Worksheet for Unit 9 The Romantic Period I

    I. Key Concepts

    1. Romanticism (p.164-169)

    2. Lake Poets and the Satanic School (p.168) 3. Wordsworth’s theories on poetry (p.171-172) III. Important Writers

    1. William Wordsworth and “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud” and “Lines Composed a Few

    Miles Above the Tintern Abbey” (p.173-175)

    2. Samuel Taylor Coleridge and “Kubla Khan” and “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”

    (p.179-187)

    Reading Materials: III.

    1. “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud”—by William Wordsworth I WANDERED lonely as a cloud 我独自徘徊；犹如一片孤云 That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 高高飘拂于青山翠峡

    When all at once I saw a crowd, 忽见一丛丛

    A host, of golden daffodils; 一簇簇金灿灿的水仙

    Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 在碧水畔；在绿树下

    Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 迎风起舞；轻盈潇洒。

Continuous as the stars that shine 似繁星点点

    And twinkle on the milky way, 花影在天河时隐时现

    They stretched in never-ending line 沿一波绿湾

    Along the margin of a bay: 亭亭玉立；百里绵延

    Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 啊；我蓦然瞥见这万千水仙； Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 昂首起舞；欢快无边。

The waves beside them danced; but they 四周；水波潋滟

    Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: 怎比这水仙舞步翩跹

    A poet could not but be gay, 有此友人相伴

    In such a jocund company: 诗人怎能不神采飞扬

    I gazed--and gazed--but little thought 我凝视；再凝视；却无法估量 What wealth the show to me had brought: 这美景赋予我怎样的宝藏。

For oft, when on my couch I lie 每当我倚榻卧躺

    In vacant or in pensive mood, 有时冥想；有时惆怅

    They flash upon that inward eye 那水仙便在我心头闪亮

    Which is the bliss of solitude; 孤寂时它使我神往

    And then my heart with pleasure fills, 我顿觉心情激荡

    And dances with the daffodils. 欣然起舞；与水仙同欢畅。

    2. From “Tintern Abbey”—by William Wordsworth

     1

    FIVE years have past; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs With a soft inland murmur. -- Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose

    Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms, Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire The Hermit sits alone.

These beauteous forms,

    Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind,

    With tranquil restoration: -- feelings too

    Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered, acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery,

    In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world,

    Is lightened: -- that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on, -- Until, the breath of this corporeal frame

     2

    And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul:

    While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.

If this

    Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft -- In darkness and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart -- How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee! And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity,

    The picture of the mind revives again: While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first I came among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led: more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than one Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone by) To me was all in all. -- I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite; a feeling and a love,

    That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye. -- That time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur, other gifts

     3

    Have followed; for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompence. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity,

    Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; A motion and a spirit, that impels

    All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye, and ear, -- both what they half create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognise In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being.

Nor perchance,

    If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay:

    For thou art with me here upon the banks Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once, My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make, Knowing that Nature never did betray

    The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy: for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,

     4

    Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;

    And let the misty mountain-winds be free To blow against thee: and, in after years, When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, Thy memory be as a dwelling-place

    For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then, If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance -- If I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence -- wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came

    Unwearied in that service: rather say With warmer love -- oh! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!

     5