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    The Prelude
    The Prelude
    The Prelude
    Ebook292 pages3 hours

    The Prelude

    By William Wordsworth

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    “The Prelude” is William Wordsworth’s epic reflection on his lifetime journey as an artist and is widely considered to be one of his most significant works. First published in 1850 after the poet’s death, Wordsworth began working on the blank verse poem in 1798 and continued modifying and expanding it for the rest of his life. Two earlier versions of the poem have been found and published, showing the evolution of this monumental work. A first version, called the “1799 Prelude”, is the poem in its earliest and shortest stage. A second version, the “1805 Prelude”, is much longer and captures Wordsworth’s thoughts on art and nature at the height of his early career. The final version, published here, is the most polished and mature. Beginning with Wordsworth’s childhood in the Lake District, continuing through his years spent in France, and concluding with his thoughts of the relationship between an artist’s imagination and nature, the epic poem is philosophical, reflective, and deeply personal. One of the Romantic period’s greatest works, “The Prelude” is a thought-provoking and inspiring epic on what it means to be an artist in an increasingly busy, modern world.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDigireads.com Publishing
    Release dateDec 11, 2020
    ISBN9781420980660
    Author

    William Wordsworth

    William Wordsworth was born on 7 April 1770 at Cockermouth, in the English Lake District, the son of a lawyer. He was one of five children and developed a close bond with his only sister, Dorothy, whom he lived with for most of his life. At the age of seventeen, shortly after the deaths of his parents, Wordsworth went to St John’s College, Cambridge, and after graduating visited Revolutionary France. Upon returning to England he published his first poem and devoted himself wholly to writing. He became great friends with other Romantic poets and collaborated with Samuel Taylor Coleridge on Lyrical Ballads. In 1843, he succeeded Robert Southey as Poet Laureate and died in the year ‘Prelude’ was finally published, 1850.

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      The Prelude - William Wordsworth

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      The following Poem was commenced in the beginning of the year 1799, and completed in the summer of 1805.

      The design and occasion of the work are described by the Author in his Preface to the Excursion, first published in 1814, where he thus speaks:—

      "Several years ago, when the Author retired to his native mountains with the hope of being enabled to construct a literary work that might live, it was a reasonable thing that he should take a review of his own mind, and examine how far Nature and Education had qualified him for such an employment.

      "As subsidiary to this preparation, he undertook to record, in verse, the origin and progress of his own powers, as far as he was acquainted with them.

      "That work, addressed to a dear friend, most distinguished for his knowledge and genius, and to whom the author’s intellect is deeply indebted, has been long finished; and the result of the investigation which gave rise to it, was a determination to compose a philosophical Poem, containing views of Man, Nature, and Society, and to be entitled the ‘Recluse;’ as having for its principal subject the sensations and opinions of a poet living in retirement.

      The preparatory poem is biographical, and conducts the history of the Author’s mind to the point when he was emboldened to hope that his faculties were sufficiently matured for entering upon the arduous labour which he had proposed to himself; and the two works have the same kind of relation to each other, if he may so express himself, as the Ante-chapel has to the body of a Gothic Church. Continuing this allusion, he may be permitted to add, that his minor pieces, which have been long before the public, when they shall be properly arranged, will be found by the attentive reader to have such connection with the main work as may give them claim to be likened to the little cells, oratories, and sepulchral recesses, ordinarily included in those edifices.

      Such was the Author’s language in the year 1814.

      It will thence be seen, that the present Poem was intended to be introductory to the Recluse, and that the Recluse, if completed, would have consisted of Three Parts. Of these, the Second Part alone, viz., the Excursion, was finished, and given to the world by the Author.

      The First Book of the First Part of the Recluse still remains in manuscript; but the Third Part was only planned. The materials of which it would have been formed have, however, been incorporated, for the most part, in the Author’s other Publications, written subsequently to the Excursion.

      The Friend, to whom the present Poem is addressed, was the late SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, who was resident in Malta, for the restoration of his health, when the greater part of it was composed.

      Mr. Coleridge read a considerable portion of the Poem while he was abroad; and his feelings, on hearing it recited by the Author (after his return to his own country) are recorded in his Verses, addressed to Mr. Wordsworth, which will be found in the Sibylline Leaves, p. 197, ed. 1817, or Poetical Works, by S. T. Coleridge, vol. i., p. 206.

      ⁠RYDAL MOUNT, ⁠⁠July 13th, 1850.

      Book I

      INTRODUCTION—CHILDHOOD AND SCHOOL-TIME.

      O THERE is blessing in this gentle breeze,

      A visitant that while it fans my cheek

      Doth seem half-conscious of the joy it brings

      From the green fields, and from yon azure sky.

      Whate’er its mission, the soft breeze can come

      To none more grateful than to me; escaped

      From the vast city, where I long had pined

      A discontented sojourner: now free,

      Free as a bird to settle where I will.

      What dwelling shall receive me? in what vale

      Shall be my harbour? underneath what grove

      Shall I take up my home? and what clear stream

      Shall with its murmur lull me into rest?

      The earth is all before me. With a heart

      Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty,

      I look about; and should the chosen guide

      Be nothing better than a wandering cloud,

      I cannot miss my way. I breathe again!

      Trances of thought and mountings of the mind

      Come fast upon me: it is shaken off,

      That burthen of my own unnatural self,

      The heavy weight of many a weary day

      Not mine, and such as were not made for me.

      Long months of peace (if such bold word accord

      With any promises of human life),

      Long months of ease and undisturbed delight

      Are mine in prospect; whither shall I turn,

      By road or pathway, or through trackless field,

      Up hill or down, or shall some floating thing

      Upon the river point me out my course?

      ⁠Dear Liberty! Yet what would it avail

      But for a gift that consecrates the joy?

      For I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven

      Was blowing on my body, felt within

      A correspondent breeze, that gently moved

      With quickening virtue, but is now become

      A tempest, a redundant energy,

      Vexing its own creation. Thanks to both,

      And their congenial powers, that, while they join

      In breaking up a long-continued frost,

      Bring with them vernal promises, the hope

      Of active days urged on by flying hours,—

      Days of sweet leisure, taxed with patient thought

      Abstruse, nor wanting punctual service high,

      Matins and vespers of harmonious verse!

      ⁠Thus far, Friend! did I, not used to make

      A present joy the matter of a song,

      Pour forth that day my soul in measured strains

      That would not be forgotten, and are here

      Recorded: to the open fields I told

      A prophecy: poetic numbers came

      Spontaneously to clothe in priestly robe

      A renovated spirit singled out,

      Such hope was mine, for holy services.

      My own voice cheered me, and, far more, the mind’s

      Internal echo of the imperfect sound;

      To both I listened, drawing from them both

      A cheerful confidence in things to come.

      ⁠Content and not unwilling now to give

      A respite to this passion, I paced on

      With brisk and eager steps; and came, at length,

      To a green shady place, where down I sate

      Beneath a tree, slackening my thoughts by choice,

      And settling into gentler happiness.

      ’Twas autumn, and a clear and placid day,

      With warmth, as much as needed, from a sun

      Two hours declined towards the west; a day

      With silver clouds, and sunshine on the grass,

      And in the sheltered and the sheltering grove

      A perfect stillness. Many were the thoughts

      Encouraged and dismissed, till choice was made

      Of a known Vale, whither my feet should turn,

      Nor rest till they had reached the very door

      Of the one cottage which methought I saw.

      No picture of mere memory ever looked

      So fair; and while upon the fancied scene

      I gazed with growing love, a higher power

      Than Fancy gave assurance of some work

      Of glory there forthwith to be begun,

      Perhaps too there performed. Thus long I mused,

      Nor e’er lost sight of what I mused upon,

      Save when, amid the stately grove of oaks,

      Now here, now there, an acorn, from its cup

      Dislodged, through sere leaves rustled, or at once

      To the bare earth dropped with a startling sound.

      From that soft couch I rose not, till the sun

      Had almost touched the horizon; casting then

      A backward glance upon the curling cloud

      Of city smoke, by distance ruralised;

      Keen as a Truant or a Fugitive,

      But as a Pilgrim resolute, I took,

      Even with the chance equipment of that hour,

      The road that pointed toward the chosen Vale.

      It was a splendid evening, and my soul

      Once more made trial of her strength, nor lacked

      Æolian visitations; but the harp

      Was soon defrauded, and the banded host

      Of harmony dispersed in straggling sounds,

      And lastly utter silence! "Be it so;

      Why think of any thing but present good?"

      So, like a home-bound labourer I pursued

      My way beneath the mellowing sun, that shed

      Mild influence; nor left in me one wish

      Again to bend the Sabbath of that time

      To a servile yoke. What need of many words?

      A pleasant loitering journey, through three days

      Continued, brought me to my hermitage.

      I spare to tell of what ensued, the life

      In common things—the endless store of things,

      Rare, or at least so seeming, every day

      Found all about me in one neighbourhood—

      The self-congratulation, and, from morn

      To night, unbroken cheerfulness serene.

      But speedily an earnest longing rose

      To brace myself to some determined aim,

      Reading or thinking; either to lay up

      New stores, or rescue from decay the old

      By timely interference: and therewith

      Came hopes still higher, that with outward life

      I might endue some airy phantasies

      That had been floating loose about for years,

      And to such beings temperately deal forth

      The many feelings that oppressed my heart.

      That hope hath been discouraged; welcome light

      Dawns from the east, but dawns to disappear

      And mock me with a sky that ripens not

      Into a steady morning: if my mind,

      Remembering the bold promise of the past,

      Would gladly grapple with some noble theme,

      Vain is her wish; where’er she turns she finds

      Impediments from day to day renewed.

      ⁠And now it would content me to yield up

      Those lofty hopes awhile, for present gifts

      Of humbler industry. But, oh, dear Friend!

      The Poet, gentle creature as he is,

      Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times;

      His fits when he is neither sick nor well,

      Though no distress be near him but his own

      Unmanageable thoughts: his mind, best pleased

      While she as duteous as the mother dove

      Sits brooding, lives not always to that end,

      But like the innocent bird, hath goadings on

      That drive her as in trouble through the groves;

      With me is now such passion, to be blamed

      No otherwise than as it lasts too long.

      ⁠When, as becomes a man who would prepare

      For such an arduous work, I through myself

      Make rigorous inquisition, the report

      Is often cheering; for I neither seem

      To lack that first great gift, the vital soul,

      Nor general Truths, which are themselves a sort

      Of Elements and Agents, Under-powers,

      Subordinate helpers of the living mind:

      Nor am I naked of external things,

      Forms, images, nor numerous other aids

      Of less regard, though won perhaps with toil

      And needful to build up a Poet’s praise.

      Time, place, and manners do I seek, and these

      Are found in plenteous store, but nowhere such

      As may be singled out with steady choice;

      No little band of yet remembered names

      Whom I, in perfect confidence, might hope

      To summon back from lonesome banishment,

      And make them dwellers in the hearts of men

      Now living, or to live in future years.

      Sometimes the ambitious Power of choice, mistaking

      Proud spring-tide swellings for a regular sea,

      Will settle on some British theme, some old

      Romantic tale by Milton left unsung;

      More often turning to some gentle place

      Within the groves of Chivalry, I pipe

      To shepherd swains, or seated harp in hand,

      Amid reposing knights by a river side

      Or fountain, listen to the grave reports

      Of dire enchantments faced and overcome

      By the strong mind, and tales of warlike feats,

      Where spear encountered spear, and sword with sword

      Fought, as if conscious of the blazonry

      That the shield bore, so glorious was the strife;

      Whence inspiration for a song that winds

      Through ever changing scenes of votive quest

      Wrongs to redress, harmonious tribute paid

      To patient courage and unblemished truth,

      To firm devotion, zeal unquenchable,

      And Christian meekness hallowing faithful loves.

      Sometimes, more sternly moved, I would relate

      How vanquished Mithridates northward passed,

      And, hidden in the cloud of years, became

      Odin, the Father of a race by whom

      Perished the Roman Empire: how the friends

      And followers of Sertorius, out of Spain

      Flying, found shelter in the Fortunate Isles,

      And left their usages, their arts and laws,

      To disappear by a slow gradual death,

      To dwindle and to perish one by one,

      Starved in those narrow bounds: but not the soul

      Of Liberty, which fifteen hundred years

      Survived, and, when the European came

      With skill and power that might not be withstood,

      Did, like a pestilence, maintain its hold

      And wasted down by glorious death that race

      Of natural heroes: or I would record

      How, in tyrannic times, some high-souled man,

      Unnamed among the chronicles of kings,

      Suffered in silence for Truth’s sake: or tell,

      How that one Frenchman,{1} through continued force

      Of meditation on the inhuman deeds

      Of those who conquered first the Indian Isles,

      Went single in his ministry across

      The Ocean; not to comfort the oppressed,

      But, like a thirsty wind, to roam about

      Withering the Oppressor: how Gustavus sought

      Help at his need in Dalecarlia’s mines:

      How Wallace fought for Scotland; left the name

      Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower,

      All over his dear Country; left the deeds

      Of Wallace, like a family of Ghosts,

      To people the steep rocks and river banks,

      Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul

      Of independence and stern liberty.

      Sometimes it suits me better to invent

      A tale from my own heart, more near akin

      To my own passions and habitual thoughts;

      Some variegated story, in the main

      Lofty, but the unsubstantial structure melts

      Before the very sun that brightens it,

      Mist into air dissolving! Then a wish,

      My best and favourite aspiration, mounts

      With yearning toward some philosophic song

      Of Truth that cherishes our daily life;

      With meditations passionate from deep

      Recesses in man’s heart, immortal verse

      Thoughtfully fitted to the Orphean lyre;

      But from this awful burthen I full soon

      Take refuge and beguile myself with trust

      That mellower years will bring a riper mind

      And clearer insight. Thus my days are past

      In contradiction; with no skill to part

      Vague longing, haply bred by want of power,

      From paramount impulse not to be withstood,

      A timorous capacity from prudence,

      From circumspection, infinite delay.

      Humility and modest awe themselves

      Betray me, serving often for a cloak

      To a more subtle selfishness; that now

      Locks every function up in blank reserve,

      Now dupes me, trusting to an anxious eye

      That with intrusive restlessness beats off

      Simplicity and self-presented truth.

      Ah! better far than this, to stray about

      Voluptuously through fields and rural walks,

      And ask no record of the hours, resigned

      To vacant musing, unreproved neglect

      Of all things, and deliberate holiday.

      Far better never to have heard the name

      Of zeal and just ambition, than to live

      Baffled and plagued by a mind that every hour

      Turns recreant to her task; takes heart again,

      Then feels immediately some hollow thought

      Hang like an interdict upon her hopes.

      This is my lot; for either still I find

      Some imperfection in the chosen theme,

      Or see of absolute accomplishment

      Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself,

      That I recoil and droop, and seek repose

      In listlessness from vain perplexity,

      Unprofitably travelling toward the grave,

      Like a false steward who hath much received

      And renders nothing back.

      ⁠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! winding among grassy holms

      Where I was looking on, a babe in arms,

      Make ceaseless music that composed my thoughts

      To more than infant softness, giving me

      Amid the fretful dwellings of mankind

      A foretaste, a dim earnest, of the calm

      That Nature breathes among the hills and groves.

      When he had left the mountains and received

      On his smooth breast the shadow of those towers

      That yet survive, a shattered monument

      Of feudal sway, the bright blue river passed

      Along the margin of our terrace walk;

      A tempting playmate whom we dearly loved.

      Oh, many a time have I, a five years’ child,

      In a small mill-race severed from his stream,

      Made one long bathing of a summer’s day;

      Basked in the sun, and plunged and basked again

      Alternate, all a summer’s day, or scoured

      The sandy fields, leaping through flowery groves

      Of yellow ragwort; or when rock and hill,

      The woods, and distant Skiddaw’s lofty height,

      Were bronzed with deepest radiance, stood alone

      Beneath the sky, as if I had been born

      On Indian plains, and from my mother’s hut

      Had run abroad in wantonness, to sport

      A naked savage, in the thunder shower.

      ⁠Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up

      Fostered alike by beauty and by fear:

      Much favoured in my birth-place, and no less

      In that beloved Vale to which erelong

      We were transplanted—there were we let loose

      For sports of wider range. Ere I had told

      Ten birth-days, when among the mountain slopes

      Frost, and the breath of frosty wind, had snapped

      The last autumnal crocus, ’twas my joy

      With store of springes o’er my shoulder hung

      To range the open heights where woodcocks run

      Along the smooth green turf. Through half the night,

      Scudding away from snare to snare, I plied

      That anxious visitation;—moon and stars

      Were shining o’er my head. I was alone,

      And seemed to be a trouble to the peace

      That dwelt among them. Sometimes it befel

      In these night wanderings, that a strong desire

      O’erpowered my better reason, and the bird

      Which was the captive of another’s toil

      Became my prey; and when the deed was done

      I heard among the solitary hills

      Low breathings coming after

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