The Enfolded Prelude: Book Fifth
1805 text is in green 1850 text is in purple
Even in When Contemplation, like the steadiest mood of reason, whennight-calm felt
All sorrow for thy transitory painsThrough earth and sky, spreads widely, and sends deep
Goes out, it grieves me Into the soul its tranquillising power,
Even then I sometimes grieve for thy state, thee, O man,Man,
Thou Earth's paramount creature, and thy race, while ye
Shall sojourn on this planet, Creature! not so much for woes
Which That thou endur'st endurest; heavy though that weight, albeit huge,weight be,
I charm away Cloud-like it mounts, or touched with light divine
Doth melt away; but for those palms atchievedachieved
Through length of time, by patient exercise
Of study and hard thought,
The honours of thy high endowments; therethought; there, there, it is
My That sadness finds its fuel. HithertoHitherto,
In progress through this verse Verse, my mind hath looked
Upon the speaking face of earth and heaven
As her prime teacher, intercourse with man
Established by the Sovereign sovereign Intellect,
Who through that bodily image hath diffuseddiffused,
A soul divine which we participate,As might appear to the eye of fleeting time,
A deathless spirit. Thou also, man, man! hast wrought,
For commerce of thy nature with itself,herself,
Things worthy of that aspire to unconquerable life;
And yet we feel we cannot chuse choose but feel—
That these must perish. —
That they must perish. Tremblings of the heart
It gives, to think that the our immortal being
No more shall need such garments; and yet man,
As long as he shall be the child of earth,
Might almost 'weep "weep to have' have" what he may loselose,
Nor be himself extinguished, but survivesurvive,
Abject, depressed, forlorn, disconsolate.
A thought is with me sometimes, and I say,
'Should earth by inward throes be wrenched throughout,
Or fire be sent from far to wither all
Her pleasant habitations, and dry up
Old Ocean in his bed, left singed and bare,
Yet would the living presence still subsist
Victorious; and composure would ensue,
And kindlings like the morning—presage sure,
Though slow perhaps, of a returning day.'—
Should the whole frame of earth by inward throes
Be wrenched, or fire come down from far to scorch
Her pleasant habitations, and dry up
Old Ocean, in his bed left singed and bare,
Yet would the living Presence still subsist
Victorious, and composure would ensue,
And kindlings like the morning—presage sure
Of day returning and of life revived.
But all the meditations of mankind,
Yea, all the adamantine holds of truth
By reason built, or passion (which passion, which itself
Is highest reason in a soul sublime),sublime;
The consecrated works of bard Bard and sage,Sage,
Sensuous or intellectual, wrought by men,
Twin labourers and heirs of the same hopes—
Where would they be? Oh, why hath not the mind
Some element to stamp her image on
In nature somewhat nearer to her own?
Why, gifted with such powers to send abroad
Her spirit, must it lodge in shrines so frail?
One day, when in the hearing of a friend
I had given utterance to thoughts like these,
He answered with a smile that in plain truth
'Twas going far to seek disquietude—
But on the front of his reproof confessed
That he at sundry seasons had himself
Yielded to kindred hauntings, and, forthwith,
Added that once upon a summer's noon
While he was sitting in a rocky cave
By the seaside, perusing as it chanced,
The famous history of the errant knight
Recorded by Cervantes, these same thoughts
Came to him, and to height unusual rose
While listlessly he sate, and, having closed
The book, had turned his eyes towards the sea.hopes;
On poetry and geometric truthWhere would they be? Oh! why hath not the Mind
(The knowledge Some element to stamp her image on
In nature somewhat nearer to her own?
Why, gifted with such powers to send abroad
Her spirit, must it lodge in shrines so frail?
One day, when from my lips a like complaint
Had fallen in presence of a studious friend,
He with a smile made answer, that endures) upon in truth
'Twas going far to seek disquietude;
But on the front of his reproof confessed
That he himself had oftentimes given way
To kindred hauntings. Whereupon I told,
That once in the stillness of a summer's noon,
While I was seated in a rocky cave
By the sea-side, perusing, so it chanced,
The famous history of the errant knight
Recorded by Cervantes, these two,same thoughts
Beset me, and to height unusual rose,
While listlessly I sate, and, having closed
The book, had turned my eyes toward the wide sea.
On poetry and geometric truth,
And their high privilege of lasting lifelife,
Exempt from From all internal injury,injury exempt,
He mused I mused; upon these chiefly chiefly: and at length,
His My senses yielding to the sultry air,
Sleep seized him me, and he I passed into a dream.
He I saw before him an Arabian waste,me stretched a boundless plain
A desert, Of sandy wilderness, all black and he fancied that himself
Was sitting there in the wide wildernessvoid,
Alone upon the sands. Distress of mindAnd as I looked around, distress and fear
Was growing in him when, behold, Came creeping over me, when at oncemy side,
To his great joy a man was Close at his side,my side, an uncouth shape appeared
Upon a dromedary dromedary, mounted high.
He seemed an arab Arab of the Bedouin tribes;tribes:
A lance he bore, and underneath one arm
A stone, and in the opposite hand a shell
Of a surpassing brightness. Much rejoicedAt the sight
The dreaming man that he should have Much I rejoiced, not doubting but a guide
To lead him Was present, one who with unerring skill
Would through the desert; desert lead me; and he thought,while yet
While questioning himself I looked and looked, self-questioned what this strange freight
Which the newcomer new-comer carried through the waste
Could mean, the arab Arab told him me that the stone
To (To give it in the language of the dream—
Was Euclid's Elements. 'And this', said he,dream)
'This other', pointing to the shell, 'this bookWas "Euclid's Elements," and "This," said he,
Is "Is something of more worth.' 'And, worth;" and at the word,
The stranger', said my friend continuing,word
'Stretched Stretched forth the shell towards me, shell, so beautiful in shape,
In colour so resplendent, with command
That I should hold it to my ear. I did soso,
And heard that instant in an unknown tongue,
Which yet I understood, articulate sounds,
A loud prophetic blast of harmony,harmony;
And ode An Ode, in passion uttered, which foretold
Destruction to the children of the earth
By deluge deluge, now at hand. No sooner ceased
The song, but than the Arab with calm look the arab saiddeclared
That all was true, that it was even sowould come to pass of which the voice
As had been spoken, Had given forewarning, and that he himself
Was going then to bury those two books—
The one that held acquaintance with the stars,
And wedded man to man by purest bond
Of nature, undisturbed by space or time;
Th' other that was a god, yea many gods,
Had voices more than all the winds, and was
A joy, a consolation, and a hope.'books:
My friend continued, 'Strange The one that held acquaintance with the stars,
And wedded soul to soul in purest bond
Of reason, undisturbed by space or time;
The other that was a god, yea many gods,
Had voices more than all the winds, with power
To exhilarate the spirit, and to soothe,
Through every clime, the heart of human kind.
While this was uttering, strange as it may seemseem,
I wondered not, although I plainly saw
The one to be a stone, th' the other a shell,shell;
Nor doubted once but that they both were books,
Having a perfect faith in all that passed.
A wish was now engendered in my fearFar stronger, now, grew the desire I felt
To cleave unto this man, and man; but when I begged leaveprayed
To share his errand with him. On enterprise, he passedhurried on
Not heeding me; Reckless of me: I followed, and took notenot unseen,
That For oftentimes he looked often cast a backward with wild look,
Grasping his twofold treasure to his side.
Upon a dromedary, lance treasure. Lance in rest,
He rode, I keeping pace with him; and now
I fancied that he was He, to my fancy, had become the very knight
Whose tale Cervantes tells, tells; yet not the knight,
But was an arab Arab of the desert too,too;
Of these was neither, and was both at once.
His countenance meanwhile countenance, meanwhile, grew more disturbed,disturbed;
And And, looking backwards when he looked I sawlooked, mine eyes
Saw, over half the wilderness diffused,
A bed of glittering light, and light: I asked him whence it came.the cause:
"It is", is," said he, "The "the waters of the deep
Gathering upon us." Quickening us;" quickening then his the pace
Of the unwieldy creature he bestrode,
He left me; me: I called after him aloud;
He heeded not, but not; but, with his twofold charge
Beneath Still in his arm grasp, before me me, full in view—
I saw him riding o'er the desart sands
With the fleet waters of the drowning world
In chace of him; whereat I waked in terror,
And saw the sea before me, and the book
In which I had been reading at my side.'view,
Went hurrying o'er the illimitable waste,
With the fleet waters of a drowning world
In chase of him; whereat I waked in terror,
And saw the sea before me, and the book,
In which I had been reading, at my side.
Full often, taking from the world of sleep 140sleep
This arab phantom Arab phantom, which my friend I thus beheld,
This semi-Quixote, I to him have given
A substance, fancied him a living man—
A gentle dweller in the desart, crazed
By love, and feeling, and internal thought
Protracted among endless solitudes—
Have shaped him, in the oppression of his brain,
Wandering upon this quest and thus equipped.man,
And I A gentle dweller in the desert, crazed
By love and feeling, and internal thought
Protracted among endless solitudes;
Have shaped him wandering upon this quest!
Nor have scarcely I pitied him, have him; but rather felt
A reverence for Reverence was due to a being thus employed,employed;
And thought that that, in the blind and awful lair
Of such a madness madness, reason did lie couched.
Enow there are on earth to take in charge
Their wives, their children, and their virgin loves,
Or whatsoever else the heart holds dear—
Enow to think of these yea, will I say,
In sober contemplation of the approach
Of such great overthrow, made manifest
By certain evidence, that I methinks
Could share that maniac's anxiousness, could go
Upon like errand. dear;
Enow to stir for these; yea, will I say,
Contemplating in soberness the approach
Of an event so dire, by signs in earth
Or heaven made manifest, that I could share
That maniac's fond anxiety, and go
Upon like errand. Oftentimes at least
Me hath such deep strong entrancement half-possessedovercome,
When I have held a volume in my handhand,
Poor earthly casket of immortal verseverse,
Shakespeare Shakespeare, or Milton, labourers divine.divine!
Mighty, indeed supreme, Great and benign, indeed, must be the power
Of living Nature nature, which could thus so long
Detain me from the best of other thoughts.guides
And dearest helpers, left unthanked, unpraised,
Even in the lisping time of infancylisping infancy;
And, And later down, in prattling childhood eveneven,
While I was travelling back among those days—
How could I ever play an ingrate's part?
Once more should I have made those bowers resound,
And intermingled strains of thankfulness
With their own thoughtless melodies. At days,
How could I ever play an ingrate's part?
Once more should I have made those bowers resound,
By intermingling strains of thankfulness
With their own thoughtless melodies; at least
It might have well beseemed me to repeat
Some simply fashioned tale, to tell againagain,
In slender accents of sweet verse verse, some tale
That did bewitch me then, and soothes me now.
O friend, Friend! O poet, Poet! brother of my soul,
Think not that I could ever pass alongalong untouched
Untouched by By these remembrances; no, no,
But I was hurried forward by a stream
And could not stop. remembrances. Yet wherefore should I speak,speak?
Why call upon a few weak words to say
What is already written in the hearts
Of all that breathe breathe? what in the path of all
Drops daily from the tongue of every childchild,
Wherever man is found? The trickling tear
Upon the cheek of listening infancyInfancy
Tells Proclaims it, and the insuperable look
That drinks as if it never could be full.
That portion of my story I shall leave
There registered. Whatever registered: whatever else there beof power
Of power or pleasure, sown Or pleasure sown, or fostered thus—
Peculiar to myself let that remain
Where it lies hidden in its endless home
Among the depths of time. And yet thus, may be
Peculiar to myself, let that remain
Where still it seemsworks, though hidden from all search
Among the depths of time. Yet is it just
That here, in memory of all books which lay
Their sure foundations in the heart of man,
Whether by native prose, or numerous verse,
That in the name of all inspired souls.
From Homer the great thunderer, from the voice
Which roars along the bed of Jewish song,
And that, more varied and elaborate,
Those trumpet-tones of harmony that shake
Our shores in England, from those loftiest notes
Down to the low and wren-like warblings, made
For cottagers and spinners at the wheel
And weary travellers when they rest themselves
By the highways and hedges: ballad-tunes,
Food for the hungry ears of little ones,
And of old men who have survived their joy.—
It seemeth in behalf of these, the works,
And of the men who framed them, whether known,
Or sleeping nameless in their scattered graves,
That I should here assert their rights, attest
Their honours, and should once for all pronounce
Their benediction, speak of them as powers
For ever to be hallowed only less
For what we may become, and what we need,
Than Nature's self which is the breath of God.souls—
From Homer the great Thunderer, from the voice
That roars along the bed of Jewish song,
And that more varied and elaborate,
Those trumpet-tones of harmony that shake
Our shores in England, from those loftiest notes
Down to the low and wren-like warblings, made
For cottagers and spinners at the wheel,
And sun-burnt travellers resting their tired limbs,
Stretched under wayside hedge-rows, ballad tunes,
Food for the hungry ears of little ones,
And of old men who have survived their joys—
'Tis just that in behalf of these, the works,
And of the men that framed them, whether known
Or sleeping nameless in their scattered graves,
That I should here assert their rights, attest
Their honours, and should, once for all, pronounce
Their benediction; speak of them as Powers
For ever to be hallowed; only less,
For what we are and what we may become,
Than Nature's self, which is the breath of God,
Or His pure Word by miracle revealed.
Rarely and with reluctance would I stoop
To transitory themes, themes; yet I rejoice,
And, by these thoughts admonished, must speak will pour out
Thanksgivings from my heart Thanks with uplifted heart, that I was reared
Safe from an evil which these days have laid
Upon the children of the land land, a pest
That might have dried me up up, body and soul.
This verse is dedicate to Nature's selfself,
And things that teach as Nature teaches: then,
Oh, Oh! where had been the man, Man, the poet where—
Where had we been we two, beloved friend,
If we, in lieu of wandering as we did
Through heights and hollows and bye-spots of tales
Rich with indigenous produce, open ground
Of fancy, happy pastures ranged at will,
Had been attended, followed, watched, and noosed,
Each in his several melancholy walk,
Stringed like a poor man's heifer at its feed,
Led through the lanes in forlorn servitude;
Or rather like a stalled ox shut out
From touch of growing grass, that may not taste
A flower till it have yielded up its sweets
A prelibation to the mower's scythe.Poet where,
Where had we been, we two, beloved Friend!
If in the season of unperilous choice,
In lieu of wandering, as we did, through vales
Rich with indigenous produce, open ground
Of Fancy, happy pastures ranged at will,
We had been followed, hourly watched, and noosed,
Each in his several melancholy walk
Stringed like a poor man's heifer at its feed,
Led through the lanes in forlorn servitude;
Or rather like a stalled ox debarred
From touch of growing grass, that may not taste
A flower till it have yielded up its sweets
A prelibation to the mower's scythe.
Behold the parent hen amid her brood,
Though fledged and feathered, and well pleased to part
And straggle from her presence, still a brood,
And she herself from the maternal bond
Still undischarged. Yet undischarged; yet doth she little more
Than move with them in tenderness and love,
A centre of to the circle which they make;
And now and then then, alike from need of theirs
And call of her own natural appetites—
She scratches, ransacks up the earth for food
Which they partake at pleasure. appetites,
She scratches, ransacks up the earth for food,
Which they partake at pleasure. Early died
My honoured mother, Mother, she who was the heart
And hinge of all our learnings and our loves;loves:
She left us destitute, and and, as we mightmight,
Trooping together. Little suits it me
To break upon the sabbath of her rest
With any thought that looks at others' blame,blame;
Nor would I praise her but in perfect love;love.
Hence am I checked, checked: but I will let me boldly saysay,
In gratitude, and for the sake of truth,
Unheard by her, that she, not falsely taught,
Fetching her goodness rather from times pastpast,
Than shaping novelties from those for times to come,
Had no presumption, no such jealousy—
Nor did by habit of her thoughts mistrust
Our nature, but had virtual faith that He
Who fills the mother's breasts with innocent milk
Doth also for our nobler part provide,
Under His great correction and controul,
As innocent instincts, and as innocent food.jealousy,
Nor did by habit of her thoughts mistrust
Our nature, but had virtual faith that He
Who fills the mother's breast with innocent milk,
Doth also for our nobler part provide,
Under His great correction and control,
As innocent instincts, and as innocent food;
Or draws, for minds that are left free to trust
In the simplicities of opening life,
Sweet honey out of spurned or dreaded weeds.
This was her creed, and therefore she was pure
From feverish dread anxious fear of error and mishapor mishap,
And evil, overweeningly so called,called;
Was not puffed up by false unnatural hopes,
Nor selfish with unnecessary cares,
Nor with impatience from the season asked
More than its timely produce produce; rather loved
The hours for what they are, than from regardsregard
Glanced on their promises in restless pride.
Such was she: she not from faculties more strong
Than others have, but from the times, perhaps,
And spot in which she lived, and through a grace
Of modest meekness, simple-mindedness,
A heart that found benignity and hope,
Being itself benign.
My drift hath scarcely
I fear been obvious, for I have recoiledfear
From showing as it is the monster birthIs scarcely obvious; but, that common sense
Engendered May try this modern system by these too industrious times.
Let few words paint it: 'tis a child, no child,its fruits,
But a dwarf man; in knowledge, virtue, skill,Leave let me take to place before her sight
In what he is not, and in what he is,A specimen pourtrayed with faithful hand.
The noontide shadow of a man complete;Full early trained to worship seemliness,
A worshipper This model of worldly seemliness—
Not quarrelsome, for that were far beneath
His dignity; with gifts he bubbles o'er
As generous as a fountain; selfishness
May not come near him, gluttony or pride;
The wandering beggers propagate his name,
Dumb creatures find him tender as a nun.
Yet deem him not for this a naked dish
Of goodness merely he child is garnished out.
Arch are his notices, and nice his sensenever known
Of the ridiculous; deceit and guile,To mix in quarrels; that were far beneath
Meanness and falsehood, Its dignity; with gifts he detects, can treatbubbles o'er
With apt and graceful laughter; nor is blindAs generous as a fountain; selfishness
To the broad follies of May not come near him, nor the licensed world;
Though shrewd, yet innocent himself withal,little throng
And can read lectures upon innocence.Of flitting pleasures tempt him from his path;
He is fenced round, nay armed, for ought we know,The wandering beggars propagate his name,
In panoply complete; and fear itself,Dumb creatures find him tender as a nun,
Natural And natural or supernatural alike,fear,
Unless it leap upon him in a dream,
Touches him not. Briefly, To enhance the moral partwonder, see
Is perfect, and in learning and in booksHow arch his notices, how nice his sense
He Of the ridiculous; not blind is a prodigy. His discourse moves slow,
Massy and ponderous as a prison door,
Tremendously embossed with terms of art.
Rank growth of propositions overrunshe
The stripling's brain; To the path in which he treads
Is choked with grammars. Cushion broad follies of divinethe licensed world,
Was never such a type of thought profoundYet innocent himself withal, though shrewd,
As is the pillow where he rests his head.And can read lectures upon innocence;
The ensigns A miracle of the empire which he holds.—
The globe and sceptre of his royalties.
Are telescopes, and crucibles, and maps.scientific lore,
Ships he can guide across the pathless sea,
And tell you all their cunning; he can read
The inside of the earth, and spell the stars;
He knows the policies of foreign lands,lands;
Can string you names of districts, cities, towns,
The whole world over, tight as beads of dew
Upon a gossamer thread. He thread; he sifts, he weighs,
Takes nothing upon trust. His teachers stare,
The country people pray for God's good grace,
And tremble at his deep experiments.weighs;
All things are put to question: question; he must live
Knowing that he grows wiser every day,day
Or else not live at all, and seeing too
Each little drop of wisdom as it falls
Into the dimpling cistern of his heart.
Meanwhile old Grandame Earth is grieved to find
The playthings which her love designed for him
Unthought of in their woodland beds the flowers
Weep, and the river-sides are all forlorn.heart:
Now For this is hollow, 'tis a life of lies
From the beginning, and in lies must end.
Forth bring him to unnatural growth the air of common sensetrainer blame,
And, fresh and shewy as it is, Pity the corpstree. Poor human vanity,
Slips from us into powder. Vanity,Wert thou extinguished, little would be left
That is his soul: there lives he, and there moves—
It is the soul of every thing he seeks—
That gone, nothing is left which he can love.Which he could truly love; but how escape?
Nay, if For, ever as a thought of purer birth should risebirth
To carry Rises to lead him towards toward a better clime,
Some busy helper intermeddler still is on the watch
To drive him back, and pound him him, like a straystray,
With Within the pinfold of his own conceit,conceit.
Which Meanwhile old grandame earth is his home, his natural dwelling-place.grieved to find
Oh, The playthings, which her love designed for him,
Unthought of: in their woodland beds the flowers
Weep, and the river sides are all forlorn.
Oh! give us once again the wishing-cap
Of Fortunatus, and the invisible coat
Of Jack the Giant-killer, Robin Hood,
And Sabra in the forest with St. George!
The child child, whose love is here, at least least, doth reap
One precious gain gain, that he forgets himself.
These mighty workmen of our later ageage,
Who Who, with a broad highway highway, have overbridged
The froward chaos of futurity,
Tamed to their bidding—they who have the art
To manage books, and things, and make them work
Gently on infant minds as does the sun
Upon a flower the tutors of our youth,
The guides, the wardens of our faculties
And stewards of our labour, watchful men
And skilful in the usury of time,
Sages, who in their prescience would controul
All accidents, and to the very road
Which they have fashioned would confine us down
Like engines when will they be taught
That in the unreasoning progress of the world
A wiser spirit is at work for us,