealing Organ. Empty thoughts!
I am ashamed of them; and that great Bard,
And thou, O Friend! who in thy ample mind
Hast station'd me for reverence and love,
Ye will forgive the weakness of that hour
In some of its unworthy vanities,
Brother of many more.
My class-fellow at School, whose chance it was
To lodge in the Apartments which had been,
86
The very shell reputed of the abode
Which he had tenanted. O temperate Bard!
One afternoon, the first time I set foot
In this thy innocent Nest and Oratory,
Seated with others in a festive ring
Of common-place convention, I to thee
Pour'd out libations, to thy memory drank,
Within my private thoughts, till my brain reel'd
Never so clouded by the fumes of wine
Before that hour, or since. Thence forth I ran
From that assembly, through a length of streets,
Ran, Ostrich-like, to reach our Chapel Door
In not a desperate or opprobrious time,
Albeit long after the importunate Bell
Had stopp'd, with wearisome Cassandra voice
No longer haunting the dark winter night.
Call back, O Friend! a moment to thy mind,
The place itself and fashion of the rites.
Upshouldering in a dislocated lump,
With shallow ostentatious carelessness,
My Surplice, gloried in, and yet despised,
I clove in pride through the inferior throng
Of the plain Burghers, who in audience stood
On the last skirts of their permitted ground,
Beneath the pealing Organ. Empty thoughts!
I am ashamed of them; and that great Bard,
And thou, O Friend! who in thy ample mind
Hast station'd me for reverence and love,
Ye will forgive the weakness of that hour
In some of its unworthy vanities,
Brother of many more.
In this mix'd sort
The months pass'd on, remissly, not given up
To wilful alienation from the right,
Or walks of open scandal; but in vague
And loose indifference, easy likings, aims
Of a low pitch; duty and zeal dismiss'd,
Yet nature, or a happy course of things
Not doing in their stead the needful work.
The memory languidly revolv'd, the heart
Repos'd in noontide rest; the inner pulse
Of contemplation almost fail'd to beat.
Rotted as by a charm, my life became
A floating island, an amphibious thing,
Unsound, of spongy texture, yet withal,
Not wanting a fair face of water-weeds
And pleasant flowers.—The thirst of living praise,
A reverence for the glorious Dead, the sight
Of those long Vistas, Catacombs in which
Perennial minds lie visibly entomb'd,
Have often stirr'd the heart of youth, and bred
A fervent love of rigorous discipline.
Alas! such high commotion touched not me;
No look was in these walls to put to shame
My easy spirits, and discountenance
Their light composure, far less to instil
A calm resolve of mind, firmly address'd
To puissant efforts. Nor was this the blame
Of others but my own; I should, in truth,
As far as doth concern my single self
Misdeem most widely, lodging it elsewhere.
For I, bred up in Nature's lap, was even
As a spoil'd Child; and rambling like the wind
As I had done in daily intercourse
With those delicious rivers, solemn heights,
And mountains; ranging like a fowl of the air,
I was ill tutor'd for captivity,
To quit my pleasure, and from month to month,
Take up a station calmly on the perch
Of sedentary peace. Those lovely forms
Had also left less space within my mind,
Which, wrought upon instinctively, had found
A freshness in those objects of its love,
A winning power, beyond all other power.
Not that I slighted Books; that were to lack
All sense; but other passions had been mine,
More fervent, making me less prompt, perhaps,
To in-door study than was wise or well
Or suited to my years. Yet I could shape
The image of a Place which, sooth'd and lull'd
As I had been, train'd up in paradise
Among sweet garlands and delightful sounds,
Accustom'd in my loneliness to walk
With Nature magisterially, yet I,
Methinks, could shape the image of a Place
Which with its aspect should have bent me down
To instantaneous service, should at once
Have made me pay to science and to arts
And written lore, acknowledg'd my liege Lord,
A homage, frankly offer'd up, like that
Which I had paid to Nature. Toil and pains
In this recess which I have bodied forth
Should spread from heart to heart; and stately groves,
Majestic edifices, should not want
A corresponding dignity within.
The congregating temper, which pervades
Our unripe years, not wasted, should be made
To minister to works of high attempt,
Which the enthusiast would perform with love;
Youth should be aw'd, possess'd, as with a sense
Religious, of what holy joy there is
In knowledge, if it be sincerely sought
For its own sake, in glory, and in praise,
If but by labour won, and to endure.
The passing Day should learn to put aside
Her trappings here, should strip them off, abash'd
Before antiquity, and steadfast truth,
And strong book-mindedness; and over all
Should be a healthy, sound simplicity,
A seemly plainness, name it what you will,
Republican or pious.
The months pass'd on, remissly, not given up
To wilful alienation from the right,
Or walks of open scandal; but in vague
And loose indifference, easy likings, aims
Of a low pitch; duty and zeal dismiss'd,
Yet nature, or a happy course of things
Not doing in their stead the needful work.
The memory languidly revolv'd, the heart
Repos'd in noontide rest; the inner pulse
88
Rotted as by a charm, my life became
A floating island, an amphibious thing,
Unsound, of spongy texture, yet withal,
Not wanting a fair face of water-weeds
And pleasant flowers.—The thirst of living praise,
A reverence for the glorious Dead, the sight
Of those long Vistas, Catacombs in which
Perennial minds lie visibly entomb'd,
Have often stirr'd the heart of youth, and bred
A fervent love of rigorous discipline.
Alas! such high commotion touched not me;
No look was in these walls to put to shame
My easy spirits, and discountenance
Their light composure, far less to instil
A calm resolve of mind, firmly address'd
To puissant efforts. Nor was this the blame
Of others but my own; I should, in truth,
As far as doth concern my single self
Misdeem most widely, lodging it elsewhere.
For I, bred up in Nature's lap, was even
As a spoil'd Child; and rambling like the wind
As I had done in daily intercourse
With those delicious rivers, solemn heights,
And mountains; ranging like a fowl of the air,
I was ill tutor'd for captivity,
To quit my pleasure, and from month to month,
Take up a station calmly on the perch
Of sedentary peace. Those lovely forms
Had also left less space within my mind,
Which, wrought upon instinctively, had found
A freshness in those objects of its love,
A winning power, beyond all other power.
Not that I slighted Books; that were to lack
All sense; but other passions had been mine,
More fervent, making me less prompt, perhaps,
To in-door study than was wise or well
Or suited to my years. Yet I could shape
The image of a Place which, sooth'd and lull'd
As I had been, train'd up in paradise
Among sweet garlands and delightful sounds,
90
With Nature magisterially, yet I,
Methinks, could shape the image of a Place
Which with its aspect should have bent me down
To instantaneous service, should at once
Have made me pay to science and to arts
And written lore, acknowledg'd my liege Lord,
A homage, frankly offer'd up, like that
Which I had paid to Nature. Toil and pains
In this recess which I have bodied forth
Should spread from heart to heart; and stately groves,
Majestic edifices, should not want
A corresponding dignity within.
The congregating temper, which pervades
Our unripe years, not wasted, should be made
To minister to works of high attempt,
Which the enthusiast would perform with love;
Youth should be aw'd, possess'd, as with a sense
Religious, of what holy joy there is
In knowledge, if it be sincerely sought
For its own sake, in glory, and in praise,
If but by labour won, and to endure.
The passing Day should learn to put aside
Her trappings here, should strip them off, abash'd
Before antiquity, and steadfast truth,
And strong book-mindedness; and over all
Should be a healthy, sound simplicity,
A seemly plainness, name it what you will,
Republican or pious.
If these thoughts
Be a gratuitous emblazonry
That does but mock this recreant age, at least
Let Folly and False-seeming, we might say,
Be free to affect whatever formal gait
Of moral or scholastic discipline
Shall raise them highest in their own esteem;
Let them parade, among the Schools, at will;
But spare the House of God. Was ever known
The witless Shepherd who would drive his Flock
With serious repetition to a pool
Of which 'tis plain to sight they never taste?
A weight must surely hang on days begun
And ended with worst mockery: be wise,
Ye Presidents and Deans, and to your Bells
Give seasonable rest; for 'tis a sound
Hollow as ever vex'd the tranquil air;
And your officious doings bring disgrace
On the plain Steeples of our English Church,
Whose worship 'mid remotest village trees
Suffers for this. Even Science, too, at hand
In daily sight of such irreverence,
Is smitten thence with an unnatural taint,
Loses her just authority, falls beneath
Collateral suspicion, else unknown.
This obvious truth did not escape me then,
Unthinking as I was, and I confess
That, having in my native hills given loose
To a Schoolboy's dreaming, I had rais'd a pile
Upon the basis of the coming time,
Which now before me melted fast away,
Which could not live, scarcely had life enough
To mock the Builder. Oh! what joy it were
To see a Sanctuary for our Country's Youth,
With such a spirit in it as might be
Protection for itself, a Virgin grove,
Primaeval in its purity and depth;
Where, though the shades were fill'd with chearfulness,
Nor indigent of songs, warbled from crowds
In under-coverts, yet the countenance
Of the whole place should bear a stamp of awe;
A habitation sober and demure
For ruminating creatures, a domain
For quiet things to wander in, a haunt
In which the Heron might delight to feed
By the shy rivers, and the Pelican
Upon the cypress spire in lonely thought
Might sit and sun himself. Alas! alas!
In vain for such solemnity we look;
Our eyes are cross'd by Butterflies, our ears
Hear chattering Popinjays; the inner heart
Is trivial, and the impresses without
Are of a gaudy region.
Be a gratuitous emblazonry
That does but mock this recreant age, at least
Let Folly and False-seeming, we might say,
Be free to affect whatever formal gait
Of moral or scholastic discipline
Shall raise them highest in their own esteem;
92
But spare the House of God. Was ever known
The witless Shepherd who would drive his Flock
With serious repetition to a pool
Of which 'tis plain to sight they never taste?
A weight must surely hang on days begun
And ended with worst mockery: be wise,
Ye Presidents and Deans, and to your Bells
Give seasonable rest; for 'tis a sound
Hollow as ever vex'd the tranquil air;
And your officious doings bring disgrace
On the plain Steeples of our English Church,
Whose worship 'mid remotest village trees
Suffers for this. Even Science, too, at hand
In daily sight of such irreverence,
Is smitten thence with an unnatural taint,
Loses her just authority, falls beneath
Collateral suspicion, else unknown.
This obvious truth did not escape me then,
Unthinking as I was, and I confess
That, having in my native hills given loose
To a Schoolboy's dreaming, I had rais'd a pile
Upon the basis of the coming time,
Which now before me melted fast away,
Which could not live, scarcely had life enough
To mock the Builder. Oh! what joy it were
To see a Sanctuary for our Country's Youth,
With such a spirit in it as might be
Protection for itself, a Virgin grove,
Primaeval in its purity and depth;
Where, though the shades were fill'd with chearfulness,
Nor indigent of songs, warbled from crowds
In under-coverts, yet the countenance
Of the whole place should bear a stamp of awe;
A habitation sober and demure
For ruminating creatures, a domain
For quiet things to wander in, a haunt
In which the Heron might delight to feed
94
Upon the cypress spire in lonely thought
Might sit and sun himself. Alas! alas!
In vain for such solemnity we look;
Our eyes are cross'd by Butterflies, our ears
Hear chattering Popinjays; the inner heart
Is trivial, and the impresses without
Are of a gaudy region.
Different sight
Those venerable Doctors saw of old
When all who dwelt within these famous Walls
Led in abstemiousness a studious life,
When, in forlorn and naked chambers coop'd
And crowded, o'er the ponderous Books they sate
Like caterpillars eating out their way
In silence, or with keen devouring noise
Not to be track'd or father'd. Princes then
At matins froze, and couch'd at curfew-time,
Trained up, through piety and zeal, to prize
Spare diet, patient labour, and plain weeds.
O Seat of Arts! renown'd throughout the world,
Far different service in those homely days
The Nurslings of the Muses underwent
From their first childhood; in that glorious time,
When Learning, like a Stranger come from far,
Sounding through Christian Lands her Trumpet, rouz'd
The Peasant and the King; when Boys and Youths,
The growth of ragged villages and huts,
Forsook their homes, and, errant in the quest
Of Patron, famous School or friendly Nook,
Where, pension'd, they in shelter might sit down,
From Town to Town and through wide-scatter'd Realms
Journeyed with their huge folios in their hands;
And often, starting from some covert place,
Saluted the chance-comer on the road,
Crying, ‘an obolus, a penny give
To a poor Scholar’; when illustrious Men,
Lovers of truth, by penury constrain'd,
Bucer, Erasmus, or Melancthon read
Before the doors or windows of their Cells
By moonshine, through mere lack of taper light.
Those venerable Doctors saw of old
When all who dwelt within these famous Walls
Led in abstemiousness a studious life,
When, in forlorn and naked chambers coop'd
And crowded, o'er the ponderous Books they sate
Like caterpillars eating out their way
In silence, or with keen devouring noise
Not to be track'd or father'd. Princes then
At matins froze, and couch'd at curfew-time,
Trained up, through piety and zeal, to prize
Spare diet, patient labour, and plain weeds.
O Seat of Arts! renown'd throughout the world,
Far different service in those homely days
The Nurslings of the Muses underwent
From their first childhood; in that glorious time,
When Learning, like a Stranger come from far,
Sounding through Christian Lands her Trumpet, rouz'd
The Peasant and the King; when Boys and Youths,
The growth of ragged villages and huts,
Forsook their homes, and, errant in the quest
Of Patron, famous School or friendly Nook,
Where, pension'd, they in shelter might sit down,
From Town to Town and through wide-scatter'd Realms
Journeyed with their huge folios in their hands;
And often, starting from some covert place,
Saluted the chance-comer on the road,
Crying, ‘an obolus, a penny give
To a poor Scholar’; when illustrious Men,
Lovers of truth, by penury constrain'd,
Bucer, Erasmus, or Melancthon read
Before the doors or windows of their Cells
By moonshine, through mere lack of taper light.
| The Prelude | |