THUS far, O Friend! have we, though leaving much Unvisited, endeavored 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 befall 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 daylight failed: No chair remained before the doors; the bench And threshold steps were empty; fast asleep The laborer, and the old man who had sat 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 who would not give.
Union that cannot be ; If so he might, to duty and to truth The eagerness of infantine desire? A tranquillizing spirit presses now On my corporeal frame, so wide appears The vacancy between me and those days Which yet have such self-presence in my mind, That, musing on them, often do I seem Two consciousnesses, conscious of myself And of some other Being. A rude mass Of native rock, left midway in the square Of our small market village, was the goal Or centre of these sports; and when, returned After long absence, thither I repaired, Gone was the old gray stone, and in its place A smart Assembly-room usurped the ground That had been ours. There let the fiddle scream, And be ye happy! Yet, my Friends! I know That more than one of you will think with me Of those soft starry nights, and that old Dame From whom the stone was named, who there had
And watched her table with its huckster's wares Assiduous, through the length of sixty years.
We ran a boisterous course; the year span round With giddy motion. But the time approached That brought with it a regular desire
For caliner pleasures, when the winning forms Of Nature were collaterally attached
To every scheme of holiday delight,
And every boyish sport, less grateful else And languidly pursued.
When summer came,
Our pastime was, on bright half-holidays, To sweep along the plain of Windermere With rival oars; and the selected bourne Was now an Island musical with birds That sang and ceased not; now a Sister Isle Beneath the oaks' umbrageous covert, sown With lilies of the valley like a field;
And now a third small Island, where survived In solitude the ruins of a shrine
Once to Our Lady dedicate, and served Daily with chanted rites. In such a race So 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 vainglory of superior skill,
Were tempered; thus was gradually produced A quiet independence of the heart;
And to my Friend who knows me I may add, Fearless of blame, that hence for future days Ensued a diffidence and modesty,
And I was taught to feel, perhaps too much. The self-sufficing power of Solitude.
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