THE POETICAL WORKS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, VOL. 8 (Completed)

HOME AT GRASMERE

The canto of Wordsworth's autobiographical poem, unpublished in The Prelude (1851), and first given to the world in 1888, is appropriately entitled "Home at Grasmere."

The introduction to The Recluse was not only kept back by him during his lifetime, but was omitted by his representatives--with what must be regarded as true critical insight--when The Prelude was published in 1850. As a whole, it is not equal to The Prelude. Certain passages are very inferior, but there are others that posterity must cherish,and "not willingly let die." It was probably a conviction of its inequality and inferiority that led Wordsworth to give only one or two selected extracts from this canto to the world, in his own lifetime. Two passages were printed in his Guide to the District of the Lakes; another--a description of the flight and movement of birds--was published in 1827, and subsequent editions, under the title of Water-Fowl; while the Bishop of Lincoln published other two passages in the Memoirs of his uncle, beginning respectively--

On Nature's invitation do I come,

and

Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak.

Internal evidence (see the numerous allusions to Dorothy, and the reference to John Wordsworth) shows that this canto of The Recluse was written at Grasmere, not long after Wordsworth's arrival there, and certainly before his marriage. The text, as now printed, has been carefully compared with the original MS. by Mr. Gordon Wordsworth. The MS. heading is--THE RECLUSE. BOOK FIRST, PART FIRST.

HOME AT GRASMERE

Once to the verge of yon steep barrier came

A roving school-boy; what the Adventurer's age

Hath now escaped his memory--but the hour,

One of a golden summer holiday,

He well remembers, though the year be gone.

Alone and devious from afar he came;

And, with a sudden influx overpowered

At sight of this seclusion, he forgot

His haste, for hasty had his footsteps been

As boyish his pursuits; and, sighing said,

"What happy fortune were it here to live!

And, (if a thought of dying, if a thought

Of mortal separation, could intrude

With paradise before him), here to die!"

No prophet was he, had not even a hope,

Scarcely a wish, but one bright pleasing thought,

A fancy in the heart of what might be

The lot of others, never could be his.

The station whence he looked was soft and green,

Not giddy yet aerial, with a depth

Of vale below, a height of hills above.

For rest of body, perfect was the spot,

All that luxurious nature could desire,

But stirring to the spirit. Who could gaze

And not feel motions there?

He thought of clouds

That sail on winds, of breezes that delight