Shall I be silent? O capacious Soul ! Placed on this earth to love and understand, And from thy presence shed the light of love,

Shall I be mute, ere thou be spoken of? 280
Thy kindred influence to my heart of hearts
Did also find its way. Thus fear relaxed
Her overweening grasp; thus thoughts and
things

In the self-haunting spirit learned to take
More rational proportions; mystery,
The incumbent mystery of sense and soul,
Of life and death, time and eternity,
Admitted more habitually a mild
Interposition a serene delight

In closelier gathering cares, such as become
A human creature, howsoe'er endowed, 291
Poet, or destined for a humbler name;
And so the deep enthusiastic joy,
The rapture of the hallelujah sent

From all that breathes and is, was chastened, stemmed

And balanced by pathetic truth, by trust
In hopeful reason, leaning on the stay
Of Providence; and in reverence for duty,
Here, if need be, struggling with storms,
and there

Strewing in peace life's humblest ground with herbs,

300

At every season green, sweet at all hours.

And now, brought To its appointed close: the discipline And consummation of a Poet's mind, In everything that stood most prominent, Have faithfully been pictured; we have reached

O Friend! this history is

The time (our guiding object from the first) When we may, not presumptuously, I hope, Suppose my powers so far confirmed, and such

My knowledge, as to make me capable 310 Of building up a Work that shall endure. Yet much hath been omitted, as need was; Of books how much! and even of the other wealth

That is collected among woods and fields, Far more: for Nature's secondary grace Hath hitherto been barely touched upon, The charm more superficial that attends Her works, as they present to Fancy's choice Apt illustrations of the moral world, Caught at a glance, or traced with curious pains.

320

Finally, and above all, O Friend! (I

speak With due regret) how much is overlooked In human nature and her subtle ways, As studied first in our own hearts, and then In life among the passions of mankind, Varying their composition and their hue, Where'er we move, under the diverse shapes That individual character presents

330

To an attentive eye. For progress meet,
Along this intricate and difficult path,
Whate'er was wanting, something had I
gained,

As one of many schoolfellows compelled,
In hardy independence, to stand up
Amid conflicting interests, and the shock
Of various tempers; to endure and note
What was not understood, though known
to be;

Among the mysteries of love and hate, Honour and shame, looking to right and left,

Unchecked by innocence too delicate,
And moral notions too intolerant,
Sympathies too contracted. Hence, when

called

340

Murmuring of him who, joyous hap, was found,

After the perils of his moonlight ride,
Near the loud waterfall; or her who sate
In misery near the miserable Thorn
When thou dost to that summer turn thy
thoughts,

And hast before thee all which then we were,

410

To thee, in memory of that happiness,
It will be known, by thee at least, my
Friend!

Felt, that the history of a Poet's mind
Is labour not unworthy of regard;
To thee the work shall justify itself.

The last and later portions of this gift Have been prepared, not with the buoyant spirits

That were our daily portion when we first
Together wantoned in wild Poesy,
But, under pressure of a private grief,
Keen and enduring, which the mind and
heart,

That in this meditative history

420

One of a golden summer holiday,
He well remembers, though the year be
gone

Alone and devious from afar he came;
And, with a sudden influx overpowered
At sight of this seclusion, he forgot
His haste, for hasty had his footsteps been
As boyish his pursuits; and sighing said, 10
"What happy fortune were it here to live!
And, if a thought of dying, if a thought
Of mortal separation, could intrude
With paradise before him, here to die!"
No Prophet was he, had not even a hope,
Scarcely a wish, but one bright pleasing
thought,

A fancy in the heart of what might be
The lot of others, never could be his.

The station whence he looked was soft

30

In billow after billow, evermore
Disporting-nor unmindful was the boy
Of sunbeams, shadows, butterflies and birds;
Of fluttering sylphs and softly-gliding Fays,
Genii, and winged angels that are Lords
Without restraint of all which they behold.
The illusion strengthening as he gazed, he
felt

That such unfettered liberty was his,
Such power and joy; but only for this end,
To flit from field to rock, from rock to field,
From shore to island, and from isle to

As beautiful to thought, as it had been
When present, to the bodily sense; a haunt
Of pure affections, shedding upon joy
A brighter joy; and through such damp
and gloom

Of the gay mind, as ofttimes splenetic youth Mistakes for sorrow, darting beams of light That no self-cherished sadness could with

stand;

And now 't is mine, perchance for life, dear Vale,

Beloved Grasmere (let the wandering

streams

Take up, the cloud-capt hills repeat, the Name)

One of thy lowly Dwellings is my Home.

Have been to me more bountiful than hope, Less timid than desire - but that is past. 70 On Nature's invitation do I come,

By Reason sanctioned. Can the choice mislead,

That made the calmest, fairest spot of earth With all its unappropriated good

My own; and not mine only, for with me Entrenched, say rather peacefully embowered,

Under yon orchard, in yon humble cot,
A younger Orphan of a home extinct,
The only Daughter of my Parents dwells.
Ay, think on that, my heart, and cease to
stir,

Pause upon

80

that and let the breathing frame No longer breathe, but all be satisfied.

Oh, if such silence be not thanks to God For what hath been bestowed, then where, where then

Shall gratitude find rest? Mine eyes did

Now in the clear and open day I feel
Your guardianship; I take it to my heart;
'T is like the solemn shelter of the night.
But I would call thee beautiful, for mild,
And soft, and gay, and beautiful thou art,
Dear Valley, having in thy face a smile,
Though peaceful, full of gladness. Thou
art pleased,

Pleased with thy crags and woody steeps, thy Lake,

Its one green island and its winding shores; The multitude of little rocky hills,

120

Thy Church and cottages of mountain stone Clustered like stars some few, but single

most,

And lurking dimly in their shy retreats,
Or glancing at each other cheerful looks
Like separated stars with clouds between.
What want we? have we not perpetual

streams,

Warm woods, and sunny hills, and fresh green fields,

And mountains not less green, and flocks and herds,

130

And thickets full of songsters, and the voice
Of lordly birds, an unexpected sound
Heard now and then from morn to latest eve,
Admonishing the man who walks below
Of solitude and silence in the sky?
These have we, and a thousand nooks of
earth

Have also these, but nowhere else is found,
Nowhere (or is it fancy?) can be found
The one sensation that is here; 't is here,
Here as it found its way into my heart
In childhood, here as it abides by day,
By night, here only; or in chosen minds 140
That take it with them hence, where'er they

We entered, bright and solemn was the sky
That faced us with a passionate welcoming,
And led us to our threshold. Daylight
failed

Insensibly, and round us gently fell
Composing darkness, with a quiet load
Of full contentment, in a little shed
Disturbed, uneasy in itself as seemed,
And wondering at its new inhabitants.
It loves us now, this Vale so beautiful
Begins to love us! by a sullen storm,
Two months unwearied of severest storm,
It put the temper of our minds to proof,
And found us faithful through the gloom,
and heard

180

The poet mutter his prelusive songs
With cheerful heart, an unknown voice of

joy