Page:The Prelude, Wordsworth, 1850.djvu/152

130 Or less I might have seen, when first my mind

With conscious pleasure opened to the charm

Of words in tuneful order, found them sweet

For their own sakes, a passion, and a power;

And phrases pleased me chosen for delight,

For pomp, or love. Oft, in the public roads

Yet unfrequented, while the morning light

Was yellowing the hill tops, I went abroad

With a dear friend, and for the better part

Of two delightful hours we strolled along

By the still borders of the misty lake,

Repeating favourite verses with one voice,

Or conning more, as happy as the birds

That round us chaunted. Well might we be glad,

Lifted above the ground by airy fancies,

More bright than madness or the dreams of wine;

And, though full oft the objects of our love

Were false, and in their splendour overwrought,

Yet was there surely then no vulgar power

Working within us,—nothing less, in truth,

Than that most noble attribute of man,

Though yet untutored and inordinate,

That wish for something loftier, more adorned,

Than is the common aspect, daily garb,

Of human life. What wonder, then, if sounds