When we had given our bodies to the wind,
And all the shadowy banks on either side

Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still
The rapid line of motion, then at once

Have I, reclining back upon my heels,
Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs
Wheeled by me-even as if the earth had rolled
With visible motion her diurnal round!
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched
Till all was tranquil as a summer sea.d

b The cottage windows blazed through twilight gloom.
c That fled, and flying still

d Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep.

As there are some variations in the text of this fragment as posthumously published in the first book of The Prelude-variations which must have been either made subsequently to the issue of the edition of 1849, or (more probably) written on the margin of the MS. of The Prelude before that date, but not transferred to this printed fragment of the larger work—they are indicated, not by the usual figures 1, 2, 3, 4, but by the letters of the alphabet a, b, c, d.

The lake referred to with its "silent bays" and "shadowy banks" is that of Esthwaite; the village clock is that of Hawkshead (see footnotes to The Prelude). The only physical accomplishment in which Wordsworth thought he excelled was skating.-ED.

[Written in Germany. This is an extract from the poem on my own poetical education. This practice of making an instrument of their own fingers is known to most boys, though some are more skilful at it than others. William Raincock of Rayrigg, a fine spirited lad, took the lead of all my school-fellows in this art.]

The passage occurs in the fifth book of The Prelude.-ED.

THERE was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs
And islands of Winander!—many a time,

At evening, when the earliest stars began1
To move along the edges of the hills,
Rising or setting, would he stand alone,
Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;
And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands
Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,

Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,

That they might answer him.-And they would shout
Across the watery vale, and shout again,
Responsive to his call,—with quivering peals,
And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud
Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild
Of jocund din !2 And, when there came a pause
Of silence such as baffled his best skill:3
Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise
Has carried far into his heart the voice
Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene
Would enter unawares into his mind
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,

And, when a lengthened pause

Of silence came, and baffled his best skill.

1800.

1850 in The Prelude.

Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received
Into the bosom of the steady lake.

This boy was taken from his mates, and died In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.1 Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale

Where he was born and bred2: the church-yard hangs

Upon a slope above the village-school;

And, through that church-yard when my way has led
On summer-evenings, I believe, that there

A long half-hour together I have stood1
Mute-looking at the grave in which he lies !5

Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot,
The vale where he was born:

1800.

Fair is the spot, most beautiful the vale

Where he was born.

1827.

Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot
The vale where he was born.

1843.

(Returning to 1800.)

In the Prelude the version of 1827 is adopted.

3 1836.

And there, along that bank, when I have passed
At evening

1800.

And through that church-yard when my way has led
At evening

1827.

1800.

Mute for he died when he was ten years old. Wordsworth sent this poem in MS. to Coleridge, who was then living at Ratzeburg, and Coleridge wrote on the 10th Dec. 1798, in reply :"The blank lines gave me as much direct pleasure as was possible in

the general bustle of pleasure with which I received and read your letter. I observed, I remember, that the 'fingers woven,' &c., only puzzled me; and though I liked the twelve or fourteen first lines very well, yet I liked the remainder much better. Well, now I have read them again, they are very beautiful, and leave an affecting impression. That

Uncertain heaven received

Into the bosom of the steady lake,

I should have recognised anywhere; and had I met these lines running wild in the deserts of Arabia, I should have instantly screamed out 'Wordsworth'!"

The William Raincock referred to in the Fenwick note to this poem as his schoolfellow at Hawkshead, was with him also at Cambridge, where he was second Wrangler in 1790. John Fleming of Rayrigg, his brother,— the boy with whom Wordsworth used to walk round the lake of Esthwaite in the morning before school-time ("five miles of pleasant wandering")—was also at John's College, Cambridge, at this time, and was fifth Wrangler in the previous year, 1789. He is referred to both in the second and the fifth books of The Prelude (see notes to that poem). It is perhaps not unworthy of note that Wrangham, whose French stanzas on "The Birth of Love" Wordsworth translated into English, was in the same year-1789-third Wrangler, second Smith's prizeman, and first Chancellor's medallist; while Robert Greenwood, "the Minstrel of the Troop," who "blew his flute, alone upon the rock," in Windermere,—— also one of the characters referred to in the second book of The Prelude, --was sixteenth Wrangler in Wordsworth's year, viz., 1791.—Ed.

[Written in Germany; intended as part of a poem on my own life, but struck out as not being wanted there. Like most of my schoolfellows I was an impassioned Nutter. For this pleasure, the Vale of Esthwaite, abounding in coppice wood, furnished a very wide range. These verses arose out of the remembrance of feelings I had often had when a boy, and particularly in the extensive woods that still stretch from the side of Esthwaite Lake towards Graythwaite, the seat of the ancient family of Sandys.]

It seems a day

(I speak of one from many singled out)

One of those heavenly days that cannot die;
When, in the eagerness of boyish hope,

I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth 1
With a huge wallet o'er my shoulder slung,2
A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my step
Tow'rd some far-distant wood,3 a Figure quaint,
Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds,
Which for that service had been husbanded,
By exhortation of my frugal Dame—5
Motley accoutrement, of power to smile

At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—and, in truth,
More ragged than need was! O'er pathless rocks,
Through beds of matted fern and tangled thickets,
Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook
Unvisited, where not a broken bough

Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign
Of devastation; but the hazels rose

Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung,7

When forth I sallied from our cottage-door,*

1800.

7 1845.

And o'er the pathless rocks, I forced my way
Until, at length, I came

with milk-white clusters hung,

1800.

1800.

The house at which I was boarded during the time I was at school.

1800.