Page:The Prelude, Wordsworth, 1850.djvu/146

124 We might have fed upon a fatter soil

Of arts and letters—but be that forgiven)—

A race of real children; not too wise,

Too learned, or too good; but wanton, fresh,

And bandied up and down by love and hate;

Not unresentful where self-justified;

Fierce, moody, patient, venturous, modest, shy;

Mad at their sports like withered leaves in winds;

Though doing wrong and suffering, and full oft

Bending beneath our life's mysterious weight

Of pain, and doubt, and fear, yet yielding not

In happiness to the happiest upon earth.

Simplicity in habit, truth in speech,

Be these the daily strengtheners of their minds;

May books and Nature be their early joy!

And knowledge, rightly honoured with that name—

Knowledge not purchased by the loss of power!

Well do I call to mind the very week

When I was first intrusted to the care

Of that sweet Valley; when its paths, its shores,

And brooks were like a dream of novelty

To my half-infant thoughts; that very week,

While I was roving up and down alone,

Seeking I knew not what, I chanced to cross