In accordance with these views the poet entrusted7 to his nephew, the late Bishop8 of Lincoln, the task of composing memoirs9 of his life, in the just confidence that nothing would by such hands be given to the world which was inconsistent with the dignity either of the living or of the dead. From those memoirs the facts contained in the present work have been for the most part drawn10. It has, however, been my fortune, through hereditary11 friendships, to have access to many manuscript letters and much oral tradition bearing upon the poet’s private life;1 and some details and some passages of letters hitherto unpublished, will appear in these pages. It would seem, however, that there is but little of public interest, in Wordsworth’s life which has not already been given to the world, and I have shrunk from narrating13 such minor14 personal incidents as he would himself have thought it needless to dwell upon. I have endeavoured, in short, to write as though the Subject of this biography were himself its Auditor15, listening, indeed, from some region where all of truth is discerned, and nothing but truth desired, but checking by his venerable presence, any such revelation as public advantage does not call for, and private delicacy16 would condemn17.
As regards the critical remarks which these pages contain. I have only to say that I have carefully consulted such notices of the poet as his personal friends have left us, and also, I believe, nearly every criticism of importance which has appeared on his works. I find with pleasure that a considerable agreement of opinion exists,— though less among professed18 poets or critics, than among men of eminence19 in other departments of thought or action whose attention has been directed to Wordsworth’s poems. And although I have felt it right to express in each case my own views with exactness, I have been able to feel that I am not obtruding20 on the reader any merely fanciful estimate in which better accredited22 judges would refuse to concur23.
1 I take this opportunity of thanking Mr. William Wordsworth, the son (now deceased), and Mr. William Wordsworth, the grandson, of the poet, for help most valuable in enabling me to give a true impression of the poet’s personality.]
Without further preface I now begin my story of Wordsworth’s life, in words which he himself dictated24 to his intended biographer. “I was born,” he said, “at Cockermouth, in Cumberland, on April 7th, 1770, the second son of John Wordsworth, attorney-at-law—as lawyers of this class were then called—and law-agent to Sir James Lowther, afterwards Earl of Lonsdale. My mother was Anne, only daughter of William Cookson, mercer, of Penrith, and of Dorothy, born Crackanthorp, of the ancient family of that name, who from the times of Edward the Third had lived in Newbiggen Hall, Westmoreland. My grandfather was the first of the name of Wordsworth who came into Westmoreland, where he purchased the small estate of Sockbridge. He was descended25 from a family who had been settled at Peniston, in Yorkshire, near the sources of the Don, probably before the Norman Conquest. Their names appear on different occasions in all the transactions, personal and public, connected with that parish; and I possess, through the kindness of Colonel Beaumont, an almery, made in 1525, at the expense of a William Wordsworth, as is expressed in a Latin inscription26 carved upon it, which carries the pedigree of the family back four generations from himself. The time of my infancy27 and early boyhood was passed, partly at Cockermouth, and partly with my mother’s parents at Penrith, where my mother, in the year 1778, died of a decline, brought on by a cold, in consequence of being put, at a friend’s house in London, in what used to be called ‘a best bedroom.’ My father never recovered his usual cheerfulness of mind after this loss, and died when I was in my fourteenth year, a schoolboy, just returned from Hawkshead, whither I had been sent with my elder brother Richard, in my ninth year.”
“I remember my mother only in some few situations, one of which was her pinning a nosegay to my breast, when I was going to say the catechism in the church, as was customary before Easter. An intimate friend of hers told me that she once said to her, that the only one of her five children about whose future life she was anxious was William; and he, she said, would be remarkable28, either for good or for evil. The cause of this was, that I was of a stiff, moody29, and violent temper; so much so that I remember going once into the attics30 of my grandfather’s house at Penrith, upon some indignity31 having been put upon me, with an intention of destroying myself with one of the foils, which I knew was kept there. I took the foil in hand, but my heart failed. Upon another occasion, while I was at my grandfather’s house at Penrith, along with my eldest32 brother, Richard, we were whipping tops together in the large drawing-room, on which the carpet was only laid down upon particular occasions. The walls were hung round with family pictures, and I said to my brother, ‘Dare you strike your whip through that old lady’s petticoat?’ He replied, ‘No, I won’t.’ ‘Then’, said I, ‘here goes!’ and I struck my lash33 through her hooped34 petticoat; for which, no doubt, though I have forgotten it, I was properly punished. But, possibly from some want of judgment35 in punishments inflicted36, I had become perverse37 and obstinate38 in defying chastisement39, and rather proud of it than otherwise.”
“Of my earliest days at school I have little to say, but that they were very happy ones, chiefly because I was left at liberty then, and in the vacations, to read whatever books I liked. For example, I read all Fielding’s works, Don Quixote, Gil Bias40, and any part of Swift that I liked—Gulliver’s Travels, and the Tale of the Tub, being both much to my taste. It may be, perhaps, as well to mention, that the first verses which I wrote were a task imposed by my master; the subject, The Summer Vacation; and of my own accord I added others upon Return to School. There was nothing remarkable in either poem; but I was called upon, among other scholars, to write verses upon the completion of the second centenary from the foundation of the school in 1585 by Archbishop Sandys. These verses were much admired—far more than they deserved, for they were but a tame imitation of Pope’s versification, and a little in his style.”
But it was not from exercises of this kind that Wordsworth’s school-days drew their inspiration. No years of his life, perhaps, were richer in strong impressions; but they were impressions derived41 neither from books nor from companions, but from the majesty42 and loveliness of the scenes around him;—from Nature, his life-long mistress, loved with the first heats of youth. To her influence we shall again recur43; it will be most convenient first to trace Wordsworth’s progress through the curriculum of ordinary education.
It was due to the liberality of Wordsworth’s two uncles, Richard Wordsworth and Christopher Crackanthorp (under whose care he and his brothers were placed at there father’s death, in 1783), that his education was prolonged beyond his school-days. For Sir James Lowther, afterwards Lord Lonsdale,—whose agent Wordsworth’s father, Mr. John Wordsworth, was—becoming aware that his agent had about 5000￡ at the bank, and wishing, partly on political grounds, to make his power over him absolute, had forcibly borrowed this sum of him, and then refused to repay it. After Mr. John Wordsworth’s death much of the remaining fortune which he left behind him was wasted in efforts to compel Lord Lonsdale to refund44 this sum; out it was never recovered till his death in 1801, when his successor repaid 8500￡ to the Wordsworths, being a full acquittal, with interest, of the original debt. The fortunes of the Wordsworth family were, therefore, at a low ebb45 in 1787, and much credit is due to the uncles who discerned the talents of William and Christopher, and bestowed46 a Cambridge education on the future Poet Laureate, and the future Master of Trinity.
In October, 1787, then, Wordsworth went up as an undergraduate to St. John’s College, Cambridge. The first court of this College, in the south-western corner of which were Wordsworth’s rooms, is divided only by a narrow lane from the Chapel47 of Trinity College, and his first memories are of the Trinity clock, telling the hours “twice over, with a male and female voice”, of the pealing48 organ, and of the prospect49 when
From my pillow looking forth50, by light
Of moon or favouring stars I could behold51
The antechapel, where the statue stood
Of Newton with his prism and silent face.
The marble index of a mind for ever
Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
For the most part the recollections which Wordsworth brought away from Cambridge are such as had already found expression more than once in English literature; for it has been the fortune of that ancient University to receive in her bosom52 most of that long line of poets who form the peculiar53 glory of our English speech. Spenser, Ben Jonson, and Marlowe; Dryden, Cowley, and Waller; Milton, George Herbert, and Gray—to mention only the most familiar names—had owed allegiance to that mother who received Wordsworth now, and Coleridge and Byron immediately after him. “Not obvious, not obtrusive54, she;” but yet her sober dignity has often seemed no unworthy setting for minds, like Wordsworth’s, meditative55 without languor56, and energies advancing without shock or storm. Never, perhaps, has the spirit of Cambridge been more truly caught than in Milton’s Penseroso; for this poem obviously reflects the seat of learning which the poet had lately left, just as the Allegro57 depicts58 the cheerful rusticity60 of the Buckinghamshire village which was his now home. And thus the Penseroso was understood by Gray, who, in his Installation Ode, introduces Milton among the bards61 and sages12 who lean from heaven,
To bless the place where, on their opening soul,
First the genuine ardour stole.
“’Twas Milton struck the deep-toned shell,” and invoked62 with the old affection the scenes which witnessed his best and early years:
Ye brown o’er-arching groves63,
That contemplation loves,
Where willowy Camus lingers with delight!
Oft at the blush of dawn
I trod your level lawn.
Oft wooed the gleam of Cynthia silver-bright
In cloisters64 dim, far from the haunts of Folly65,
With Freedom by my side, and soft-eyed Melancholy66.
And Wordsworth also “on the dry smooth-shaven green” paced on solitary67 evenings “to the far-off curfew’s sound,” beneath those groves of forest-trees among which “Philomel still deigns68 a song” and the spirit of contemplation lingers still; whether the silent avenues stand in the summer twilight69 filled with fragrance70 of the lime, or the long rows of chestnut71 engirdle the autumn river-lawns with walls of golden glow, or the tall elms cluster in garden or Wilderness72 into towering citadels73 of green. Beneath one exquisite74 ash-tree, wreathed with ivy75, and hung in autumn with yellow tassels76 from every spray, Wordsworth used to linger long “Scarcely Spenser’s self,” he tells us,
Could have more tranquil77 visions in his youth,
Or could more bright appearances create
Of human forms with superhuman powers,
Than I beheld78 loitering on calm clear nights
Alone, beneath this fairy work of earth.
And there was another element in Wordsworth’s life at Cambridge more peculiarly his own—that exultation79 which a boy born among the mountains may feel when he perceives that the delight in the external world which the mountains have taught him has not perished by uprooting80, nor waned81 for want of nourishment82 in field or fen83; that even here, where nature is unadorned, and scenery, as it were, reduced to its elements,—where the prospect is but the plain surface of the earth, stretched wide beneath an open heaven,—even here he can still feel the early glow, can take delight in that broad and tranquil greenness, and in the august procession of the day.
As if awakened84, summoned, roused, constrained85,
I looked for universal things; perused86
The common countenance87 of earth and sky—
Earth, nowhere unembellished by some trace
Of that first Paradise whence man was driven;
And sky, whose beauty and bounty88 are expressed
By the proud name she bears—the name of Heaven.
Nor is it only in these open-air scenes that Wordsworth has added to the long tradition a memory of his own. The “storied windows richly dight,” which have passed into a proverb in Milton’s song, cast in King’s College Chapel the same “soft chequerings” upon their framework of stone while Wordsworth watched through the pauses of the anthem89 the winter afternoon’s departing glow:
Martyr90, or King, or sainted Eremite,
Whoe’er ye be that thus, yourselves unseen,
Imbue91 your prison-bars with solemn sheen,
Shine on, until ye fade with coming Night.
From those shadowy seats whence Milton had heard “the pealing organ blow to the full-voiced choir92 below,” Wordsworth too gazed upon—
That branching roof
Self-poised, and scooped93 into ten thousand cells
Where light and shade repose94, where music dwells
Lingering, and wandering on as both to die—
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
That they were born for immortality95.
Thus much, and more, there was of ennobling and unchangeable in the very aspect and structure of that ancient University, by which Wordsworth’s mind was bent96 towards a kindred greatness. But of active moral and intellectual life there was at that time little to be found within her walls. The floodtide of her new life had not yet set in: she was still slumbering97, as she had slumbered98 long, content to add to her majesty by the mere21 lapse99 of generations, and increment100 of her ancestral calm. Even had the intellectual life of the place been more stirring, it is doubtful how far Wordsworth would have been welcomed, or deserved, to be welcomed, by authorities or students. He began residence at seventeen, and his northern nature was late to flower. There seems, in fact, to have been even less of visible promise about him than we should have expected; but rather something untamed and insubordinate, something heady and self-confident; an independence that seemed only rusticity, and an indolent ignorance which assumed too readily the tones of scorn. He was as yet a creature of the lakes and mountains, and love for Nature was only slowly leading him to love and reverence101 for man. Nay102, such attraction as he had hitherto felt for the human race had been interwoven with her influence in a way so strange that to many minds it will seem a childish fancy not worth recounting. The objects of his boyish idealization had been Cumbrian shepherds—a race whose personality seems to melt into Nature’s—who are united as intimately with moor103 and mountain as the petrel with the sea.
A rambling104 schoolboy, thus
I felt his presence in his own domain105
As of a lord and master—or a power,
Or genius, under Nature, under God;
Presiding; and severest solitude106
Had more commanding looks when he was there.
When up the lonely brooks107 on rainy days
Angling I went, or trod the trackless hills
By mists bewildered, suddenly mine eyes
Have glanced upon him distant a few steps,
In size a giant, stalking through thick fog,
His sheep like Greenland bears; or, as he stepped
Beyond the boundary line of some hill-shadow,
His form hath flashed upon me, glorified108
By the deep radiance of the setting sun;
Or him have I descried109 in distant sky,
A solitary object and sublime110,
Above all height! Like an a?rial cross
Stationed alone upon a spiry111 rock
Of the Chartreuse, for worship. Thus was man
Ennobled outwardly before my sight;
And thus my heart was early introduced
To an unconscious love and reverence
Of human nature; hence the human form
To me became an index of delight,
Of grace and honour, power and worthiness112.
“This sanctity of Nature given to man,”—this interfusion of human interest with the sublimity113 of moor and hill,—formed a typical introduction to the manner in which Wordsworth regarded mankind to the end,—depicting him as set, as it were, amid impersonal114 influences, which make his passion and struggle but a little thing; as when painters give but a strip of their canvas to the fields and cities of men, and overhang the narrowed landscape with the space and serenity115 of heaven.
To this distant perception of man—of man “purified, removed, and to a distance that was fit”—was added, in his first summer vacation, a somewhat closer interest in the small joys and sorrows of the villagers of Hawkshead,—a new sympathy for the old Dame116 in whose house the poet still lodged117, for “the quiet woodman in the woods,” and even for the “frank-hearted maids of rocky Cumberland,” with whom he now delighted to spend an occasional evening in dancing and country mirth. And since the events in this poet’s life are for the most part inward and unseen, and depend upon some stock and coincidence between the operations of his spirit and the cosmorama of the external world, he has recorded with especial emphasis a certain sunrise which met him as he walked homewards from one of these scenes of rustic59 gaiety,—a sunrise which may be said to have begun that poetic118 career which a sunset was to close:
Ah! Need I say, dear Friend! That to the brim
My heart was full; I made no vows119, but vows
Were then made for me; bond unknown to me
Was given, that I should be, else sinning greatly,
A dedicated120 Spirit.
His second long vacation brought him a further gain in human affections. His sister, of whom he had seen little for some years, was with him once more at Penrith, and with her another maiden121,
By her exulting122 outside look of youth
And placid123 under-countenance, first endeared;
whose presence now laid the foundation of a love which was to be renewed and perfected when his need for it was full, and was to be his support and solace124 to his life’s end. His third long vacation he spent in a walking tour in Switzerland. Of this, now the commonest relaxation125 of studious youth, he speaks as of an “unprecedented course,” indicating “a hardy126 slight of college studies and their set rewards.” And it seems, indeed, probable that Wordsworth and his friend Jones were actually the first undergraduates who ever spent their summer in this way. The pages of the Prelude127 which narrate128 this excursion, and especially the description of the crossing of the Simplon,—
The immeasurable height
Of woods decaying, never to be decayed,—
form one of the most impressive parts of that singular autobiographical poem, which, at first sight so tedious and insipid129, seems to gather force and meaning with each fresh perusal130. These pages, which carry up to the verge131 of manhood the story of Wordsworth’s career, contain, perhaps, as strong and simple a picture as we shall anywhere find of hardy English youth,—its proud self-sufficingness and careless independence of all human things. Excitement, and thought, and joy, seem to come at once at its bidding; and the chequered and struggling existence of adult men seems something which it need never enter, and hardly deigns to comprehend.
Wordsworth and his friend encountered on this tour many a stirring symbol of the expectancy132 that was running through the nations of Europe. They landed at Calais “on the very eve of that great federal day” when the Trees of Liberty were planted all over France. They met on their return
The Brabant armies on the fret133
For battle in the cause of liberty.
But the exulting pulse that ran through the poet’s veins134 could hardly yet pause to sympathize deeply even with what in the world’s life appealed most directly to ardent135 youth.
A stripling, scarcely of the household then
Of social life, I looked upon these things
As from a distance; heard, and saw, and felt—
Was touched, but with no intimate concern.
I seemed to move along them as a bird
Moves through the air—or as a fish pursues
Its sport, or feeds in its proper element.
I wanted not that joy, I did not need
Such help. The ever-living universe,
Turn where I might, was opening out its glories;
And the independent spirit of pure youth
Called forth at every season new delights,
Spread round my steps like sunshine o’er green fields.
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1
infringes
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| v.违反（规章等）( infringe的第三人称单数 )；侵犯（某人的权利）；侵害（某人的自由、权益等） | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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3
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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breaches
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| 破坏( breach的名词复数 )； 破裂； 缺口； 违背 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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sages
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| n.圣人( sage的名词复数 )；智者；哲人；鼠尾草（可用作调料） | |
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narrating
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| v.故事( narrate的现在分词 ) | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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obtruding
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的现在分词 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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accredited
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| adj.可接受的；可信任的；公认的；质量合格的v.相信( accredit的过去式和过去分词 )；委托；委任；把…归结于 | |
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concur
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| v.同意，意见一致，互助，同时发生 | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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attics
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| n. 阁楼 | |
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indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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hooped
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| adj.以环作装饰的；带横纹的；带有环的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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refund
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| v.退还，偿还；n.归还，偿还额，退款 | |
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ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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48
pealing
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的现在分词 ) | |
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49
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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50
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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51
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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52
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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53
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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54
obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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55
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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56
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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57
allegro
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| adj. 快速而活泼的；n.快板；adv.活泼地 | |
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58
depicts
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| 描绘，描画( depict的第三人称单数 )； 描述 | |
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59
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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60
rusticity
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| n.乡村的特点、风格或气息 | |
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61
bards
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| n.诗人( bard的名词复数 ) | |
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62
invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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63
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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64
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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65
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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66
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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67
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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68
deigns
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的第三人称单数 ) | |
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69
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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70
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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71
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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72
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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73
citadels
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| n.城堡，堡垒( citadel的名词复数 ) | |
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74
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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75
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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76
tassels
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| n.穗( tassel的名词复数 )；流苏状物；（植物的）穗；玉蜀黍的穗状雄花v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须( tassel的第三人称单数 )；使抽穗， （为了使作物茁壮生长）摘去穗状雄花；用流苏装饰 | |
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77
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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78
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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79
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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80
uprooting
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| n.倒根，挖除伐根v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的现在分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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81
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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82
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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83
fen
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| n.沼泽，沼池 | |
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84
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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85
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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86
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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87
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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88
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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89
anthem
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| n.圣歌，赞美诗，颂歌 | |
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90
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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91
imbue
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| v.灌输(某种强烈的情感或意见)，感染 | |
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92
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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93
scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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94
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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95
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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96
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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97
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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98
slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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99
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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100
increment
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| n.增值，增价；提薪，增加工资 | |
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101
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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102
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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103
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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104
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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105
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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106
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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107
brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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108
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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109
descried
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| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
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110
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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111
spiry
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| adj.尖端的，尖塔状的，螺旋状的 | |
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112
worthiness
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| 价值，值得 | |
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113
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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114
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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115
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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116
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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117
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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118
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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119
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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120
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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121
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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122
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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123
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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124
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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125
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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126
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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127
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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128
narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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129
insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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130
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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131
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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132
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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133
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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134
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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135
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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