I held unconscious intercourse with beauty The sands of Westmoreland, the creeks and bays Of Cumbria's rocky limits, they can tell How, when the Sea threw off his evening shade, Even while mine eye hath moved o'er many a league Through every hair-breadth in that field of light Thus oft amid those fits of vulgar joy Albeit, lifeless then, and doomed to sleep The scenes which were a witness of that joy Of things forgotten, these same scenes so bright, And changeful colours by invisible links. My story early-not misled, I trust, I began Disowned by memory-ere the breath of spring In sympathy, that I have lengthened out Snowdrops still grow abundantly in an orchard and meadow, by the road skirting the western side of Esthwaite Lake.-ED. May spur me on, in manhood now mature With better knowledge how the heart was framed A visible scene, on which the sun is shining? One end at least hath been attained; my mind Hath been revived, and if this genial mood Desert me not, forthwith shall be brought down Through later years the story of my life. The road lies plain before me;-'tis a theme Single and of determined bounds; and hence I choose it rather at this time, than work Of ampler or more varied argument, Where I might be discomfited and lost; And certain hopes are with me, that to thee This labour will be welcome, honoured Friend! Book Second. SCHOOL-TIME-continued. Thus far, O Friend! have we, though leaving much Unvisited, endeavoured to retrace The simple ways in which my childhood walked ; Those chiefly that first led me to the love Of rivers, woods, and fields. The passion yet Was in its birth, sustained as might befal By nourishment that came unsought; for still From week to week, from month to month, we lived A round of tumult. Duly were our games Prolonged in summer till the day-light failed; No chair remained before the doors; the bench And threshold steps were empty; fast asleep The labourer, and the old man who had sate A later lingerer; yet the revelry Continued and the loud uproar; at last, When all the ground was dark, and twinkling stars Edged 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 pride Of intellect and virtue's self-esteem? One is there, though the wisest and the best Of all mankind, who covets not at times Union that cannot be ;-who would not give, If so he might, to duty and to truth The eagerness of infantine desire ? A tranquilising spirit presses now The vacancy between me and those days Which yet have such self-presence in my mind Gone was the old grey stone, and in its place We ran a boisterous course; the year span round For calmer pleasures, when the winning forms To every scheme of holiday delight And every boyish sport, less grateful else When summer came Our pastime was, on bright half-holidays, The "square" of the "small market village" of Hawkshead remains, and the presence of the new "assembly-room" does not prevent us from realising it as open, with the "rude mass of native rock left midway" in it the "old grey stone," which was the centre of the village sports.-ED. |