The Prelude, The Recluse & The Excursion

William Wordsworth

Description

Read & Co. presents Wordworth's collected works; “The Prelude”, “The Recluse” and “The Excursion” together in one volume with additional biographical excerpts by Anna Maria Hall, Leigh Hunt and Thomas Carlyle. A fantastic collection of Wordsworth's best poetry not to be missed by fans and collectors of his wonderful work.
“The Prelude”, a poem written in blank verse, is Wordsworth's autobiographical magnum opus within which he offers the reader a plethora of personal details about his life. He began writing when he was just 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”, an unfinished work. “The Excursion” is the second and only completed part of Wordsworth's “The Recluse”. It revolves around three central figures: the Solitary, who has lived through the horrors and hopes of the French Revolution; the Pastor, to whom a third of the poem is dedicated; and the Wanderer. “The Recluse” was to be Wordsworth 's three-part masterpiece, but tragically remains uncompleted.
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 also notably 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”.

Sujets

• Poésie
• Poésie épique
• Themes
• Subjects
• Poetry
• Places

Informations

• Publié par: Read Books Ltd.
• Date de parution: 20 février 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781528789325
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 6 Mo

Extrait

T HE PRELUDE, THE RECLUSE & THE EXCURSION
By
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

First published in 1850, 1880 & 1814


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.
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Read & Co. is part of Read Books Ltd. For more information visit www.readandcobooks.co.uk


Contents
William Wordsworth
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.
THE RECLUSE
PREFACE
BOOK FIRST
HOME AT GRASMERE
THE EXCURSION
PREFACE.
BOOK FIRST.
THE WANDERER.
BOOK THE SECOND.
THE SOLITARY.
BOOK THE THIRD.
DESPONDENCY.
BOOK THE FOURTH.
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED.
BOOK THE FIFTH.
THE PASTOR.
BOOK THE SIXTH.
THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.
BOOK THE SEVENTH.
THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. —(CONTINUED)
BOOK THE EIGHTH.
THE PARSONAGE.
BOOK THE NINTH.
DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, AND AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE.




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


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 a bout; 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 breaki ng 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 tr ee, 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 g lance 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, ev