Were visible, a daily sight; and thus
By the impressive discipline of fear,

By pleasure and repeated happiness,

So frequently repeated, and by force
Of obscure feelings representative

Of things forgotten, these same scenes so bright,
So beautiful, so majestic in themselves,
Though yet the day was distant, did become
Habitually dear, and all their forms

And changeful colours by invisible links
Were fastened to the affections.

I began

My story early not misled, I trust,
By an infirmity of love for days.

Disowned by memory-ere the breath of spring
Planting my snowdrops among winter snows:
Nor will it seem to thee, O Friend1! so prompt
In sympathy, that I have lengthened out
With fond and feeble tongue a tedious tale.
Meanwhile, my hope has been, that I might fetch
Invigorating thoughts from former years;
Might fix the wavering balance of my mind,
And haply meet reproaches too, whose power
May spur me on, in manhood now mature
To honourable toil. Yet should these hopes
Prove vain, and thus should neither I be taught
To understand myself, nor thou to know
With better knowledge how the heart was framed
Of him thou lovest; need I dread from thee

1 Coleridge, to whom the Prelude was dedicated.

Harsh judgments, if the song be loth to quit
Those recollected hours that have the charm
Of visionary things, those lovely forms
And sweet sensations that throw back our life,
And almost make remotest infancy

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 ;- 't is 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!

FROM "THE PRELUDE," BOOK II

HAWKSHEAD AND LAKE WINDERMERE

[SPORTS OF BOYHOOD]

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 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 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 tranquillising 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