Book Second: SCHOOL-TIME—continued

Thus far, O Friend! have we, though leaving muchUnvisited, endeavoured to retraceThe simple ways in which my childhood walked;Those chiefly that first led me to the loveOf rivers, woods, and fields. The passion yetWas in its birth, sustained as might befalBy nourishment that came unsought; for stillFrom week to week, from month to month, we livedA round of tumult. Duly were our gamesProlonged in summer till the day-light failed:No chair remained before the doors; the benchAnd threshold steps were empty; fast asleepThe labourer, and the old man who had sateA later lingerer; yet the revelryContinued and the loud uproar: at last,When all the ground was dark, and twinkling starsEdged 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 prideOf intellect and virtue's self-esteem?One is there, though the wisest and the bestOf all mankind, who covets not at timesUnion that cannot be;--who would not give,If so he might, to duty and to truthThe eagerness of infantine desire?A tranquillising spirit presses nowOn my corporeal frame, so wide appearsThe vacancy between me and those daysWhich yet have such self-presence in my mind,That, musing on them, often do I seemTwo consciousnesses, conscious of myselfAnd of some other Being. A rude massOf native rock, left midway in the squareOf our small market village, was the goalOr centre of these sports; and when, returnedAfter long absence, thither I repaired,Gone was the old grey stone, and in its placeA smart Assembly-room usurped the groundThat had been ours. There let the fiddle scream,And be ye happy! Yet, my Friends! I knowThat more than one of you will think with meOf those soft starry nights, and that old DameFrom whom the stone was named, who there had sate,And watched her table with its huckster's waresAssiduous, through the length of sixty years.

We ran a boisterous course; the year span roundWith giddy motion. But the time approachedThat brought with it a regular desireFor calmer pleasures, when the winning formsOf Nature were collaterally attachedTo every scheme of holiday delightAnd every boyish sport, less grateful elseAnd languidly pursued.When summer came,Our pastime was, on bright half-holidays,To sweep, along the plain of WindermereWith rival oars; and the selected bourneWas now an Island musical with birdsThat sang and ceased not; now a Sister IsleBeneath the oaks' umbrageous covert, sownWith lilies of the valley like a field;And now a third small Island, where survivedIn solitude the ruins of a shrineOnce to Our Lady dedicate, and servedDaily with chaunted rites. In such a raceSo ended, disappointment could be none,Uneasiness, or pain, or jealousy:We rested in the shade, all pleased alike,Conquered and conqueror. Thus the pride of strength,And the vain-glory of superior skill,Were tempered; thus was gradually producedA quiet independence of the heart;And to my Friend who knows me I may add,Fearless of blame, that hence for future daysEnsued 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 wished we knew the blessing thenOf vigorous hunger--hence corporeal strengthUnsapped by delicate viands; for, excludeA little weekly stipend, and we livedThrough three divisions of the quartered yearIn penniless poverty. But now to schoolFrom the half-yearly holidays returned,We came with weightier purses, that sufficedTo furnish treats more costly than the DameOf the old grey stone, from her scant board, supplied.Hence rustic dinners on the cool green ground,Or in the woods, or by a river sideOr shady fountains, while among the leavesSoft airs were stirring, and the mid-day sunUnfelt shone brightly round us in our joy.Nor is my aim neglected if I tellHow 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 studSupplied our want, we haply might employSly subterfuge, if the adventure's boundWere distant: some famed temple where of yoreThe Druids worshipped, or the antique wallsOf that large abbey, where within the ValeOf Nightshade, to St. 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 turfOur horses grazed. To more than inland peaceLeft by the west wind sweeping overheadFrom a tumultuous ocean, trees and towersIn that sequestered valley may be seen,Both silent and both motionless alike;Such the deep shelter that is there, and suchThe safeguard for repose and quietness.

Our steeds remounted and the summons given,With whip and spur we through the chauntry flewIn uncouth race, and left the cross-legged knight,And the stone-abbot, and that single wrenWhich one day sang so sweetly in the naveOf the old church, that--though from recent showersThe earth was comfortless, and touched by faintInternal breezes, sobbings of the placeAnd respirations, from the roofless wallsThe shuddering ivy dripped large drops--yet stillSo sweetly 'mid the gloom the invisible birdSang to herself, that there I could have madeMy dwelling-place, and lived for ever thereTo hear such music. Through the walls we flewAnd down the valley, and, a circuit madeIn wantonness of heart, through rough and smoothWe scampered homewards. Oh, ye rocks and streams,And that still spirit shed from evening air!Even in this joyous time I sometimes feltYour presence, when with slackened step we breathedAlong the sides of the steep hills, or whenLighted by gleams of moonlight from the seaWe beat with thundering hoofs the level sand.

Midway on long Winander's eastern shore,Within the crescent of a pleasant bay,A tavern stood; no homely-featured house,Primeval like its neighbouring cottages,But 'twas a splendid place, the door besetWith chaises, grooms, and liveries, and withinDecanters, glasses, and the blood-red wine.In ancient times, and ere the Hall was builtOn the large island, had this dwelling beenMore worthy of a poet's love, a hut,Proud of its own bright fire and sycamore shade.But--though the rhymes were gone that once inscribedThe threshold, and large golden characters,Spread o'er the spangled sign-board, had dislodgedThe old Lion and usurped his place, in slightAnd mockery of the rustic painter's hand--Yet, to this hour, the spot to me is dearWith all its foolish pomp. The garden layUpon a slope surmounted by a plainOf a small bowling-green; beneath us stoodA grove, with gleams of water through the treesAnd over the tree-tops; nor did we wantRefreshment, strawberries and mellow cream.There, while through half an afternoon we playedOn the smooth platform, whether skill prevailedOr happy blunder triumphed, bursts of gleeMade all the mountains ring. But, ere night-fall,When in our pinnace we returned at leisureOver the shadowy lake, and to the beachOf some small island steered our course with one,The Minstrel of the Troop, and left him there,And rowed off gently, while he blew his fluteAlone upon the rock--oh, then, the calmAnd dead still water lay upon my mindEven with a weight of pleasure, and the sky,Never before so beautiful, sank downInto my heart, and held me like a dream!Thus were my sympathies enlarged, and thusDaily the common range of visible thingsGrew dear to me: already I beganTo love the sun; a boy I loved the sun,Not as I since have loved him, as a pledgeAnd surety of our earthly life, a lightWhich we behold and feel we are alive;Nor for his bounty to so many worlds--But for this cause, that I had seen him layHis beauty on the morning hills, had seenThe western mountain touch his setting orb,In many a thoughtless hour, when, from excessOf happiness, my blood appeared to flowFor its own pleasure, and I breathed with joy.And, from like feelings, humble though intense,To patriotic and domestic loveAnalogous, the moon to me was dear;For I could dream away my purposes,Standing to gaze upon her while she hungMidway between the hills, as if she knewNo other region, but belonged to thee,Yea, appertained by a peculiar rightTo thee and thy grey huts, thou one dear Vale!

Those incidental charms which first attachedMy heart to rural objects, day by dayGrew weaker, and I hasten on to tellHow Nature, intervenient till this timeAnd secondary, now at length was soughtFor her own sake. But who shall parcel outHis intellect by geometric rules,Split like a province into round and square?Who knows the individual hour in whichHis habits were first sown, even as a seed?Who that shall point as with a wand and say"This portion of the river of my mindCame from yon fountain?" Thou, my Friend! art oneMore deeply read in thy own thoughts; to theeScience appears but what in truth she is,Not as our glory and our absolute boast,But as a succedaneum, and a propTo our infirmity. No officious slaveArt thou of that false secondary powerBy which we multiply distinctions; then,Deem that our puny boundaries are thingsThat we perceive, and not that we have made.To thee, unblinded by these formal arts,The unity of all hath been revealed,And thou wilt doubt, with me less aptly skilledThan many are to range the facultiesIn scale and order, class the cabinetOf their sensations, and in voluble phraseRun through the history and birth of eachAs of a single independent thing.Hard task, vain hope, to analyse the mind,If each most obvious and particular thought,Not in a mystical and idle sense,But in the words of Reason deeply weighed,Hath no beginning.Blest the infant Babe,(For with my best conjecture I would traceOur Being's earthly progress,) blest the Babe,Nursed in his Mother's arms, who sinks to sleepRocked on his Mother's breast; who with his soulDrinks in the feelings of his Mother's eye!For him, in one dear Presence, there existsA virtue which irradiates and exaltsObjects through widest intercourse of sense.No outcast he, bewildered and depressed:Along his infant veins are interfusedThe gravitation and the filial bondOf nature that connect him with the world.Is there a flower, to which he points with handToo weak to gather it, already loveDrawn from love's purest earthly fount for himHath beautified that flower; already shadesOf pity cast from inward tendernessDo fall around him upon aught that bearsUnsightly marks of violence or harm.Emphatically such a Being lives,Frail creature as he is, helpless as frail,An inmate of this active universe.For feeling has to him imparted powerThat through the growing faculties of senseDoth like an agent of the one great MindCreate, creator and receiver both,Working but in alliance with the worksWhich it beholds. Such, verily, is the firstPoetic spirit of our human life,By uniform control of after years,In most, abated or suppressed; in some,Through every change of growth and of decay,Pre-eminent till death.

From early days,Beginning not long after that first timeIn which, a Babe, by intercourse of touchI held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart,I have endeavoured to display the meansWhereby this infant sensibility,Great birthright of our being, was in meAugmented and sustained. Yet is a pathMore difficult before me; and I fearThat in its broken windings we shall needThe chamois' sinews, and the eagle's wing:For now a trouble came into my mindFrom unknown causes. I was left aloneSeeking the visible world, nor knowing why.The props of my affections were removed,And yet the building stood, as if sustainedBy its own spirit! All that I beheldWas dear, and hence to finer influxesThe mind lay open to a more exactAnd close communion. Many are our joysIn youth, but oh! what happiness to liveWhen every hour brings palpable accessOf knowledge, when all knowledge is delight,And sorrow is not there! The seasons came,And every season wheresoe'er I movedUnfolded transitory qualities,Which, but for this most watchful power of love,Had been neglected; left a registerOf permanent relations, else unknown.Hence life, and change, and beauty, solitudeMore active even than "best society"--Society made sweet as solitudeBy silent inobtrusive sympathies--And gentle agitations of the mindFrom manifold distinctions, differencePerceived in things, where, to the unwatchful eye,No difference is, and hence, from the same source,Sublimer joy; for I would walk alone,Under the quiet stars, and at that timeHave felt whate'er there is of power in soundTo breathe an elevated mood, by formOr image unprofaned; and I would stand,If the night blackened with a coming storm,Beneath some rock, listening to notes that areThe ghostly language of the ancient earth,Or make their dim abode in distant winds.Thence did I drink the visionary power;And deem not profitless those fleeting moodsOf shadowy exultation: not for this,That they are kindred to our purer mindAnd intellectual life; but that the soul,Remembering how she felt, but what she feltRemembering not, retains an obscure senseOf possible sublimity, wheretoWith growing faculties she doth aspire,With faculties still growing, feeling stillThat whatsoever point they gain, they yetHave something to pursue.

And not alone,'Mid gloom and tumult, but no less 'mid fairAnd tranquil scenes, that universal powerAnd fitness in the latent qualitiesAnd essences of things, by which the mindIs moved with feelings of delight, to meCame, strengthened with a superadded soul,A virtue not its own. My morning walksWere early;--oft before the hours of schoolI travelled round our little lake, five milesOf pleasant wandering. Happy time! more dearFor this, that one was by my side, a Friend,Then passionately loved; with heart how fullWould he peruse these lines! For many yearsHave since flowed in between us, and, our mindsBoth silent to each other, at this timeWe live as if those hours had never been.Nor seldom did I lift--our cottage latchFar earlier, ere one smoke-wreath had risenFrom human dwelling, or the vernal thrushWas audible; and sate among the woodsAlone upon some jutting eminence,At the first gleam of dawn-light, when the Vale,Yet slumbering, lay in utter solitude.How shall I seek the origin? where findFaith in the marvellous things which then I felt?Oft in these moments such a holy calmWould overspread my soul, that bodily eyesWere utterly forgotten, and what I sawAppeared like something in myself, a dream,A prospect in the mind.'Twere long to tellWhat spring and autumn, what the winter snows,And what the summer shade, what day and night,Evening and morning, sleep and waking, thoughtFrom sources inexhaustible, poured forthTo feed the spirit of religious loveIn which I walked with Nature. But let thisBe not forgotten, that I still retainedMy first creative sensibility;That by the regular action of the worldMy soul was unsubdued. A plastic powerAbode with me; a forming hand, at timesRebellious, acting in a devious mood;A local spirit of his own, at warWith general tendency, but, for the most,Subservient strictly to external thingsWith which it communed. An auxiliar lightCame from my mind, which on the setting sunBestowed new splendour; the melodious birds,The fluttering breezes, fountains that run onMurmuring so sweetly in themselves, obeyedA like dominion, and the midnight stormGrew darker in the presence of my eye:Hence my obeisance, my devotion hence,And hence my transport.Nor should this, perchance,Pass unrecorded, that I still had lovedThe exercise and produce of a toil,Than analytic industry to meMore pleasing, and whose character I deemIs more poetic as resembling moreCreative agency. The song would speakOf that interminable building rearedBy observation of affinitiesIn objects where no brotherhood existsTo passive minds. My seventeenth year was come;And, whether from this habit rooted nowSo deeply in my mind; or from excessIn the great social principle of lifeCoercing all things into sympathy,To unorganic ratures were transferredMy own enjoyments; or the power of truthComing in revelation, did converseWith things that really are; I, at this time,Saw blessings spread around me like a sea.Thus while the days flew by, and years passed on,From Nature and her overflowing soul,I had received so much, that all my thoughtsWere steeped in feeling; I was only thenContented, when with bliss ineffableI felt the sentiment of Being spreadO'er all that moves and all that seemeth still;O'er all that, lost beyond the reach of thoughtAnd human knowledge, to the human eyeInvisible, yet liveth to the heart;O'er all that leaps and runs, and shouts and sings,Or beats the gladsome air; o'er all that glidesBeneath the wave, yea, in the wave itself,And mighty depth of waters. Wonder notIf high the transport, great the joy I felt,Communing in this sort through earth and heavenWith every form of creature, as it lookedTowards the Uncreated with a countenanceOf adoration, with an eye of love.One song they sang, and it was audible,Most audible, then, when the fleshly ear,O'ercome by humblest prelude of that strain,Forgot her functions, and slept undisturbed.

If this be error, and another faithFind easier access to the pious mind,Yet were I grossly destitute of allThose human sentiments that make this earthSo dear, if I should fail with grateful voiceTo speak of you, ye mountains, and ye lakesAnd sounding cataracts, ye mists and windsThat dwell among the hills where I was born.If in my youth I have been pure in heart,If, mingling with the world, I am contentWith my own modest pleasures, and have livedWith God and Nature communing, removedFrom little enmities and low desires,The gift is yours; if in these times of fear,This melancholy waste of hopes o'erthrown,If, 'mid indifference and apathy,And wicked exultation when good menOn every side fall off, we know not how,To selfishness, disguised in gentle namesOf peace and quiet and domestic love,Yet mingled not unwillingly with sneersOn visionary minds; if, in this timeOf dereliction and dismay, I yetDespair not of our nature, but retainA more than Roman confidence, a faithThat fails not, in all sorrow my support,The blessing of my life; the gift is yours,Ye winds and sounding cataracts! 'tis yours,Ye mountains! thine, O Nature! Thou hast fedMy lofty speculations; and in thee,For this uneasy heart of ours, I findA never-failing principle of joyAnd purest passion.Thou, my Friend! wert rearedIn the great city, 'mid far other scenes; aBut we, by different roads, at length have gainedThe self-same bourne. And for this cause to theeI speak, unapprehensive of contempt,The insinuated scoff of coward tongues,And all that silent language which so oftIn conversation between man and manBlots from the human countenance all traceOf beauty and of love. For thou hast soughtThe truth in solitude, and, since the daysThat gave thee liberty, full long desired,To serve in Nature's temple, thou hast beenThe most assiduous of her ministers;In many things my brother, chiefly hereIn this our deep devotion.Fare thee well!Health and the quiet of a healthful mindAttend thee! seeking oft the haunts of men,And yet more often living with thyself,And for thyself, so haply shall thy daysBe many, and a blessing to mankind. b