The Prelude - An Autobiographical Poem
()
About this ebook
First published after Wordsworth's death in 1880 and titled by his widow Mary, “The Prelude” is Wordsworth's autobiographical magnum opus within which he offers the reader a plethora of personal details about his life. He started writing the when he was 28 and continued to work on it throughout his life. Changed and expanded many times, it was originally conceived as an introduction to “The Recluse”, a work which remains unfinished. This volume constitutes a must-read for all lovers of poetry and is not to be missed by fans and collectors of Wordsworth's seminal work. This new edition includes and introductory excerpt by Thomas De Quincey.
William Wordsworth (1770–1850) was an English Romantic poet famous for helping to usher in the Romantic Age in English literature with the publication of “Lyrical Ballads” (1798), which he co-wrote with Samuel Taylor Coleridge. He was poet laureate of Britain between 1843 until his death in 1850. Other notable works by this author include: “The Tables Turned”, “The Thorn”, and “Lines Composed A Few Miles above Tintern Abbey”.
William Wordsworth
William Wordsworth was born on 7 April 1770 at Cockermouth, in the English Lake District, the son of a lawyer. He was one of five children and developed a close bond with his only sister, Dorothy, whom he lived with for most of his life. At the age of seventeen, shortly after the deaths of his parents, Wordsworth went to St John’s College, Cambridge, and after graduating visited Revolutionary France. Upon returning to England he published his first poem and devoted himself wholly to writing. He became great friends with other Romantic poets and collaborated with Samuel Taylor Coleridge on Lyrical Ballads. In 1843, he succeeded Robert Southey as Poet Laureate and died in the year ‘Prelude’ was finally published, 1850.
Read more from William Wordsworth
The Collected Poems of Wordsworth Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsPoems in Two Volumes, Volume 1 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Poetical Works of William Wordsworth — Volume 1 Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Lyrical Ballads: 1800 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Book of Nature: Wordsworth's Poetry on Nature Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsWordsworth: 'Daffodils' and Other Poems Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Prelude, The Recluse & The Excursion Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Collected Poems of William Wordsworth (with an introduction by John Morley) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Book of Flowers: Wordsworth's Poetry on Flowers Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsChristmas Carols & Poems Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsPoetical Works of William Wordsworth Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsLyrical Ballads Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Prelude: "Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart." Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Greatest Christmas Carols & Poems: 150+ Holiday Songs, Poetry & Rhymes Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Dog's Book Of Verse Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsPoems by Samuel Taylor Coleridge and William Wordsworth: Including Their Thoughts On Poetry Principles and Secrets Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Oxford Book of Poetry: Latin Verse, English Verse, Book of Ballads & Modern Poetry, With Oxford Lectures on Poetry Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
Related to The Prelude - An Autobiographical Poem
Related ebooks
Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth (Illustrated) Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Lyrical Ballads: 1798 Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Delphi Complete Works of John Keats (Illustrated) Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Delphi Complete Works of Edmund Spenser (Illustrated) Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Prelude, The Recluse & The Excursion Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsDelphi Complete Works of Robert Browning (Illustrated) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsChilde Harold's Pilgrimage Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Tristram Shandy Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Sonnets to Orpheus and Duino Elegies Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Poetry Of Wallace Stevens: "A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman." Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Collected Works of T.S. Eliot Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Delphi Complete Poetical Works of John Donne (Illustrated) Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5BIOGRAPHIA LITERARIA Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Eugene Onegin: A Novel in Verse Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Faerie Queen Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Centuries of Meditations Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsWindsor Forest Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Waste Land Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A Shropshire Lad Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Selected Poems and Letters Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Odyssey of Homer, Translated by George Chapman: “There will be killing till the score is paid” Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Essential Alfred Tennyson Collection Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsAn Essay on Man Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsDelphi Complete Works of Alfred, Lord Tennyson (Illustrated) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsDaniel Deronda by George Eliot - Delphi Classics (Illustrated) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsA Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
Poetry For You
The Things We Don't Talk About Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Prophet Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Selected Poems Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Bedtime Stories for Grown-ups Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Love Her Wild: Poems Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Complete Poems of John Keats (with an Introduction by Robert Bridges) Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Dream Work Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Daily Stoic: A Daily Journal On Meditation, Stoicism, Wisdom and Philosophy to Improve Your Life Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Poems That Make Grown Men Cry: 100 Men on the Words That Move Them Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A Collection of Poems by Robert Frost Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Beyond Thoughts: An Exploration Of Who We Are Beyond Our Minds Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Way Forward Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Complete Works Of Oscar Wilde Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Twenty love poems and a song of despair Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Edgar Allan Poe: The Complete Collection Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Inward Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Beowulf Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5You Better Be Lightning Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Dante's Inferno: The Divine Comedy, Book One Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Tao Te Ching: A New English Version Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Road Not Taken and other Selected Poems Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Enough Rope: Poems Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Divine Comedy: Inferno, Purgatory, and Paradise Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Iliad: The Fitzgerald Translation Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Gilgamesh: A Verse Narrative Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Leaves of Grass: 1855 Edition Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Odyssey Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsGilgamesh: A New English Version Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5
Related categories
Reviews for The Prelude - An Autobiographical Poem
0 ratings0 reviews
Book preview
The Prelude - An Autobiographical Poem - William Wordsworth
THE PRELUDE
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL POEM
By
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
First published in 1850
Copyright © 2020 Ragged Hand
This edition is published by Ragged Hand,
an imprint of Read & Co.
This book is copyright and may not be reproduced or copied in any
way without the express permission of the publisher in writing.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available
from the British Library.
Read & Co. is part of Read Books Ltd.
For more information visit
www.readandcobooks.co.uk
Contents
William Wordsworth
PREFACE
THE PRELUDE
BOOK FIRST.
INTRODUCTION— CHILDHOOD AND SCHOOL-TIME.
BOOK SECOND.
SCHOOL-TIME.—(CONTINUED)
BOOK THIRD
RESIDENCE AT CAMBRIDGE.
BOOK FOURTH.
SUMMER VACATION.
BOOK FIFTH.
BOOKS.
BOOK SIXTH.
CAMBRIDGE AND THE ALPS.
BOOK SEVENTH.
RESIDENCE IN LONDON.
BOOK EIGHTH.
RETROSPECT—LOVE OF NATURE LEADING TO LOVE OF MAN.
BOOK NINTH.
RESIDENCE IN FRANCE.
BOOK TENTH.
RESIDENCE IN FRANCE—(CONTINUED)
BOOK ELEVENTH.
FRANCE—(CONCLUDED)
BOOK TWELFTH.
IMAGINATION AND TASTE, HOW IMPAIRED AND RESTORED.
BOOK THIRTEENTH.
IMAGINATION AND TASTE, HOW IMPAIRED AND RESTORED—(CONCLUDED)
BOOK FOURTEENTH.
CONCLUSION.
William Wordsworth
Mr. Wordsworth . . . had a dignified manner, with a deep and roughish but not unpleasing voice, and an exalted mode of speaking. He had a habit of keeping his left hand in the bosom of his waistcoat; and in this attitude, except when he turned round to take one of the subjects of his criticism from the shelves (for his contemporaries were there also), he sat dealing forth his eloquent but hardly catholic judgments. . . . Walter Scott said that the eyes of Burns were the finest he ever saw. I cannot say the same of Mr. Wordsworth; that is, not in the sense of the beautiful, or even of the profound. But certainly I never beheld eyes which looked so inspired and supernatural. They were like fires half burning, half smouldering with a sort of acrid fixture of regard, and seated at the further end of two caverns. One might imagine Ezekiel or Isaiah to have had such eyes. The finest eyes, in every sense of the word, which I have ever seen in a man’s head (and I have seen many fine ones), are those of Thomas Carlyle.
—1815.
An Excerpt from
The Autobiography of Leigh Hunt, 1850
By Leigh Hunt
". . . He (Wordsworth) talked well in his way; with veracity, easy brevity, and force, as a wise tradesman would of his tools and workshop,—and as no unwise one could. His voice was good, frank, and sonorous, though practically clear, distinct, and forcible, rather than melodious; the tone of him business-like, sedately confident; no discourtesy, yet no anxiety about being courteous.
A fine wholesome rusticity, fresh as his mountain breezes, sat well on the stalwart veteran, and on all he said and did. You would have said he was a usually taciturn man; glad to unlock himself to audience sympathetic and intelligent when such offered itself.
His face bore marks of much, not always peaceful, meditation; the look of it not bland or benevolent so much as close, impregnable, and hard: a man multa tacere loquive paratus, in a world where he had experienced no lack of contradictions as he strode along! The eyes were not very brilliant, but they had a quiet clearness; there was enough of brow, and well-shaped; rather too much of cheek (‘horse face’ I have heard satirists say); face of squarish shape, and decidedly longish, as I think the head itself was (its ‘length’ going horizontal); he was large-boned, lean, but still firm-knit, tall, and strong-looking when he stood, a right good old steel-gray figure, with rustic simplicity and dignity about him, and a vivacious strength looking through him which might have suited one of those old steel-gray markgrafs whom Henry the Fowler set up to ward the ‘marches’ and do battle with the heathen in a stalwart and judicious manner."
An Excerpt from
Reminiscences, 1881
by Thomas Carlyle
His features were large, and not suddenly expressive; they conveyed little idea of the ‘poetic fire’ usually associated with brilliant imagination. His eyes were mild and up-looking, his mouth coarse rather than refined, his forehead high rather than broad; but every action seemed considerate, and every look self-possessed, while his voice, low in tone, had that persuasive eloquence which invariably ‘moves men.’
—1832.
An Excerpt from
Memories of Great Men. . . , 1871
by Anna Maria Hall
PREFACE
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 labour 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 Coleridge, 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
THE PRELUDE
BOOK FIRST.
INTRODUCTION—
CHILDHOOD AND SCHOOL-TIME.
O there is blessing in this gentle breeze,
A visitant that while it fans my cheek
Doth seem half-conscious of the joy it brings
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
From the vast city, where I long had pined
A discontented sojourner: now free,
Free as a bird to settle where I will.
What dwelling shall receive me? in what vale
Shall be my harbour? underneath what grove
Shall I take up my home? and what clear stream
Shall with its murmur lull me into rest?
The earth is all before me. With a heart
Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty,
I look about; and should the chosen guide
Be nothing better than a wandering cloud,
I cannot miss my way. I breathe again!
Trances of thought and mountings of the mind
Come fast upon me: it is shaken off,
That burthen of my own unnatural self,
The heavy weight of many a weary day
Not mine, and such as were not made for me.
Long months of peace (if such bold word accord
With any promises of human life),
Long months of ease and undisturbed delight
Are mine in prospect; whither shall I turn,
By road or pathway, or through trackless field,
Up hill or down, or shall some floating thing
Upon the river point me out my course?
Dear Liberty! Yet what would it avail
But for a gift that consecrates the joy?
For I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven
Was blowing on my body, felt within
A correspondent breeze, that gently moved
With quickening virtue, but is now become
A tempest, a redundant energy,
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, 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
A prophecy: poetic numbers came
Spontaneously to clothe in priestly robe
A renovated spirit singled out,
Such hope was mine, for holy services.
My own voice cheered me, and, far more, the mind's
Internal echo of the imperfect sound;
To both I listened, drawing from them both
A cheerful confidence in things to come.
Content and not unwilling now to give
A respite to this passion, I paced on
With brisk and eager steps; and came, at length,
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
Of the one cottage which methought I saw.
No picture of mere memory ever looked
So fair; and while upon the fancied scene
I gazed with growing love, a higher power
Than Fancy gave assurance of some work
Of glory there forthwith to be begun,
Perhaps too there performed. Thus long I mused,
Nor e'er lost sight of what I mused upon,
Save when, amid the stately grove of oaks,
Now here, now there, an acorn, from its cup
Dislodged, through sere leaves rustled, or at once
To the bare earth dropped with a startling sound.
From that soft couch I rose not, till the sun
Had almost touched the horizon; casting then
A backward glance upon the curling cloud
Of city smoke, by distance ruralised;
Keen as a Truant or a Fugitive,
But as a Pilgrim resolute, I took,
Even with the chance equipment of that hour,
The road that pointed toward the 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
Of harmony dispersed in straggling sounds,
And lastly utter silence! "Be it so;
Why think of any thing but present good?"
So, like a home-bound labourer I pursued
My way beneath the mellowing sun, that shed
Mild influence; nor left in me one wish
Again to bend the Sabbath of that time
To a servile yoke. What need of many words?
A pleasant loitering journey, through three days
Continued, brought me to my hermitage.
I spare to tell of what ensued, the life
In common things—the endless store of things,
Rare, or at least so seeming, every day
Found all about me in one neighbourhood—
The self-congratulation, and, from morn
To night, unbroken cheerfulness serene.
But speedily an earnest longing rose
To brace myself to some determined aim,
Reading or thinking; either to lay up
New stores, or rescue from decay the old
By timely interference: and therewith
Came hopes still higher, that with outward life
I might endue some airy phantasies
That had been floating loose about for years,
And to such beings temperately deal forth
The many feelings that oppressed my heart.
That hope hath been discouraged; welcome light
Dawns from the east, but dawns to disappear
And mock me with a sky that ripens not
Into a steady morning: if my mind,
Remembering the bold promise of the past,
Would gladly grapple with some noble theme,
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
Unmanageable thoughts: his mind, best pleased
While she as duteous as the mother dove
Sits brooding, lives not always to that end,
But like the innocent bird, hath goadings on
That drive her as in trouble through the groves;
With me is now such passion, to be blamed
No otherwise than as it lasts too long.
When, as becomes a man who would prepare
For such an arduous work, I through myself
Make rigorous inquisition, the report
Is often cheering; for I neither seem
To lack that first great gift, the vital soul,
Nor general Truths, which are themselves a sort
Of Elements and Agents, Under-powers,
Subordinate helpers of the living mind:
Nor am I naked of external things,
Forms, images, nor numerous other aids
Of less regard, though won perhaps with toil
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,
Will settle on some British theme, some old
Romantic tale by Milton left unsung;
More often turning to some gentle place
Within the groves of Chivalry, I pipe
To shepherd swains, or seated harp in hand,
Amid reposing knights by a river side
Or fountain, listen to the grave reports
Of dire enchantments faced and overcome
By the strong mind, and tales of warlike feats,
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
To patient courage and unblemished truth,
To firm devotion, zeal unquenchable,
And Christian meekness hallowing faithful loves.
Sometimes, more sternly moved, I would relate
How vanquished Mithridates northward passed,
And, hidden in the cloud of years, became
Odin, the Father of a race by whom
Perished the Roman Empire: how the friends
And followers of Sertorius, out of Spain
Flying, found shelter in the Fortunate Isles,
And left their usages, their arts and laws,
To disappear by a slow gradual death,
To dwindle and to perish one by one,
Starved in those narrow bounds: but not the soul
Of Liberty, which fifteen hundred years
Survived, and, when the European came
With skill and power that might not be withstood,
Did, like a pestilence, maintain its hold
And wasted down by glorious death that race
Of natural heroes: or I would record
How, in tyrannic times, some high-souled man,
Unnamed among the chronicles of kings,
Suffered in silence for Truth's sake: or tell,
How that one Frenchman, through continued force
Of meditation on the inhuman deeds
Of those who conquered first the Indian Isles,
Went single in his ministry across
The Ocean; not to comfort the oppressed,
But, like a thirsty wind, to roam about
Withering the Oppressor: how Gustavus sought
Help at his need in Dalecarlia's mines:
How Wallace fought for Scotland; left the name
Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower,
All over his dear Country; left the deeds
Of Wallace, like a family of Ghosts,
To people the steep rocks and river banks,
Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul
Of independence and stern liberty.
Sometimes it suits me better to invent
A tale from my own heart, more near akin
To my own passions and habitual thoughts;
Some variegated story, in the main
Lofty, but