THE PRELUDE, OR GROWTH OF A POET'S MIND; AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL POEM. ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST EDITION. THE following Poem was commenced in the beginning of the year 1799, and completed in the summer of 1805. The design and occasion of the work are described by the Author in his Preface to the EXCURSION, first published in 1814, where he thus speaks: "Several years ago, when the Author retired to his native mountains with the hope of being enabled to construct a literary work that might live, it was a reasonable thing that he should take a review of his own mind, and examine how far Nature and Education had qualified him for such an employment. "As subsidiary to this preparation, he undertook to record, in verse, the origin and progress of his own powers. as far as he was acquainted with them. "That work, addressed to a dear friend, most distinguished for his knowledge and genius, and to whom the Author's intellect is deeply indebted, has been long finished, and the result of the investigation which gave rise to it, was a determination to compose a philosophical Poem, containing views of Man, Nature, and Society, and to be entitled the Recluse ;' as having for its principal subject the sensations and opinions of a poet living in retirement. "The preparatory Poem is biographical, and conducts the history of the Author's mind to the point when he was emboldened to hope that his faculties were sufficiently matured for entering upon the arduous labor which he had proposed to himself; and the two works have the same kind of relation to each other, if he may so express himself, as the Ante-chapel has to the body of a Gothic church. Continuing this allusion, he may be permitted to add, that his minor pieces, which have been long before the public, when they shall be properly arranged, will be found by the attentive reader to have such connection with the main work as may give them claim to be likened to the little cells, oratories, and sepulchral recesses, ordinarily included in those edifices. Such was the Author's language in the year 1814. It will thence be seen, that the present Poem was intended to be introductory to the RECLUSE, and that the RECLUSE, if completed, would have consisted of Three Parts. Of these, the Second Part alone, viz., the EXCURSION, was finished, and given to the world by the Author. The First Book of the First Part of the RECLUSE still remains in manuscript, but the Third Part was only planned. The materials of which it would have been formed have, however, been incorporated, for the most part, in the Author's other Publications, written subsequently to the EXCURSION. The Friend, to whom the present Poem is addressed, was the late SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIGDE, who was resident in Malta, for the restoration of his health, when the greater part of it was composed. Mr. Coleridge read a considerable portion of the Poem while he was abroad; and his feelings, on hearing it recited by the Author (after his return to his own country), are recorded in his Verses, addressed to Mr. Wordsworth, which will be found in the "Sibylline Leaves," p. 197, ed. 1817, or Poetical Works, by S. T. Coleridge," vol. 1., p. 206.-ED. RYDAL MOUNT, July 13th, 1850. BOOK FIRST. INTRODUCTION.-CHILDHOOD O THERE is blessing in this gentle breeze, From the green fields, and from yon azure sky Whate'er its mission, the soft breeze can come To none more grateful than to me; escaped Shall with its murmur lull me into rest? Come fast upon me. it is shaken off, Up hill or down, or shall some floating thing Upon the river point me out my course? Dear liberty! Yet what would it avail Was blowing on my body, felt within Vexing its own creation. Thanks to both, And their congenial powers, that, while they join In breaking up a long-continued frost, Bring with them vernal promises, the hope Of active days urged on by flying hours,Days of sweet leisure, taxed with patient thought Abstruse, nor wanting punctual service high, Matins and vespers of harmonious verse! Thus far, O Friend! did I, not used to make A present joy the matter of a song, Pour forth that day my soul in measured strains That would not be forgotten, and are here Recorded to the open fields I told Internal echo of the imperfect sound; Content and not unwilling now to give To a green shady place, where down I sate Beneath a tree, slackening my thoughts by choice, And settling into gentler happiness. 'Twas autumn, and a clear and placid day, With warmth, as much as needed, from a Sun Two hours declined towards the west; a day With silver clouds, and sunshine on the grass, And in the sheltered and the sheltering grove A perfect stillness. Many were the thoughts Encouraged and dismissed, till choice was made Of a known Vale, whither my feet should turn, Nor rest till they had reached the very door Nor e'er lost sight of what I mused upon, The road that pointed toward that chosen Vale. It was a splendid evening, and my soul Once more made trial of her strength, nor lacked Æolian visitations; but the harp Was soon defrauded, and the banded host Mild influence; nor left in me one wish A pleasart loitering journey, through three days Continued, brought me to my hermitage. Rare, or at least so seeming, every day I might endue some airy phantasies Dawns from the east, but dawns to disappear Vain is her wish; where'er she turns she finds Impediments from day to day renewed. And now it would content me to yield up Those lofty hopes awhile, for present gifts Of humbler industry. But, oh, dear Friend! The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times; His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Of Elements and Agents, Under-powers, And needful to build up a Poet's praise. Time, place, and manners do I seek, and these Are found in plenteous store, but nowhere such As may be singled out with steady choice; No little band of yet remembered names Whom I, in perfect confidence, might hope To summon back from lonesome banishment, And make them dwellers in the hearts of men Now living, or to live in future years. Sometimes the ambitious Power of choice, mistaking Proud spring tide swellings for a regular sea, Where spear encountered spear, and sword with sword Fought, as if conscious of the blazonry That the shield bore, so glorious was the strife; Whence inspiration for a song that winds Through ever changing scenes of votive quest Wrongs to redress, harmonious tribute paid Sometimes, more sternly moved, I would relate How vanquished Mithridates northward passed, And, hidden in the cloud of And followers of Sertorious, out of Spain Of Liberty, which fifteen hundred years Did, like a pestilence, maintain its hold And clearer insight. Thus my days are past In contradiction; with no skill to part A timorous capacity from prudence, Locks every function up in blank reserve, hour Turns recreant to her task; takes heart again, Then feels immediately some hollow thought Was it for this To blend his murmurs with my nurse's song, That flowed along my dreams? For this, O Derwent! winding among grassy holms To more than infant softness, giving me When he had left the mountains and re- In these night wanderings, that a strong O'erpowered my better reason, and the bird I heard among the solitary hills Low breathings coming after me, and sounds On his smooth breast the shadow of those Almost as silent as the turf they trod. towers That yet survive, a shattered monument Alternate, all a summer's day, or scoured groves Of yellow ragwort; or when rock and hill, The woods, and distant Skiddaw's lofty height, Were bronzed with deepest radiance, stood Beneath the sky, as if I had been born Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up For sports of wider range. Ere I had told Frost, and the breath of frosty wind, had snapped The last autumnal crocus, 'twas my joy With store of springes o'er my shoulder hung To range the open heights where woodcocks run Our object and inglorious, yet the end While on the perilous ridge I hung alone, Blow through my ear! the sky seemed not a sky Of earth-and with what motion moved the clouds ! Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows In one society. How strange that all And that a needful part, in making up The calm existence that is mine when I Whether her fearless visitings, or those |