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diff --git a/10219-0.txt b/10219-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..89b4c3e --- /dev/null +++ b/10219-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,20252 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10219 *** + + THE POETICAL WORKS + + OF + + + + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH + + + + + + EDITED BY + WILLIAM KNIGHT + + + VOL. I + + + 1896 + + + + +CONTENTS + +Extract from the Conclusion of a Poem, composed in Anticipation of + leaving School +Written in very Early Youth +An Evening Walk +Lines written while Sailing in a Boat at Evening +Remembrance of Collins +Descriptive Sketches taken during a Pedestrian Tour among the Alps +Guilt and Sorrow; or, Incidents upon Salisbury Plain +Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, which stands near the lake of + Esthwaite, on a desolate part of the shore, commanding a beautiful + prospect +The Borderers +The Reverie of Poor Susan +1798 +A Night Piece +We are Seven +Anecdote for Fathers +"A whirl-blast from behind the hill" +The Thorn +Goody Blake and Harry Gill +Her Eyes are Wild +Simon Lee, the Old Huntsman +Lines written in Early Spring +To my Sister +Expostulation and Reply +The Tables Turned +The Complaint of a Forsaken Indian Woman +The Last of the Flock +The Idiot Boy +The Old Cumberland Beggar +Animal Tranquillity and Decay + +APPENDIX I. +APPENDIX II. +APPENDIX III. +APPENDIX IV. +APPENDIX V. +APPENDIX VI. +APPENDIX VII. +APPENDIX VIII. + + + + + +PREFACE + + +During the decade between 1879 and 1889 I was engaged in a detailed +study of Wordsworth; and, amongst other things, edited a library edition +of his Poetical Works in eight volumes, including the "Prefaces" and +"Appendices" to his Poems, and a few others of his Prose Works, such as +his 'Description of the Scenery of the Lakes in the North of England'. +This edition was published by Mr. Paterson, Edinburgh, at intervals +between the years 1882 and 1886: and it was followed in 1889 by a 'Life +of Wordsworth', in three volumes, which was a continuation of the +previous eight. + +The present edition is not a reproduction of those eleven volumes of +1882-9. It is true that to much of the editorial material included in +the latter--as well as in my 'Memorials of Coleorton', and in 'The +English Lake District as interpreted in the Poems of Wordsworth'--I can +add little that is new; but the whole of what was included in these +books has been revised, corrected, and readjusted in this one [1]. +'Errata' in the previous volumes are corrected: several thousand new +notes have been added, many of the old ones are entirely recast: the +changes of text, introduced by Wordsworth into the successive editions +of his Poems, have all been revised; new readings--derived from many MS. +sources--have been added: while the chronological order of the Poems +has, in several instances, been changed, in the light of fresh evidence. + +The distinctive features of my edition of 1882-6 were stated in the +Preface to its first volume. So far as these features remain in the +present edition, they may be repeated as follows: + +FIRST, the Poems are arranged in chronological order of composition, not +of publication. In all the collective editions issued by Wordsworth +during his lifetime, the arrangement of his poems in artificial groups, +based on their leading characteristics--a plan first adopted in +1815--was adhered to; although he not unfrequently transferred a poem +from one group to another. Here they are printed, with one or two +exceptions to be afterwards explained, in the order in which they were +written. + +SECOND, the changes of text made by Wordsworth in the successive +editions of his Poems, are given in footnotes, with the dates of the +changes. + +THIRD, suggested changes, written by the Poet on a copy of the +stereotyped edition of 1836-7--long kept at Rydal Mount, and bought, +after Mrs. Wordsworth's death, at the sale of a portion of the Library +at the Mount--are given in footnotes. + +FOURTH, the Notes dictated by Wordsworth to Miss Isabella Fenwick--a +dear friend of the Rydal Mount household, and a woman of remarkable +character and faculty--which tell the story of his Poems, and the +circumstances under which each was written, are printed in full. + +FIFTH, Topographical Notes--explanatory of allusions made by Wordsworth +to localities in the Lake District of England, to places in Scotland, +Somersetshire, Yorkshire, the Isle of Man, and others on the Continent +of Europe--are given, either at the close of the Poem in which the +allusions occur, or as footnotes to the passages they illustrate. + +SIXTH, several complete Poems, and other fragments of verse, not +included in any edition of his Works published during Wordsworth's +lifetime, or since, are printed as an appendix to Volume VIII. + +SEVENTH, a new Bibliography of the Poems and Prose Works, and of the +several editions issued in England and America, from 1793 to 1850, is +added. + +EIGHTH, a new Life of the Poet is given. + +These features of the edition of 1882-6 are preserved in that of 1896, +and the following are added: + +FIRST, The volumes are published, not in library 8vo size, but--as the +works of every poet should be issued--in one more convenient to handle, +and to carry. Eight volumes are devoted to the Poetical Works, and among +them are included those fragments by his sister Dorothy, and others, +which Wordsworth published in his lifetime among his own Poems. They are +printed in the chronological order of composition, so far as that is +known. + +SECOND, In the case of each Poem, any Note written by Wordsworth +himself, as explanatory of it, comes first, and has the initials W. W., +with the date of its first insertion placed after it. Next follows the +Fenwick Note, within square brackets, thus [ ], and signed I. F.; and, +afterwards, any editorial note required. When, however, Wordsworth's own +notes were placed at the end of the Poems, or at the foot of the page, +his plan is adopted, and the date appended. I should have been glad, had +it been possible--the editors of the twentieth century may note this--to +print Wordsworth's own notes, the Fenwick notes, and the Editor's in +different type, and in type of a decreasing size; but the idea occurred +to me too late, i. e. after the first volume had been passed for press. + +THIRD, All the Prose Works of Wordsworth are given in full, and follow +the Poems, in two volumes. The Prose Works were collected by Dr. +Grosart, and published in 1876. Extracts from them have since been +edited by myself and others: but they will now be issued, like the +Poems, in chronological order, under their own titles, and with such +notes as seem desirable. + +FOURTH, All the Journals written by Dorothy Wordsworth at Alfoxden, Dove +Cottage, and elsewhere, as well as her record of Tours with her brother +in Scotland, on the Continent, etc., are published--some of them in +full, others only in part. An explanation of why any Journal is +curtailed will be found in the editorial note preceding it. Much new +material will be found in these Journals. + +FIFTH, The Letters of William and Dorothy Wordsworth--with a few from +Mary and Dora Wordsworth--are arranged chronologically, and published by +themselves. Hitherto, these letters have been scattered in many +quarters--in the late Bishop of Lincoln's 'Memoirs' of his uncle, in +'The Diary, Reminiscences, and Correspondence of Henry Crabb Robinson', +in the 'Memorials of Coleorton' and my own 'Life' of the Poet, in the +'Prose Works', in the 'Transactions of the Wordsworth Society', in the +'Letters of Charles Lamb', in the 'Memorials of Thomas De Quincey', and +other volumes; but many more, both of Wordsworth's and his sister's, +have never before seen the light. More than a hundred and fifty letters +from Dorothy Wordsworth to Mrs. Clarkson, the wife of the great +"slave-liberator," were sent to me some time ago by Mrs. Arthur +Tennyson, a relative of Mrs. Clarkson; and I have recently seen and been +allowed to copy, Wordsworth's letters to his early friend Francis +Wrangham, through the kindness of their late owner, Mr. Mackay of The +Grange, Trowbridge. Many other letters of great interest have recently +reached me. + +SIXTH, In addition to a new Bibliography, and a Chronological Table of +the Poems, and the Prose Works, a Bibliography of Wordsworth Criticism +is appended. It includes most of the articles on the Poet, and notices +of his Works, which have appeared in Great Britain, America, and the +Continent of Europe. Under this head I have specially to thank Mrs. +Henry A. St. John of Ithaca, N.Y., a devoted Transatlantic +Wordsworthian, who has perhaps done more than any one--since Henry +Reed--to promote the study of her favourite poet in America. Mrs. St. +John's Wordsworth collection is unique, and her knowledge and enthusiasm +are as great as her industry has been. Professor E. Legouis of the +University of Lyons--who wrote an interesting book on Wordsworth's +friend, 'Le Général Michel Beaupuy' (1891)--has sent me material from +France, which will be found in its proper place. Frau Professor Gothein +of Bonn, who has translated many of Wordsworth's poems into German, and +written his life, 'William Wordsworth: sein Leben, seine Werke, seine +Zeitgenossen', (1893), has similarly helped me in reference to German +criticism. + +SEVENTH, As the Poet's Letters, and his sister's Journals, will appear +in earlier volumes, the new 'Life of Wordsworth' will be much shorter +than that which was published in 1889, in three volumes 8vo. It will not +exceed a single volume. + +EIGHTH, In the edition of 1882-6, each volume contained an etching of a +locality associated with Wordsworth. The drawings were made by John +M'Whirter, R.A., in water-colour; and they were afterwards etched by Mr. +C. O. Murray. One portrait by Haydon was prefixed to the first volume of +the 'Life'. In each volume of this edition--Poems, Prose Works, +Journals, Letters, and Life--there will be a new portrait, either of the +poet, or his wife, or sister, or daughter; and also a small vignette of +a place associated with, or memorialised by Wordsworth in some way. The +following will be the arrangement. + + + Vol. PORTRAITS / VIGNETTES + + +THE POEMS. + + I. W. Wordsworth, by W. Shuter. Cockermouth. + + II. " " by Robert Hancock. Dame Tyson's Cottage, Hawkshead. + + III. " " by Edward Nash. Room in St. John's College, Cambridge. + + IV. " " by Richard Carruthers. Racedown, Dorsetshire. + + V. " " by William Boxall. Alfoxden, Somersetshire. + + VI. " " by Henry William Pickersgill. Goslar. + + VII. " " by Margaret Gillies. Dove Cottage. + +VIII. " " by Benjamin R. Haydon. The Rock of Names, Thirlmere. + + +THE PROSE WORKS. + + IX. " " by Henry Inman. Gallow Hill, Yorkshire. + + X. " " by Margaret Gillies. Coleorton Hall, Leicestershire. + + +THE JOURNALS. + + XI. Dorothy Wordsworth, (Artist unknown). Allan Bank, Grasmere. + + XII. Mary Wordsworth, by Margaret Gillies. Rydal Mount. + + +CORRESPONDENCE. + +XIII. Dora Wordsworth, by Margaret Gillies. Bolton Abbey. + + XIV. W. Wordsworth, by Edward C. Wyon. Blea Tarn. + + XV. " " by Thomas Woolner. Peele Castle. + + +THE LIFE. + + XVI. " " by Frederick Thrupp. Grasmere Church and Churchyard. + + " " by Samuel Laurence. + + " " by Benjamin R. Haydon. + + +All the etchings will be prepared by H. Manesse. The portraits, with +many others, will be described in detail in a subsequent volume. + +In all editorial notes the titles given by Wordsworth to his Poems are +invariably printed in italics, not with inverted commas before and +after, as Wordsworth himself so often printed them: and when he gave no +title to a poem, its first line will be invariably placed within +inverted commas. This plan of using Italics, and not Roman letters, +applies also to the title of any book referred to by Wordsworth, or by +his sister in her Journals. Whether they put the title in italics, or +within commas, it is always italicised in this edition. + +A subsidiary matter such as this becomes important when one finds that +many editors of parts of the Works of Wordsworth, or of Selections from +them, have invented titles of their own; and have sent their volumes to +press without the slightest indication to their readers that the titles +were not Wordsworth's; mixing up their own notion of what best described +the contents of the Poem, or the Letter, with those of the writer. Some +have suppressed Wordsworth's, and put their own title in its place! +Others have contented themselves (more modestly) with inventing a title +when Wordsworth gave none. I do not object to these titles in +themselves. Several, such as those by Archbishop Trench, are suggestive +and valuable. What I object to is that any editor--no matter who--should +mingle his own titles with those of the Poet, and give no indication to +the reader as to which is which. Dr. Grosart has been so devoted a +student of Wordsworth, and we owe him so much, that one regrets to find +in "The Prose Works of Wordsworth" (1876) the following title given to +his letter to the Bishop of Llandaff, 'Apology for the French +Revolution'. It is interesting to know that Dr. Grosart thought this a +useful description of the letter: but a clear indication should have +been given that it was not Wordsworth's. It is true that, in the general +preface to his volumes, Dr. Grosart takes upon himself the +responsibility for this title; but it should not have been printed as +the title in chief, or as the headline to the text. Similarly, with the +titles of the second and third of the three 'Essays on Epitaphs'. + +As students of Wordsworth know, he issued a volume in 1838 containing +all his sonnets then written; and, at the close of that edition, he +added, "The six Sonnets annexed were composed as this Volume was going +through the Press, but too late for insertion in the class of +miscellaneous ones to which they belong." In 1884, Archbishop Trench +edited the sonnets, with an admirable introductory "Essay on the History +of the English Sonnet"; but, while Wordsworth gave no title to the 3rd +and the 4th of the six, "composed as the Volume was going through the +Press,"--either in his edition of 1838, 'or in any subsequent issue' of +his Poems--his editor did so. He gave what are really excellent titles, +but he does not tell us that they are his own! He calls them +respectively 'The Thrush at Twilight', and 'The Thrush at Dawn'. +Possibly Wordsworth would have approved of both of those titles: but, +that they are not his, should have been indicated. + +I do not think it wise, from an editorial point of view, even to print +in a "Chronological Table"--as Professor Dowden has done, in his +admirable Aldine edition--titles which were not Wordsworth's, without +some indication to that effect. But, in the case of Selections from +Wordsworth--such as those of Mr. Hawes Turner, and Mr. A. J. +Symington,--every one must feel that the editor should have informed his +readers 'when' the title was Wordsworth's, and 'when' it was his own +coinage. In the case of a much greater man--and one of Wordsworth's most +illustrious successors in the great hierarchy of English poesy, Matthew +Arnold--it may be asked why should he have put 'Margaret, or the Ruined +Cottage', as the title of a poem written in 1795-7, when Wordsworth +never once published it under that name? It was an extract from the +first book of 'The Excursion'--written, it is true, in these early +years,--but only issued as part of the latter poem, first published in +1814. + +The question of the number, the character, and the length of the Notes, +which a wise editor should append to the works of a great poet, (or to +any classic), is perhaps still 'sub judice'. My own opinion is that, in +all editorial work, the notes should be illustrative rather than +critical; and that they should only bring out those points, which the +ordinary reader of the text would not readily understand, if the poems +were not annotated. For this reason, topographical, historical, and +antiquarian notes are almost essential. The Notes which Wordsworth +himself wrote to his Poems, are of unequal length and merit. It was +perhaps necessary for him to write--at all events it is easy to +understand, and to sympathise with, his writing--the long note on the +revered parson of the Duddon Valley, the Rev. Robert Walker, who will be +remembered for many generations as the "Wonderful Walker." The Poet's +editors have also been occasionally led to add digressive notes, to +clear up points which had been left by himself either dubious, or +obscure. I must plead guilty to the charge of doing so: e.g. the +identification of "The Muccawiss" (see 'The Excursion', book iii. l. +953) with the Whip-poor-Will involved a great deal of laborious +correspondence years ago. It was a question of real difficulty; and, +although the result reached could now be put into two or three lines, I +have thought it desirable that the opinions of those who wrote about it, +and helped toward the solution, should be recorded. What I print is only +a small part of the correspondence that took place. + +On the other hand, it would be quite out of place, in a note to the +famous passage in the 4th book of 'The Excursion', beginning + + ... I have seen + A curious child applying to his ear + +to enter on a discussion as to the extent of Wordsworth's debt--if +any--to the author of 'Gebir'. It is quite sufficient to print the +relative passage from Landor's poem at the foot of the page. + +All the Notes written by Wordsworth himself in his numerous editions +will be found in this one, with the date of their first appearance +added. Slight textual changes, however, or casual 'addenda', are not +indicated, unless they are sufficiently important. Changes in the text +of notes have not the same importance to posterity, as changes in the +text of poems. In the preface to the Prose Works, reference will be made +to Wordsworth's alterations of his text. At present I refer only to his +own notes to his Poems. When they were written as footnotes to the page, +they remain footnotes still. When they were placed by him as prefaces to +his Poems, they retain that place in this edition; but when they were +appendix notes--as e.g. in the early editions of "Lyrical Ballads"--they +are now made footnotes to the Poems they illustrate. In such a case, +however, as the elaborate note to 'The Excursion', containing a reprint +of the 'Essay upon Epitaphs'--originally contributed to "The Friend"--it +is transferred to the Prose Works, to which it belongs by priority of +date; and, as it would be inexpedient to print it twice over, it is +omitted from the notes to 'The Excursion'. + +As to the place which Notes to a poet's works should occupy, there is no +doubt that numerous and lengthy ones--however valuable, or even +necessary, by way of illustration,--disfigure the printed page; and some +prefer that they should be thrown all together at the end of each +volume, or at the close of a series; such as--in Wordsworth's case--"The +River Duddon," "Ecclesiastical Sonnets," 'The Prelude', 'The White Doe +of Rylstone', etc. I do not think, however, that many care to turn +repeatedly to the close of a series of poems, or the end of a volume, to +find an explanatory note, helped only by an index number, and when +perhaps even that does not meet his eye at the foot of the page. I do +not find that even ardent Wordsworth students like to search for notes +in "appendices"; and perhaps the more ardent they are the less desirable +is it for them thus "to hunt the waterfalls." + +I have the greatest admiration for the work which Professor Dowden has +done in his edition of Wordsworth; but the 'plan' which he has followed, +in his Aldine edition, of giving not only the Fenwick Notes, but all the +changes of text introduced by Wordsworth into his successive editions, +in additional editorial notes at the end of each volume--to understand +which the reader must turn the pages repeatedly, from text to note and +note to text, forwards and backwards, at times distractingly--is for +practical purposes almost unworkable. The reader who examines Notes +'critically' is ever "one among a thousand," even if they are printed at +the foot of the page, and meet the eye readily. If they are consigned to +the realm of 'addenda' they will be read by very few, and studied by +fewer. + +To those who object to Notes being "thrust into view" (as it must be +admitted that they are in this edition)--because it disturbs the +pleasure of the reader who cares for the poetry of Wordsworth, and for +the poetry alone--I may ask how many persons have read the Fenwick +Notes, given together in a series, and mixed up heterogeneously with +Wordsworth's own Notes to his poems, in comparison with those who have +read and enjoyed them in the editions of 1857 and 1863? Professor Dowden +justifies his plan of relegating the Fenwick and other notes to the end +of each volume of his edition, on the ground that students of the Poet +'must' take the trouble of hunting to and fro for such things. I greatly +doubt if many who have read and profited--for they could not but +profit--by a perusal of Professor Dowden's work, 'have' taken that +trouble, or that future readers of the Aldine edition will take it. + +To refer, somewhat more in detail, to the features of this edition. + + +FIRST. As to the 'Chronological Order' of the Poems. + +The chief advantage of a chronological arrangement of the Works of any +author--and especially of a poet who himself adopted a different +plan--is that it shows us, as nothing else can do, the growth of his own +mind, the progressive development of his genius and imaginative power. +By such a redistribution of what he wrote we can trace the rise, the +culmination, and also--it may be--the decline and fall of his genius. +Wordsworth's own arrangement--first adopted in the edition of 1815--was +designed by him, with the view of bringing together, in separate +classes, those Poems which referred to the same (or similar) subjects, +or which were supposed to be the product of the same (or a similar) +faculty, irrespective of the date of composition. Thus one group was +entitled "Poems of the Fancy," another "Poems of the Imagination," a +third "Poems proceeding from Sentiment and Reflection," a fourth +"Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces," again "Poems on the Naming of Places," +"Memorials of Tours," "Ecclesiastical Sonnets," "Miscellaneous Sonnets," +etc. The principle which guided him in this was obvious enough. It was, +in some respects, a most natural arrangement; and, in now adopting a +chronological order, the groups, which he constructed with so much care, +are broken up. Probably every author would attach more importance to a +classification of his Works, which brought them together under +appropriate headings, irrespective of date, than to a method of +arrangement which exhibited the growth of his own mind; and it may be +taken for granted that posterity would not think highly of any author +who attached special value to this latter element. None the less +posterity may wish to trace the gradual development of genius, in the +imaginative writers of the past, by the help of such a subsequent +rearrangement of their Works. + +There are difficulties, however, in the way of such a rearrangement, +some of which, in Wordsworth's case, cannot be entirely surmounted. In +the case of itinerary Sonnets, referring to the same subject, the +dismemberment of a series--carefully arranged by their author--seems to +be specially unnatural. But Wordsworth himself sanctioned the principle. +If there was a fitness in collecting all his sonnets in one volume in +the year 1838, out of deference to the wishes of his friends, in order +that these poems might be "brought under the eye at once"--thus removing +them from their original places, in his collected works--it seems +equally fitting now to rearrange them chronologically, as far as it is +possible to do so. It will be seen that it is not always possible. + +Then, there is the case of two Poems following each other, in +Wordsworth's own arrangement, by natural affinity; such as the 'Epistle +to Sir George Beaumont', written in 1811, which in almost all existing +editions is followed by the Poem written in 1841, and entitled, 'Upon +perusing the foregoing Epistle thirty years after its composition'; or, +the dedication to 'The White Doe of Rylstone', written in April 1815, +while the Poem itself was written in 1807. To separate these Poems seems +unnatural; and, as it would be inadmissible to print the second of the +two twice over--once as a sequel to the first poem, and again in its +chronological place--adherence to the latter plan has its obvious +disadvantage in the case of these poems. + +Mr. Aubrey de Vere is very desirous that I should arrange all the "Poems +dedicated to National Independence and Liberty" together in series, as +Wordsworth left them, "on the principle that, though the order of +publication should as a rule be the order of composition in poetry, all +rules require, as well as admit of, exceptions." As I have the greatest +respect for the judgment of such an authority as Mr. de Vere, I may +explain that I only venture to differ from him because there are +seventy-four Poems--including the sonnets and odes--in this series, and +because they cover a period ranging from 1802 to 1815. I am glad, +however, that many of these sonnets can be printed together, especially +the earlier ones of 1802. + +After carefully weighing every consideration, it has seemed to me +desirable to adopt the chronological arrangement in this particular +edition; in which an attempt is made to trace the growth of Wordsworth's +genius, as it is unfolded in his successive works. His own arrangement +of his Poems will always possess a special interest and value; and it is +not likely ever to be entirely superseded in subsequent issues of his +Works. The editors and publishers of the future may possibly prefer it +to the plan now adopted, and it will commend itself to many readers from +the mere fact that 'it was Wordsworth's own'; but in an edition such as +the present--which is meant to supply material for the study of the Poet +to those who may not possess, or have access to, the earlier and rarer +editions--no method of arrangement can be so good as the chronological +one. Its importance will be obvious after several volumes are published, +when the point referred to above--viz. the evolution of the poet's +genius--will be shown by the very sequence of the subjects chosen, and +their method of treatment from year to year. + +The date of the composition of Wordsworth's Poems cannot always be +ascertained with accuracy: and to get at the chronological order, it is +not sufficient to take up his earlier volumes, and thereafter to note +the additions made in subsequent ones. We now know (approximately) when +each poem was first published; although, in some instances, they +appeared in newspapers and magazines, and in many cases publication was +long after the date of composition. For example, 'Guilt and Sorrow; or, +Incidents upon Salisbury Plain'--written in the years 1791-94--was not +published 'in extenso' till 1842. The tragedy of 'The Borderers', +composed in 1795-96, was also first published in 1842. 'The +Prelude'--"commenced in the beginning of the year 1799, and completed in +the summer of 1805"--was published posthumously in 1850: and some +unpublished poems--both "of early and late years"--were first issued in +1886. A poem was frequently kept back, from some doubt as to its worth, +or from a wish to alter and amend it. Of the five or six hundred sonnets +that he wrote, Wordsworth said "Most of them were frequently re-touched; +and, not a few, laboriously." Some poems were almost entirely recast; +and occasionally fugitive verses were withheld from publication for a +time, because it was hoped that they would subsequently form part of a +larger whole. + +In the case of many of the poems, we are left to conjecture the date of +composition, although we are seldom without some clue to it. The Fenwick +Notes are a great assistance in determining the chronology. These +notes--which will be afterwards more fully referred to--were dictated by +Wordsworth to Miss Fenwick in the year 1843; but, at that time, his +memory could not be absolutely trusted as to dates; and in some +instances we know it to have been at fault. For example, he said of 'The +Old Cumberland Beggar' that it was "written at Racedown and Alfoxden in +my twenty-third year." Now, he went to Racedown in the autumn of 1795, +when he was twenty-five years old; and to Alfoxden, in the autumn of +1797, when twenty-seven. Again, the poem 'Rural Architecture' is put +down in the Fenwick note as "written at Townend in 1801"; but it had +been published in 1800, in the second edition of "Lyrical Ballads." +Similarly Wordsworth gave the dates "1801 or 1802" for 'The Reverie of +Poor Susan', which had also appeared in "Lyrical Ballads," 1800. + +Wordsworth's memory was not always to be trusted even when he was +speaking of a group of his own Poems. For example, in the edition of +1807, there is a short series described thus, "Poems, composed during a +tour, chiefly on foot." They are numbered 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Now, one would +naturally suppose that all the poems, in this set of five, were composed +during the same pedestrian tour, and that they all referred to the same +time. But the series contains 'Alice Fell' (1802), 'Beggars' (1802), 'To +a Sky-Lark' (1805), and 'Resolution and Independence' (1802). + +Much more valuable than the Fenwick notes--for a certain portion of +Wordsworth's life--is his sister Dorothy's Journal. The mistakes in the +former can frequently be corrected from the minutely kept diary of those +early years, when the brother and sister lived together at Grasmere. The +whole of that Journal, so far as it is desirable to print it for +posterity, will be given in a subsequent volume. + +Long before the publication of the Fenwick notes, Wordsworth himself +supplied some data for a chronological arrangement of his Works. In the +table of contents, prefixed to the first collected edition of 1815, in +two volumes,--and also to the second collected edition of 1820, in four +volumes,--there are two parallel columns: one giving the date of +composition, and the other that of publication. There are numerous +blanks in the former column, which was the only important one; as the +year of publication could be ascertained from the editions themselves. +Sometimes the date is given vaguely; as in the case of the "Sonnets +dedicated to Liberty," where the note runs, "from the year 1807 to +1813." At other times, the entry of the year of publication is +inaccurate; for example, the 'Inscription for the spot where the +Hermitage stood on St. Herbert's Island, Derwentwater', is put down as +belonging to the year 1807; but this poem does not occur in the volumes +of 1807, but in the second volume of "Lyrical Ballads" (1800). It will +thus be seen that it is only by comparing Wordsworth's own lists of the +years to which his Poems belong, with the contents of the several +editions of his Works, with the Fenwick Notes, and with his sister's +Journal, that we can approximately reconstruct the true chronology. To +these sources of information must be added the internal evidence of the +Poems themselves, incidental references in letters to friends, and stray +hints gathered from various quarters. + +Many new sources of information as to the date of the composition of the +Poems became known to me during the publication of my previous edition, +and after its issue; the most important being the Journals of Dorothy +Wordsworth. These discoveries showed that my chronological table of +1882--although then, relatively, "up to date"--was incomplete. The +tables constructed by Mr. Tutin and by Professor Dowden are both more +accurate than it was. It is impossible to attain to finality in such a +matter; and several facts, afterwards discovered, and mentioned in the +later volumes of my previous edition, have been used against the +conclusions come to in the earlier ones. I have thus supplied the +feathers for a few subsequent critical arrows. The shots have not been +unkindly ones; and I am glad of the result, viz. that our knowledge of +the dates--both as to the composition and first publication of the poems +--is now much more exact than before. When a conjectural one is given in +this edition, the fact is always mentioned. + +This chronological method of arrangement, however, has its limits. It is +not possible always to adopt it: nor is it invariably 'necessary', even +in order to obtain a true view of the growth of Wordsworth's mind. In +this--as in so many other things--wisdom lies in the avoidance of +extremes; the extreme of rigid fidelity to the order of time on the one +hand, and the extreme of an irrational departure from it on the other. +While an effort has been made to discover the exact order of the +composition of the poems--and this is shown, not only in the +Chronological Table, but at the beginning of each separate poem--it has +been considered expedient to depart from that order in printing some of +the poems. In certain cases a poem was begun and laid aside, and again +resumed at intervals; and it is difficult to know to what year the +larger part of it should be assigned. When we know the date at which a +poem was commenced, and that it was finished "long afterwards," but have +no clue as to the year, it is assigned to the year in which it was +begun. For example, the 'Address to Kilchurn Castle' was begun in 1803, +but only the first three lines were written then. Wordsworth tells us +that "the rest was added many years after," but when we know not; and +the poem was not published till 1827. In such a case, it is placed in +this edition as if it belonged chronologically to 1803, and retains its +place in the series of Poems which memorialise the Tour in Scotland of +that year. On a similar principle, 'The Highland Girl' is placed in the +same series; although Dorothy Wordsworth tells us, in her Journal of the +Tour, that it was composed "not long after our return from Scotland"; +and 'Glen Almain'--although written afterwards at Rydal--retains its +published place in the memorial group. Again the 'Departure from the +Vale of Grasmere, August 1803', is prefixed to the same series; although +it was not written till 1811, and first published in 1827. To give +symmetry to such a Series, it is necessary to depart from the exact +chronological order--the departure being duly indicated. + +On the same principle I have followed the 'Address to the Scholars of +the Village School of----', by its natural sequel--'By the Side of the +Grave some Years after', the date of the composition of which is +unknown: and the 'Epistle to Sir George Beaumont' (1811) is followed by +the later Lines, to which Wordsworth gave the most prosaic title--he was +often infelicitous in his titles--'Upon perusing the foregoing Epistle +thirty years after its composition'. A like remark applies to the poem +'Beggars', which is followed by its own 'Sequel', although the order of +date is disturbed; while all the "Epitaphs," translated from Chiabrera, +are printed together. + +It is manifestly appropriate that the poems belonging to a series--such +as the "Ecclesiastical Sonnets," or those referring to the +"Duddon"--should be brought together, as Wordsworth finally arranged +them; even although we may be aware that some of them were written +subsequently, and placed in the middle of the series. The sonnets +referring to "Aspects of Christianity in America"--inserted in the 1845 +and 1849-50 editions of the collected Works--are found in no previous +edition or version of the "Ecclesiastical Sonnets." These, along with +some others on the Offices of the English Liturgy, were suggested to +Wordsworth by an American prelate, Bishop Doane, and by Professor Henry +Reed; [2] but we do not know in what year they were written. The +"Ecclesiastical Sonnets"--first called "Ecclesiastical Sketches"--were +written in the years 1820-22. The above additions to them appeared +twenty-five years afterwards; but they ought manifestly to retain their +place, as arranged by Wordsworth in the edition of 1845. The case is +much the same with regard to the "Duddon Sonnets." They were first +published in 1820: but No. xiv. beginning: + + O mountain Stream! the Shepherd and his Cot, + +was written in the year 1806, and appears in the edition of 1807. This +sonnet will be printed in the series to which it belongs, and not in its +chronological place. I think it would be equally unjust to remove it +from the group--in which it helps to form a unity--and to print it twice +over. [3] On the other hand, the series of "Poems composed during a Tour +in Scotland, and on the English Border, in the Autumn of 1831"--and +first published in the year 1835, in the volume entitled "Yarrow +Revisited, and Other Poems"--contains two, which Wordsworth himself +tells us were composed earlier; and there is no reason why these poems +should not be restored to their chronological place. The series of +itinerary sonnets, published along with them in the Yarrow volume of +1835, is the record of another Scottish tour, taken in the year 1833; +and Wordsworth says of them that they were "composed 'or suggested' +during a tour in the summer of 1833." We cannot now discover which of +them were written during the tour, and which at Rydal Mount after his +return; but it is obvious that they should be printed in the order in +which they were left by him, in 1835. It may be noted that almost all +the "Evening Voluntaries" belong to these years--1832 to 1835--when the +author was from sixty-two to sixty-five years of age. + +Wordsworth's habit of revision may perhaps explain the mistakes into +which he occasionally fell as to the dates of his Poems, and the +difficulty of reconciling what he says, as to the year of composition, +with the date assigned by his sister in her Journal. When he says +"written in 1801, or 1802," he may be referring to the last revision +which he gave to his work. Certain it is, however, that he sometimes +gave a date for the composition, which was subsequent to the publication +of the poem in question. + +In the case of those poems to which no date was attached, I have tried +to find a clue by which to fix an approximate one. Obviously, it would +not do to place all the undated poems in a class by themselves. Such an +arrangement would be thoroughly artificial; and, while we are in many +instances left to conjecture, we can always say that such and such a +poem was composed not later than a particular year. When the precise +date is undiscoverable, I have thought it best to place the poem in or +immediately before the year in which it was first published. + +Poems which were several years in process of composition, having been +laid aside, and taken up repeatedly; 'e.g. The Prelude', which was +composed between the years 1799 and 1805--are placed in the year in +which they were finished. Disputable questions as to the date of any +poem are dealt with in the editorial note prefixed or appended to it. + +There is one Poem which I have intentionally placed out of its +chronological place, viz. the 'Ode, Intimations of Immortality from +Recollections of Early Childhood'. It was written at intervals from 1803 +to 1806, and was first published in the edition of 1807, where it stood +at the end of the second volume. In every subsequent edition of the +collected Works--1815 to 1850--it closed the groups of poems; 'The +Excursion' only following it, in a volume of its own. This was an +arrangement made by Wordsworth, of set purpose, and steadily adhered +to--the 'Ode' forming as it were the High Altar of his poetic Cathedral. +As he wished it to retain that place in subsequent editions of his +Works, it retains it in this one. + +Mr. Arnold's arrangement of the Poems, in his volume of Selections [4], +is extremely interesting and valuable; but, as to the method of grouping +adopted, I am not sure that it is better than Wordsworth's own. As a +descriptive title, "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection" is quite as good +as "Poems akin to the Antique," and "Poems of the Fancy" quite as +appropriate as "Poems of Ballad Form." + +Wordsworth's arrangement of his Poems in groups was psychologically very +interesting; but it is open to many objections. Unfortunately Wordsworth +was not himself consistent--in the various editions issued by +himself--either in the class into which he relegated each poem, or the +order in which he placed it there. There is tantalising topsy-turvyism +in this, so that an editor who adopts it is almost compelled to select +Wordsworth's latest grouping, which was not always his best. + +Sir William Rowan Hamilton wrote to Mr. Aubrey de Vere in 1835 that Dora +Wordsworth told him that her father "was sometimes at a loss whether to +refer her to the 'Poems of the Imagination,' or the 'Poems of the +Fancy,' for some particular passage." Aubrey de Vere himself considered +Wordsworth's arrangement as "a parade of system," and wrote of it, "I +cannot help thinking that in it, he mistakes classification for method." +[5] I confess that it is often difficult to see why some of the poems +were assigned by their author to the realm of the "Fancy," the +"Imagination," and "Sentiment and Reflection" respectively. In a note to +'The Horn of Egremont Castle' (edition 1815) Wordsworth speaks of it as +"referring to the imagination," rather than as being "produced by it"; +and says that he would not have placed it amongst his "Poems of the +Imagination," "but to avoid a needless multiplication of classes"; and +in the editions of 1827 and 1832 he actually included the great 'Ode' on +Immortality among his "Epitaphs and Elegiac Poems"! As late as 27th +September 1845, he wrote to Professor Henry Reed, + + "Following your example" (i. e. the example set in Reed's American + edition of the Poems), "I have greatly extended the class entitled + 'Poems of the Imagination,' thinking as you must have done that, if + Imagination were predominant in the class, it was not indispensable + that it should pervade every poem which it contained. Limiting the + class as I had done before, seemed to imply, and to the uncandid or + observing did so, that the faculty, which is the 'primum mobile' in + poetry, had little to do, in the estimation of the author, with pieces + not arranged under that head. I therefore feel much obliged to you for + suggesting by your practice the plan which I have adopted." + +Could anything show more explicitly than this that Wordsworth was not +perfectly satisfied with his own artificial groups? Professor Reed, in +his American edition of 1837, however, acted on Wordsworth's expressed +intention of distributing the contents of "Yarrow Revisited, and Other +Poems" amongst the classes. He tells us that he "interspersed the +contents of this volume among the Poems already arranged" by Wordsworth. +[6] + +It may also be mentioned that not only members of his own household, but +many of Wordsworth's friends--notably Charles Lamb--expressed a +preference for a different arrangement of his Poems from that which he +had adopted. + + +SECOND The various Readings, or variations of text, made by Wordsworth +during his lifetime, or written by him on copies of his Poems, or +discovered in MS. letters, from himself, or his sister, or his wife, are +given in footnotes in this edition. Few English poets changed their text +more frequently, or with more fastidiousness, than Wordsworth did. He +did not always alter it for the better. Every alteration however, which +has been discovered by me, whether for the better or for the worse, is +here printed in full. We have thus a record of the fluctuations of his +own mind as to the form in which he wished his Poems to appear; and this +record casts considerable light on the development of his genius. [7] + +A knowledge of these changes of text can only be obtained in one or +other of two ways. Either the reader must have access to all the +thirty-two editions of Poems, the publication of which Wordsworth +personally supervised; or, he must have all the changes in the +successive editions, exhibited in the form of footnotes, and appended to +the particular text that is selected and printed in the body of the +work. It is extremely difficult--in some cases quite impossible--to +obtain the early editions. The great public libraries of the country do +not possess them all.[8] It is therefore necessary to fall back upon the +latter plan, which seems the only one by which a knowledge of the +changes of the text can be made accessible, either to the general +reader, or to the special student of English Poetry. + +The text which--after much consideration--I have resolved to place +throughout, in the body of the work, is Wordsworth's own final 'textus +receptus', i.e. the text of 1849-50, reproduced in the posthumous +edition of 1857; [9] and since opinion will doubtless differ as to the +wisdom of this selection, it may be desirable to state at some length +the reasons which have led me to adopt it. + +There are only three possible courses open to an editor, who wishes to +give--along with the text selected--all the various readings +chronologically arranged as footnotes. Either, 1st, the earliest text +may be taken, or 2nd, the latest may be chosen, or 3rd, the text may be +selected from different editions, so as to present each poem in its best +state (according to the judgment of the editor), in whatever edition it +is found. A composite text, made up from two or more editions, would be +inadmissible. + +Now, most persons who have studied the subject know that Wordsworth's +best text is to be found, in one poem in its earliest edition, in +another in its latest, and in a third in some intermediate edition. I +cannot agree either with the statement that he always altered for the +worse, or that he always altered for the better. His critical judgment +was not nearly so unerring in this respect as Coleridge's was, or as +Tennyson's has been. It may be difficult, therefore, to assign an +altogether satisfactory reason for adopting either the earliest or the +latest text; and at first sight, the remaining alternative plan may seem +the wisest of the three. There are indeed difficulties in the way of the +adoption of any one of the methods suggested; and as I adopt the latest +text--not because it is always intrinsically the best, but on other +grounds to be immediately stated--it may clear the way, if reference be +made in the first instance to the others, and to the reasons for +abandoning them. + +As to a selection of the text from various editions, this would +doubtless be the best plan, were it a practicable one; and perhaps it +may be attainable some day. But Wordsworth is as yet too near us for +such an editorial treatment of his Works to be successful. The +fundamental objection to it is that scarcely two minds--even among the +most competent of contemporary judges--will agree as to what the best +text is. An edition arranged on this principle could not possibly be +acceptable to more than a few persons. Of course no arrangement of any +kind can escape adverse criticism: it would be most unfortunate if it +did. But this particular edition would fail in its main purpose, if +questions of individual taste were made primary, and not secondary; and +an arrangement, which gave scope for the arbitrary selection of +particular texts,--according to the wisdom, or the want of wisdom, of +the editor,--would deservedly meet with severe criticism in many +quarters. Besides, such a method of arrangement would not indicate the +growth of the Poet's mind, and the development of his genius. If an +editor wished to indicate his own opinion of the best text for each +poem--under the idea that his judgment might be of some use to other +people--it would be wiser to do so by means of some mark or marginal +note, than by printing his selected text in the main body of the work. +He could thus at once preserve the chronological order of the readings, +indicate his own preference, and leave it to others to select what they +preferred. Besides, the compiler of such an edition would often find +himself in doubt as to what the best text really was, the merit of the +different readings being sometimes almost equal, or very nearly +balanced; and, were he to endeavour to get out of the difficulty by +obtaining the judgments of literary men, or even of contemporary poets, +he would find that their opinions would in most cases be dissimilar, if +they did not openly conflict. Those who cannot come to a final decision +as to their own text would not be likely to agree as to the merits of +particular readings in the poems of their predecessors. Unanimity of +opinion on this point is indeed quite unattainable. + +Nevertheless, it would be easy for an editor to show the unfortunate +result of keeping rigorously either to the latest or to the earliest +text of Wordsworth. If, on the one hand, the latest were taken, it could +be shown that many of the changes introduced into it were for the worse, +and some of them very decidedly so. For example, in the poem 'To a +Skylark'--composed in 1825--the second verse, retained in the +editions of 1827, 1832, 1836, and 1843, was unaccountably dropped out in +the editions of 1845 and 1849. The following is the complete poem of +1825, as published in 1827. + + + Ethereal Minstrel! Pilgrim of the sky! + Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? + Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye + Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? + Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, + Those quivering wings composed, that music still! + + To the last point of vision, and beyond, + Mount, daring Warbler! that love-prompted strain, + ('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) + Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: + Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing + All independent of the leafy spring. + + Leave to the Nightingale her shady wood; + A privacy of glorious light is thine; + Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood + Of harmony, with rapture more divine; + Type of the wise who soar, but never roam; + True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home! + + +There is no doubt that the first and third stanzas are the finest, and +some may respect the judgment that cut down the Poem by the removal of +its second verse: but others will say, if it was right that such a verse +should be removed, why were many others of questionable merit allowed to +remain? Why was such a poem as 'The Glowworm', of the edition of 1807, +never republished; while 'The Waterfall and the Eglantine', and 'To the +Spade of a Friend', were retained? To give one other illustration, where +a score are possible. In the sonnet, belonging to the year 1807, +beginning: + + "Beloved Vale!" I said, "when I shall con," + +we find, in the latest text, the lines--first adopted in 1827: + + I stood, of simple shame the blushing Thrall; + So narrow seemed the brooks, the fields so small, + +while the early edition of 1807 contains the far happier lines: + + To see the Trees, which I had thought so tall, + Mere dwarfs; the Brooks so narrow, Fields so small. + +On the other hand, if the earliest text be invariably retained, some of +the best poems will be spoiled (or the improvements lost), since +Wordsworth did usually alter for the better. For example, few persons +will doubt that the form in which the second stanza of the poem 'To the +Cuckoo' (written in 1802) appeared in 1845, is an improvement on all its +predecessors. I give the readings of 1807, 1815, 1820, 1827, and 1845. + + + While I am lying on the grass, + I hear thy restless shout: + From hill to hill it seems to pass, + About, and all about! 1807. + + While I am lying on the grass, + Thy loud note smites my ear!-- + From hill to hill it seems to pass, + At once far off and near! 1815. + + While I am lying on the grass, + Thy loud note smites my ear! + It seems to fill the whole air's space, + At once far off and near. 1820. + + While I am lying on the grass + Thy twofold shout I hear, + That seems to fill the whole air's space, + As loud far off as near. 1827. + + While I am lying on the grass + Thy twofold shout I hear, + From hill to hill it seems to pass, + At once far off, and near. 1845. + + +Similarly, in each of the three poems 'To the Daisy', composed in 1802, +and in the 'Afterthought, to the Duddon', the alterations introduced +into the latest editions were all improvements upon the early version. + +It might be urged that these considerations would warrant the +interference of an editor, and justify him in selecting the text which +he thought the best upon the whole; but this must be left to posterity. +When editors can escape the bias of contemporary thought and feeling, +when their judgments are refined by distance and mellowed by the new +literary standards of the intervening years,--when in fact Wordsworth is +as far away from his critics as Shakespeare now is--it may be possible +to adjust a final text. But the task is beyond the power of the present +generation. + +It may farther be urged that if this reasoning be valid,--and if, for +the present, one text must be retained uniformly throughout,--the +natural plan is to take the earliest, and not the latest; and this has +some recommendations. It seems more simple, more natural, and certainly +the easiest. We have a natural sequence, if we begin with the earliest +and go on to the latest readings. Then, all the readers of Wordsworth, +who care to possess or to consult the present edition, will doubtless +possess one or other of the complete copies of his works, which contain +his final text; while probably not one in twenty have ever seen the +first edition of any of his poems, with the exception of 'The Prelude'. +It is true that if the reader turns to a footnote to compare the +versions of different years, while he is reading for the sake of the +poetry, he will be so distracted that the effect of the poem as a whole +will be entirely lost; because the critical spirit, which judges of the +text, works apart from the spirit of sympathetic appreciation, in which +all poetry should be read. But it is not necessary to turn to the +footnotes, and to mark what may be called the literary growth of a poem, +while it is being read for its own sake: and these notes are printed in +smaller type, so as not to obtrude themselves on the eye of the reader. + +Against the adoption of the earlier text, there is this fatal objection, +that if it is to be done at all, it must be done throughout; and, in the +earliest poems Wordsworth wrote--viz. 'An Evening Walk' and 'Descriptive +Sketches',--the subsequent alterations almost amounted to a cancelling +of the earlier version. His changes were all, or almost all, +unmistakably for the better. Indeed, there was little in these works--in +the form in which they first appeared--to lead to the belief that an +original poet had arisen in England. It is true that Coleridge saw in +them the signs of the dawn of a new era, and wrote thus of 'Descriptive +Sketches', before he knew its author, "Seldom, if ever, was the +emergence of a great and original poetic genius above the literary +horizon more evidently announced." Nevertheless the earliest text of +these 'Sketches' is, in many places, so artificial, prosaic, and dull, +that its reproduction (except as an appendix, or in the form of +footnotes) would be an injustice to Wordsworth. [10] On the other hand, +the passages subsequently cancelled are so numerous, and so long, that +if placed in footnotes the latter would in some instances be more +extensive than the text. The quarto of 1793 will therefore be reprinted +in full as an Appendix to the first volume of this edition. The 'School +Exercise written at Hawkshead' in the poet's fourteenth year, will be +found in vol. viii. Passing over these juvenile efforts, there are +poems--such as 'Guilt and Sorrow', 'Peter Bell', and many others--in +which the earlier text is an inferior one, which was either corrected or +abandoned by Wordsworth in his maturer years. It would be a conspicuous +blunder to print--in the place of honour,--the crude original which was +afterwards repudiated by its author. + +It may be remembered, in connection with Wordsworth's text, that he +himself said, "I am for the most part uncertain about my success in +altering poems; but, in this case" (he is speaking of an insertion) "I +am sure I have produced a great improvement." ('Memoirs of Wordsworth', +vol. i. p. 174.) [11] Again, in writing to Mr. Dyce in 1830, "You know +what importance I attach to following strictly the last copy of the text +of an author." + +It is also worthy of note that the study of their chronology casts some +light on the changes which the poems underwent. The second edition of +"Lyrical Ballads" appeared in 1800. In that edition the text of 1798 is +scarcely altered: but, in the year in which it was published, Wordsworth +was engrossed with his settlement at Grasmere; and, in the springtime of +creative work, he probably never thought of revising his earlier pieces. +In the year 1800, he composed at least twenty-five new poems. The third +edition of "Lyrical Ballads" appeared in 1802; and during that year he +wrote forty-three new poems, many of them amongst the most perfect of +his Lyrics. His critical instinct had become much more delicate since +1800: and it is not surprising to find--as we do find--that between the +text of the "Lyrical Ballads" of 1800, and that of 1802, there are many +important variations. This is seen, for example, in the way in which he +dealt with 'The Female Vagrant', which is altered throughout. Its early +redundance is pruned away; and, in many instances, the final text, +sanctioned in 1845, had been adopted in 1803. Without going into further +detail, it is sufficient to remark that in the year 1803 Wordsworth's +critical faculty, the faculty of censorship, had developed almost step +for step with the creative originality of his genius. In that prolific +year, when week by week, almost day by day, fresh poems were thrown off +with marvellous facility--as we see from his sister's Journal--he had +become a severe, if not a fastidious, critic of his own earlier work. A +further explanation of the absence of critical revision, in the edition +of 1800, may be found in the fact that during that year Wordsworth was +engaged in writing the "Preface" to his Poems; which dealt, in so +remarkable a manner, with the nature of Poetry in general, and with his +own theory of it in particular. + +A further reference to the 'Evening Walk' will illustrate Wordsworth's +way of dealing with his earlier text in his later editions. This Poem +showed from the first a minute observation of Nature--not only in her +external form and colour, but also in her suggestiveness--though not in +her symbolism; and we also find the same transition from Nature to Man, +the same interest in rural life, and the same lingering over its +incidents that we see in his maturer poems. Nevertheless, there is much +that is conventional in the first edition of 'An Evening Walk', +published in 1793. I need only mention, as a sample, the use of the +phrase "silent tides" to describe the waters of a lake. When this poem +was revised, in the year 1815--with a view to its insertion in the first +edition of the collected works--Wordsworth merely omitted large portions +of it, and some of its best passages were struck out. He scarcely +amended the text at all. In 1820, however, he pruned and improved it +throughout; so that between this poem, as recast in 1820 (and reproduced +almost 'verbatim' in the next two editions of 1827 and 1832), and his +happiest descriptions of Nature in his most inspired moods, there is no +great difference. But, in 1836, he altered it still further in detail; +and in that state practically left it, apparently not caring to revise +it further. In the edition of 1845, however, there are several changes. +So far as I can judge, there is one alteration for the worse, and one +only. The reading, in the edition of 1793, + + In these lone vales, if aught of faith may claim, + Thin silver hairs, and ancient hamlet fame; + When up the hills, as now, retreats the light, + Strange apparitions mock the village sight, + +is better than that finally adopted, + + In these secluded vales, if village fame, + Confirmed by hoary hairs, belief may claim; + When up the hills, as now, retired the light, + Strange apparitions mocked the shepherd's sight. + +It will be seen, however, from the changes made in the text of this +poem, how Wordsworth's observation of Nature developed, how thoroughly +dissatisfied he soon became with everything conventional, and discarded +every image not drawn directly or at first hand from Nature. + +The text adopted in the present edition is, for the reasons stated, that +which was finally sanctioned by Wordsworth himself, in the last edition +of his Poems (1849-50). The earlier readings, occurring in previous +editions, are given in footnotes; and it may be desirable to explain the +way in which these are arranged. It will be seen that whenever the text +has been changed a date is given in the footnote, 'before' the other +readings are added. This date, which accompanies the reference number of +the footnote, indicates the year in which the reading finally retained +was first adopted by Wordsworth. The earlier readings then follow, in +chronological order, with the year to which they belong; [12] and it is +in every case to be assumed that the last of the changes indicated was +continued in all subsequent editions of the works. No direct information +is given as to how long a particular reading was retained, or through +how many editions it ran. It is to be assumed, however, that it was +retained in all intermediate editions till the next change of text is +stated. It would encumber the notes with too many figures if, in every +instance in which a change was made, the corresponding state of the text +in all the other editions was indicated. But if no new reading follows +the text quoted, it is to be taken for granted that the reading in +question was continued in every subsequent edition, until the date which +accompanies the reference figure. + +Two illustrations will make this clear. The first is a case in which the +text was only altered once, the second an instance in which it was +altered six times. In the 'Evening Walk' the following lines occur-- + + The dog, loud barking, 'mid the glittering rocks, + Hunts, where his master points, the intercepted flocks. + +And the footnote is as follows: + + 1836. + That, barking busy 'mid the glittering rocks, + Hunts, where he points, the intercepted flocks; 1793. + +In the light of what has been said above, and by reference to the +Bibliography, it will be seen from these two dates that the original +text of 1793--given in the footnote--was continued in the editions of +1820, 1827, and 1832 (it was omitted from the "extract" of 1815); that +it was changed in the year 1836; and that this reading was retained in +the editions of 1843, 1845, and 1849. + +Again, in 'Simon Lee', the lines occur: + + But what to them avails the land + Which he can till no longer? + +And the following are the footnotes: + + 1845. + But what avails the land to them, + Which they can till no longer? 1798. + + "But what," saith he, "avails the land, + Which I can till no longer? 1827. + + But what avails it now, the land + Which he can till no longer? 1832. + + 'Tis his, but what avails the land + Which he can till no longer? 1837. + + The time, alas! is come when he + Can till the land no longer. 1840. + + The time is also come when he + Can till the land no longer. C. + + +From this it will be seen that the text adopted in the first edition of +"Lyrical Ballads" in 1798 was retained in the editions of 1800, 1802, +1805, 1815, and 1820; that it was altered in each of the editions of +1827, 1832, 1837, 1840, as also in the MS. readings in Lord Coleridge's +copy of the works, and in the edition of 1845; and that the version of +1845 was retained in the edition of 1849-50. It should be added that +when a verse, or stanza, or line--occurring in one or other of the +earlier editions--was omitted from that of 1849, the footnote simply +contains the extract along with the date of the year or years in which +it occurs; and that, in such cases, the date does not follow the +reference number of the footnote, but is placed for obvious reasons at +the end of the extract. + +The same thing is true of 'Descriptive Sketches'. In the year 1827, +there were scarcely any alterations made on the text of the poem, as +printed in 1820; still fewer were added in 1832; but for the edition of +1836 the whole was virtually rewritten, and in that state it was finally +left, although a few significant changes were made in 1845. + +Slight changes of spelling which occur in the successive editions, are +not mentioned. When, however, the change is one of transposition, +although the text remains unaltered,--as is largely the case in 'Simon +Lee', for example--it is always indicated. + +It will be further observed that, at the beginning of every poem, two +dates are given; the first, on the left-hand side, is the date of +composition; the second, on the right-hand side, is the date of the +first publication. In what class the poem first appeared, and the +changes (if any) which subsequently occurred in its title, are mentioned +in the note appended. + + +THIRD. In the present edition several suggested changes of text, which +were written by Wordsworth on the margin of a copy of his edition of +1836-7, which he kept beside him at Rydal Mount, are published. These +MS. notes seem to have been written by himself, or dictated to others, +at intervals between the years 1836 and 1850, and they are thus a record +of passing thoughts, or "moods of his own mind," during these years. +Some of these were afterwards introduced into the editions of 1842, +1846, and 1849; others were not made use of. The latter have now a value +of their own, as indicating certain new phases of thought and feeling, +in Wordsworth's later years. I owe my knowledge of them, and the +permission to use them, to the kindness of the late Chief Justice of +England, Lord Coleridge. The following is an extract from a letter from +him: + + + "FOX GHYLL, AMBLESIDE, '4th October 1881'. + + "I have been long intending to write you as to the manuscript notes + and alterations in Wordsworth's poems, which you have had the + opportunity of seeing, and, so far as you thought fit, of using for + your edition. They came into my possession in this way. I saw them + advertised in a catalogue which was sent me, and at my request the + book was very courteously forwarded to me for my inspection. It + appeared to me of sufficient interest and value to induce me to buy + it; and I accordingly became the purchaser. + + "It is a copy of the edition in six volumes, the publication of which + began in the year 1836; and of the volume containing the collected + sonnets, which was afterwards printed uniformly with that edition. It + appears to have been the copy which Wordsworth himself used for + correcting, altering, and adding to the poems contained in it. As you + have seen, in some of the poems the Alterations are very large, + amounting sometimes to a complete rewriting of considerable passages. + Many of these alterations have been printed in subsequent editions; + some have not; two or three small poems, as far as I know, have not + been hitherto published. Much of the writing is Wordsworth's own; but + perhaps the larger portion is the hand-writing of others, one or more, + not familiar to me as Wordsworth's is. + + "How the volumes came to be sold I do not know.... Such as they are, + and whatever be their interest or value, you are, as far as I am + concerned, heartily welcome to them; and I shall be glad indeed if + they add in the least degree to make your edition more worthy of the + great man for whom my admiration grows every day I live, and my deep + gratitude to whom will cease only with my life, and my reason." + + +This precious copy of the edition of 1836-7 is now the property of Lady +Coleridge. I re-examined it in 1894, and added several readings, which I +had omitted to note twelve years ago, when Lord Coleridge first showed +it to me. I should add that, since the issue of the volumes of 1882-6, +many other MS. copies of individual Poems have come under my notice; and +that every important variation of text in them is incorporated in this +edition. + +As it is impossible to discover the precise year in which the suggested +alterations of text were written by Wordsworth, on the margin of the +edition of 1836, they will be indicated, wherever they occur, by the +initial letter C. Comparatively few changes occur in the poems of early +years. + +A copy of the 1814 (quarto) edition of 'The Excursion', now in the +possession of a grandson of the poet, the Rev. John Wordsworth, Gosforth +Rectory, Cumberland--which was the copy Wordsworth kept at Rydal Mount +for annotation and correction, much in the same way as he kept the +edition of 1836-7--has also been kindly sent to me by its present owner, +for examination and use in this edition; and, in it, I have found some +additional readings. + + +FOURTH. In the present edition all the Notes and Memoranda, explanatory +of the Poems, which Wordsworth dictated to Miss Fenwick, are given in +full. Miss Fenwick lived much at Rydal Mount, during the later years of +the Poet's life; and it is to their friendship, and to her inducing +Wordsworth to dictate these Notes, that we owe most of the information +we possess, as to the occasions and circumstances under which his poems +were composed. These notes were first made use of--although only in a +fragmentary manner--by the late Bishop of Lincoln, in the 'Memoirs' of +his uncle. They were afterwards incorporated in full in the edition of +1857, issued by Mr. Moxon, under the direction of Mr. Carter; and in the +centenary edition. They were subsequently printed in 'The Prose Works of +Wordsworth', edited by Dr. Grosart; and in my edition of 1882-6. I am +uncertain whether it was the original MS., written by Miss Fenwick, or +the copy of it afterwards taken for Miss Quillinan, to which Dr. Grosart +had access. The text of these Notes, as printed in the edition of 1857, +is certainly (in very many cases) widely different from what is given in +'The Prose Works' of 1876. I have made many corrections--from the MS. +which I have examined with care--of errors which exist in all previously +printed copies of these Notes, including my own. + +What appears in this volume is printed from a MS., which Miss Quillinan +gave me to examine and copy, and which she assured me was the original +one. The proper place for these Fenwick Notes is doubtless that which +was assigned to them by the editor of 1857, viz. before the poems which +they respectively illustrate. + + +FIFTH. Topographical Notes, explanatory of the allusions made by +Wordsworth to the localities in the English Lake District, and +elsewhere, are added throughout the volumes. This has already been +attempted to some extent by several writers, but a good deal more +remains to be done; and I may repeat what I wrote on this subject, in +1878. + +Many of Wordsworth's allusions to Place are obscure, and the exact +localities difficult to identify. It is doubtful if he cared whether +they could be afterwards traced out or not; and in reference to one +particular rock, referred to in the "Poems on the Naming of Places," +when asked by a friend to localise it, he declined; replying to the +question, "Yes, that--or any other that will suit!" There is no doubt +that, in many instances, his allusions to place are intentionally vague; +and, in some of his most realistic passages, he avowedly weaves together +a description of localities remote from each other. + +It is true that "Poems of Places" are not meant to be photographs; and +were they simply to reproduce the features of a particular district, and +be an exact transcript of reality, they would be literary photographs, +and not poems. Poetry cannot, in the nature of things, be a mere +register of phenomena appealing to the eye or the ear. No imaginative +writer, however, in the whole range of English Literature, is so +peculiarly identified with locality as Wordsworth is; and there is not +one on the roll of poets, the appreciation of whose writings is more +aided by an intimate knowledge of the district in which he lived. The +wish to be able to identify his allusions to those places, which he so +specially interpreted, is natural to every one who has ever felt the +spell of his genius; and it is indispensable to all who would know the +special charm of a region, which he described as "a national property," +and of which he, beyond all other men, may be said to have effected the +literary "conveyance" to posterity. + +But it has been asked--and will doubtless be asked again--what is the +use of a minute identification of all these places? Is not the general +fact that Wordsworth described this district of mountain, vale, and +mere, sufficient, without any further attempt at localisation? The +question is more important, and has wider bearings, than appears upon +the surface. + +It must be admitted, on the one hand, that the discovery of the precise +point in every local allusion is not necessary to an understanding or +appreciation of the Poems. But, it must be remembered, on the other +hand, that Wordsworth was never contented with simply copying what he +saw in Nature. Of the 'Evening Walk'--written in his eighteenth year--he +says that the plan of the poem + + "has not been confined to a particular walk or an individual place; a + proof (of which I was unconscious at the time) of my unwillingness to + submit the poetic spirit to the chains of fact and real circumstance. + The country is idealised rather than described in any one of its local + aspects."[13] + +Again, he says of the 'Lines written while Sailing in a Boat at Evening': + + "It was during a solitary walk on the banks of the Cam that I was + first struck with this appearance, and applied it to my own feelings + in the manner here expressed, changing the scene to the Thames, near + Windsor"; [14] + +and of 'Guilt and Sorrow', he said, + + "To obviate some distraction in the minds of those who are well + acquainted with Salisbury Plain, it may be proper to say, that of the + features described as belonging to it, one or two are taken from other + desolate parts of England." [15] + +In 'The Excursion' he passes from Langdale to Grasmere, over to +Patterdale, back to Grasmere, and again to Hawes Water, without warning; +and even in the case of the "Duddon Sonnets" he introduces a description +taken direct from Rydal. Mr. Aubrey de Vere tells of a conversation he +had with Wordsworth, in which he vehemently condemned the +ultra-realistic poet, who goes to Nature with + + "pencil and note-book, and jots down whatever strikes him most," + adding, "Nature does not permit an inventory to be made of her charms! + He should have left his pencil and note-book at home; fixed his eye as + he walked with a reverent attention on all that surrounded him, and + taken all into a heart that could understand and enjoy. Afterwards he + would have discovered that while much of what he had admired was + preserved to him, much was also most wisely obliterated. _That which + remained, the picture surviving in his mind, would have presented the + ideal and essential truth of the scene, and done so in large part by + discarding much which, though in itself striking, was not + characteristic._ In every scene, many of the most brilliant details + are but accidental." + +The two last sentences of this extract give admirable expression to one +feature of Wordsworth's interpretation of Nature. In the deepest poetry, +as in the loftiest music,--in Wordsworth's lyrics as in Beethoven's +sonatas--it is by what they unerringly suggest and not by what they +exhaustively express that their truth and power are known. "In what he +leaves unsaid," wrote Schiller, "I discover the master of style." It +depends, no doubt, upon the vision of the "inward eye," and the +reproductive power of the idealising mind, whether the result is a +travesty of Nature, or the embodiment of a truth higher than Nature +yields. On the other hand, it is equally certain that the identification +of localities casts a sudden light in many instances upon obscure +passages in a poem, and is by far the best commentary that can be given. +It is much to be able to compare the actual scene, with the ideal +creation suggested by it; as the latter was both Wordsworth's reading of +the text of Nature, and his interpretation of it. In his seventy-third +year, he said, looking back on his 'Evening Walk', that there was not an +image in the poem which he had not observed, and that he "recollected +the time and place where most of them were noted." In the Fenwick notes, +we constantly find him saying, "the fact occurred strictly as recorded," +"the fact was as mentioned in the poem"; and the fact very often +involved the accessories of place. + +Any one who has tried to trace out the allusions in the "Poems on the +Naming of Places," or to discover the site of "Michael's Sheepfold," to +identify "Ghimmer Crag," or "Thurston-Mere,"--not to speak of the +individual "rocks" and "recesses" near Blea Tarn at the head of Little +Langdale so minutely described in 'The Excursion',--will admit that +local commentary is an important aid to the understanding of Wordsworth. +If to read the 'Yew Trees' in Borrowdale itself, + + in mute repose + To lie, and listen to the mountain flood + Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves, + +to read 'The Brothers' in Ennerdale, or "The Daffodils" by the shore of +Ullswater, gives a new significance to these "poems of the imagination," +a discovery of the obscurer allusions to place or scene will deepen our +appreciation of those passages in which his idealism is most pronounced. +Every one knows Kirkstone Pass, Aira Force, Dungeon Ghyll, the Wishing +Gate, and Helm Crag: many persons know the Glowworm Rock, and used to +know the Rock of Names; but where is "Emma's Dell"? or "the meeting +point of two highways," so characteristically described in the twelfth +book of 'The Prelude'? and who will fix the site of the pool in Rydal +Upper Park, immortalised in the poem 'To M. H.'? or identify "Joanna's +Rock"? Many of the places in the English Lake District are undergoing +change, and every year the local allusions will be more difficult to +trace. Perhaps the most interesting memorial of the poet which existed, +viz. the "Rock of Names," on the shore of Thirlmere, is now sunk under +the waters of a Manchester reservoir. Other memorials are perishing by +the wear and tear of time, the decay of old buildings, the alteration of +roads, the cutting down of trees, and the modernising, or "improving," +of the district generally. All this is inevitable. But it is well that +many of the natural objects, over and around which the light of +Wordsworth's genius lingers, are out of the reach of "improvements," and +are indestructible even by machinery. + +If it be objected that several of the places which we try to +identify--and which some would prefer to leave for ever undisturbed in +the realm of imagination--were purposely left obscure, it may be +replied that Death and Time have probably now removed all reasons for +reticence, especially in the case of those poems referring to domestic +life and friendly ties. While an author is alive, or while those are +alive to whom he has made reference in the course of his allusions to +place, it may even be right that works designed for posterity should not +be dealt with after the fashion of the modern "interviewer." But +greatness has its penalties; and a "fierce light" "beats around the +throne" of Genius, as well as round that of Empire. Moreover, all +experience shows that posterity takes a great and a growing interest in +exact topographical illustrations of the works of great authors. The +labour recently bestowed upon the places connected with Shakespeare, +Scott, and Burns sufficiently attests this. + +The localities in Westmoreland, which are most permanently associated +with Wordsworth, are these: Grasmere, where he lived during the years of +his "poetic prime," and where he is buried; Lower Easdale, where he +passed so many days with his sister by the side of the brook, and on the +terraces at Lancrigg, and where 'The Prelude' was dictated; Rydal Mount, +where he spent the latter half of his life, and where he found one of +the most perfect retreats in England; Great Langdale, and Blea Tarn at +the head of Little Langdale, immortalised in 'The Excursion'; the upper +end of Ullswater, and Kirkstone Pass; and all the mountain tracks and +paths round Grasmere and Rydal, especially the old upper road between +them, under Nab Scar, his favourite walk during his later years, where +he "composed hundreds of verses." There is scarcely a rock or mountain +summit, a stream or tarn, or even a well, a grove, or forest-side in all +that neighbourhood, which is not imperishably identified with this poet, +who at once interpreted them as they had never been interpreted before, +and added + + the gleam, + The light that never was, on sea or land, + The consecration, and the Poet's dream. + +It may be worthy of note that Wordsworth himself sanctioned the +principle of tracing out local allusions both by dictating the Fenwick +notes, and by republishing his Essay on the topography of the Lakes, +along with the Duddon Sonnets, in 1820--and also, by itself, in +1822--"from a belief that it would tend materially to illustrate" his +poems. + +In this edition the topographical Notes usually follow the Poems to +which they refer. But in the case of the longer Poems, such as 'The +Prelude', 'The Excursion', and others, it seems more convenient to print +them at the foot of the page, than to oblige the reader to turn to the +end of the volume. + +From the accident of my having tried long ago--at Principal Shairp's +request--to do what he told me he wished to do, but had failed to carry +out, I have been supposed, quite erroneously, to be an 'authority' on +the subject of "The English Lake District, as interpreted in the Poems +of Wordsworth." The latter, it is true, is the title of one of the books +which I have written about Wordsworth: but, although I visited the Lakes +in 1860,--"as a pilgrim resolute"--and have re-visited the district +nearly every year for more than a quarter of a century, I may say that I +have only a partial knowledge of it. Others, such as Canon Rawnsley, Mr. +Harry Goodwin, and Mr. Rix, for example, know many parts of it much +better than I do; but, as I have often had to compare my own judgment +with that of such experts as the late Dr. Cradock, Principal of +Brasenose College, Oxford, and others, I may add that, when I differ +from them, it has been only after a re-examination of their evidence, at +the localities themselves. + + +SIXTH. Several Poems, and fragments of poems, hitherto unpublished--or +published in stray quarters, and in desultory fashion--will find a place +in this edition; but I reserve these fragments, and place them all +together, in an Appendix to the last volume of the "Poetical Works." If +it is desirable to print these poems, in such an edition as this, it is +equally desirable to separate them from those which Wordsworth himself +sanctioned in his final edition of 1849-50. + +Every great author in the Literature of the World--whether he lives to +old age (when his judgment may possibly be less critical) or dies young +(when it may be relatively more accurate)--should himself determine what +portions of his work ought, and what ought not to survive. At the same +time,--while I do not presume to judge in the case of writers whom I +know less fully than I happen to know Wordsworth and his +contemporaries,--it seems clear that the very greatest men have +occasionally erred as to what parts of their writings might, with most +advantage, survive; and that they have even more frequently erred as to +what MS. letters, etc.,--casting light on their contemporaries--should, +or should not, be preserved. I am convinced, for example, that if the +Wordsworth household had not destroyed all the letters which Coleridge +sent to them, in the first decade of this century, the world would now +possess much important knowledge which is for ever lost. It may have +been wise, for reasons now unknown, to burn those letters, written by +Coleridge: but the students of the literature of the period would gladly +have them now. + +Passing from the question of the preservation of Letters, it is evident +that Wordsworth was very careful in distinguishing between the Verses +which he sent to Newspapers and Magazines, and those Poems which he +included in his published volumes. His anxiety on this point may be +inferred from the way in which he more than once emphasised the fact of +republication, e.g. in 'Peter Bell' (1819) he put the following +prefatory note to four sonnets, which had previously appeared in +'Blackwood's Magazine', and which afterwards (1828) appeared in the +'Poetical Album' of Alaric Watts, "The following Sonnets having lately +appeared in Periodical Publications are here reprinted." + +Some of the poems (or fragments of poems), included in the 'addenda' to +Volume viii. of this edition, I would willingly have left out +(especially the sonnet addressed to Miss Maria Williams); but, since +they have appeared elsewhere, I feel justified in now reprinting even +that trivial youthful effusion, signed "Axiologus." I rejoice, however, +that there is no likelihood that the "Somersetshire Tragedy" will ever +see the light. When I told Wordsworth's successor in the Laureateship +that I had burned a copy of that poem, sent to me by one to whom it had +been confided, his delight was great. It is the chronicle of a revolting +crime, with nothing in the verse to warrant its publication. The only +curious thing about it is that Wordsworth wrote it. With this exception, +there is no reason why the fragments which he did not himself republish, +and others which he published but afterwards suppressed, should not now +be printed. The suppression of some of these by the poet himself is as +unaccountable, as is his omission of certain stanzas in the earlier +poems from their later versions. Even the Cambridge 'Installation Ode', +which is so feeble, will be reprinted. [16] 'The Glowworm', which only +appeared in the edition of 1807, will be republished in full. 'Andrew +Jones',--also suppressed after appearing in "Lyrical Ballads" of 1800, +1802, and 1805,--will be replaced, in like manner. The youthful 'School +Exercise' written at Hawkshead, the translation from the 'Georgics' of +Virgil, the poem addressed 'To the Queen' in 1846, will appear in their +chronological place in vol. viii. There are also a translation of some +French stanzas by Francis Wrangham on 'The Birth of Love'-a poem +entitled 'The Eagle and the Dove', which was privately printed in a +volume, consisting chiefly of French fragments, and called 'La petite +Chouannerie, ou Historie d'un College Breton sous l'Empire'--a sonnet on +the rebuilding of a church at Cardiff--an Election Squib written during +the Lowther and Brougham contest for the representation of the county of +Cumberland in 1818--some stanzas written in the Visitors' Book at the +Ferry, Windermere, and other fragments. Then, since Wordsworth published +some verses by his sister Dorothy in his own volumes, other unpublished +fragments by Miss Wordsworth may find a place in this edition. I do not +attach much importance, however, to the recovery of these unpublished +poems. The truth is, as Sir Henry Taylor--himself a poet and critic of +no mean order--remarked [17], + + "In these days, when a great man's path to posterity is likely to be + more and more crowded, there is a tendency to create an obstruction, + in the desire to give an impulse. To gather about a man's work all the + details that can be found out about it is, in my opinion, to put a + drag upon it; and, as of the Works, so of the Life." + +The industrious labour of some editors in disinterring the trivial works +of great men is not a commendable industry. All great writers have +occasionally written trifles--this is true even of Shakespeare--and if +they wished them to perish, why should we seek to resuscitate them? +Besides, this labour--whether due to the industry of admiring friends, +or to the ambition of the literary resurrectionist--is futile; because +the verdict of Time is sure, and posterity is certain to consign the +recovered trivialities to kindly oblivion. The question which should +invariably present itself to the editor of the fragments of a great +writer is, "_Can these bones live_?" If they cannot, they had better +never see the light. Indeed the only good reason for reprinting the +fragments which have been lost (because the author himself attached no +value to them), is that, in a complete collection of the works of a +great man, some of them may have a biographic or psychological value. +But have we any right to reproduce, from an antiquarian motive, what--in +a literary sense--is either trivial, or feeble, or sterile? + +We must, however, distinguish between what is suitable for an edition +meant either to popularise an author, or to interpret him, and an +edition intended to bring together all that is worthy of preservation +for posterity. There is great truth in what Mr. Arnold has lately said +of Byron: + + "I question whether by reading everything which he gives us, we are so + likely to acquire an admiring sense, even of his variety and + abundance, as by reading what he gives us at his happier moments. + Receive him absolutely without omission and compromise, follow his + whole outpouring, stanza by stanza, and line by line, from the very + commencement to the very end, and he is capable of being tiresome." + [18] + +This is quite true; nevertheless, English literature demands a complete +edition of all the works of Byron: and it may be safely predicted that, +for weightier reasons and with greater urgency, it will continue to call +for the collected works of Wordsworth. + +It should also be noted that the fact of Wordsworth's having dictated to +Miss Fenwick (so late as 1843) a stanza from 'The Convict' in his note +to 'The Lament of Mary Queen of Scots' (1817), justifies the inclusion +of the whole of that (suppressed) poem in such an edition as this. + +The fact that Wordsworth did not republish all his Poems, in his final +edition of 1849-50, is not conclusive evidence that he thought them +unworthy of preservation, and reproduction. It must be remembered that +'The Prelude' itself was a posthumous publication; and also that the +fragmentary canto of 'The Recluse', entitled "Home at Grasmere"--as well +as the other canto published in 1886, and entitled (most prosaically) +"Composed when a probability existed of our being obliged to quit Rydal +Mount as a residence"--were not published by the poet himself. I am of +opinion that his omission of the stanzas beginning: + + Among all lovely things my Love had been, + +and of the sonnet on his 'Voyage down the Rhine', was due to sheer +forgetfulness of their existence. Few poets remember all their past, +fugitive, productions. At the same time, there are other +fragments,--written when he was experimenting with his theme, and when +the inspiration of genius had forsaken him,--which it is unfortunate +that he did not himself destroy. + +Among the Poems which Wordsworth suppressed, in his final edition, is +the Latin translation of 'The Somnambulist' by his son. This will be +republished, more especially as it was included by Wordsworth himself in +the second edition of his "Yarrow Revisited." + +It may be well to mention the 'repetitions' which are inevitable in this +edition, + +(1) As already explained, those fragments of 'The Recluse'--which were +issued in all the earlier volumes, and afterwards incorporated in 'The +Prelude'--are printed as they originally appeared. + +(2) Short Notes are extracted from Dorothy Wordsworth's 'Recollections +of a Tour made in Scotland' (1803), which illustrate the Poems composed +during that Tour, while the whole text of that Tour will be printed in +full in subsequent volumes. + +(3) Other fragments, including the lines beginning, + + Wisdom and Spirit of the universe, + +will be printed both by themselves in their chronological place, and in +the longer poem of which they form a part, according to the original +plan of their author. + +A detail, perhaps not too trivial to mention, is that, in this +edition--at the suggestion of several friends--I have followed the +example of Professor Dowden in his Aldine edition, and numbered the +lines of almost all the poems--even the sonnets. When I have not done +so, the reason will be obvious; viz. either the structure, or the +brevity, of the poem. [19] + +In giving the date of each poem, I have used the word "composed," rather +than "written," very much because Wordsworth himself,--and his sister, +in her Journals--almost invariably use the word "composed"; although he +criticised the term as applied to the creation of a poem, as if it were +a manufactured article. In his Chronological Table, Mr. Dowden adopts +the word "composed"; but, in his edition of the Poems, he has made use +of the term" written." [20] + +No notice (or almost none) of misprints in Wordsworth's own text is +taken, in the notes to this edition. Sometimes an error occurred, and +was carried on through more than one edition, and corrected in the next: +e.g., in 'The Childless Father', the editions of 1827, 1832, and 1836 +have the line: + + Fresh springs of green boxwood, not six months before. + +In the 'errata' of the edition of 1836 this is corrected to "fresh +sprigs." There are other 'errata', which remained in the edition of +1849-50, e.g., in 'Rob Roy's Grave', "Vools" for "Veols," and mistakes +in quotations from other poets, such as "invention" for "instruction," +in Wither's poem on the Daisy. These are corrected without mention. + +I should perhaps add that, while I have included, amongst the +illustrative notes, extracts from Henry Crabb Robinson's 'Diary', etc., +many of them are now published for the first time. These voluminous MSS. +of Robinson's have been re-examined with care; and the reader who +compares the three volumes of the 'Diary', etc.--edited by Dr. +Sadler--with the extracts now printed from the original MS., will see +where sentences omitted by the original editor have been included. + +As this edition proceeds, my debt to many--who have been so kind as to +put their Wordsworth MSS. and memoranda at my disposal--will be +apparent. + +It is difficult to acknowledge duly my obligation to collectors of +autograph Letters--Mr. Morrison, the late Mr. Locker Lampson, the late +Mr. Mackay, of the Grange, Trowbridge, and a score of others--but, I +may say in general, that the kindness of those who possess Wordsworth +MSS. in allowing me to examine them, has been a very genuine evidence of +their interest in the Poet, and his work. + +My special thanks are due to Mr. Gordon Wordsworth, who has, in the +kindest manner and for many years, placed everything at my disposal, +which could further my labour on his grandfather's Works. + +Finally, I wish to express the great debt I owe to the late Mr. J. Dykes +Campbell, for many suggestions, and for his unwearied interest in this +work,--which I think was second only to his interest in Coleridge--and +also to Mr. W. B. Kinghorn for his valuable assistance in the revision +of proof sheets. + +If there are any desiderata, in reference to Wordsworth--in addition to +a new Life, a critical Essay, and such a Bibliography of Criticism as +will be adequate for posterity--a 'Concordance' to his works is one of +them. A correspondent once offered to prepare this for me, if I found a +publisher: and another has undertaken to compile a volume of 'parallel +passages' from the earlier poets of England, and of the world. A +Concordance might very well form part of a volume of 'Wordsworthiana', +and be a real service to future students of the poet. + +William Knight. + + + +[Footnote 1: In addition to my own detection of errors in the text and +notes to the editions 1882-9, I acknowledge special obligation to the +late Vice-Chancellor of the Victoria University, Principal Greenwood, +who went over every volume with laborious care, and sent me the result. +To the late Mr. J. Dykes Campbell, to Mr. J. R. Tutin, to the Rev. +Thomas Hutchinson of Kimbolton, and to many others, I am similarly +indebted.] + + +[Footnote 2: See 'Memoirs of William Wordsworth', ii. pp. 113, 114.] + + +[Footnote 3: It is however different with the fragments which were +published in all the editions issued in the poet's lifetime, and +afterwards in 'The Prelude', such as the lines on "the immortal boy" of +Windermere. These are printed in their chronological place, and also in +the posthumous poem.] + + +[Footnote 4: 'Poems of Wordsworth selected and arranged by Matthew +Arnold'. London: Macmillan and Co.] + + +[Footnote 5: See the 'Life of Sir W. Rowan Hamilton', vol. ii. pp, 132, +135.] + + +[Footnote 6: See the Preface to the American edition of 1837.] + + +[Footnote 7: It need hardly be explained that, in the case of a modern +poet, these various readings are not like the conjectural guesses of +critics and commentators as to what the original text was (as in the +case of the Greek Poets, or of Dante, or even of Shakespeare). They are +the actual alterations, introduced deliberately as improvements, by the +hand of the poet himself.] + + +[Footnote 8: The collection in the British Museum, and those in all the +University Libraries of the country, are incomplete.] + + +[Footnote 9: The publication of this edition was superintended by Mr. +Carter, who acted as Wordsworth's secretary for thirty-seven years, and +was appointed one of his literary executors.] + + +[Footnote 10: Let the indiscriminate admirer of "first editions" turn to +this quarto, and perhaps even he may wonder why it has been rescued from +oblivion. I am only aware of the existence of five copies of the edition +of 1793; and although it has a certain autobiographic value, I do not +think that many who read it once will return to it again, except as a +literary curiosity. Here--and not in "Lyrical Ballads" or 'The +Excursion'--was the quarry where Jeffrey or Gifford might have found +abundant material for criticism.] + + +[Footnote 11: It is unfortunate that the 'Memoirs' do not tell us to +what poem the remark applies, or to whom the letter containing it was +addressed.] + + +[Footnote 12: It is important to note that the printed text in several +of the editions is occasionally cancelled in the list of 'errata', at +the beginning or the end of the volume: also that many copies of the +early editions (notably those of 1800), were bound up without the full +'errata' list. In this edition there were two such lists, one of them +very brief. But the cancelled words in these 'errata' lists, must be +taken into account, in determining the text of each edition.] + + +[Footnote 13: I. F. note. See vol. i. p. 5.] + + +[Footnote 14: I. F. note. See vol. i. p. 32.] + + +[Footnote 15: Advertisement. See vol. i. p. 78.] + + +[Footnote 16: How much of this poem was Wordsworth's own has not been +definitely ascertained. I am of opinion that very little, if any of it, +was his. It has been said that his nephew, the late Bishop of Lincoln, +wrote most of it; but more recent evidence tends to show that it was the +work of his son-in-law, Edward Quillinan.] + + +[Footnote 17: In a letter to the writer in 1882.] + + +[Footnote 18: 'The Poetry of Byron, chosen and arranged by Matthew +Arnold'. London: Macmillan and Co.] + + +[Footnote 19: It may not be too trivial a fact to mention that +Wordsworth numbered the lines of his earliest publication, 'An Evening +Walk, in 1793.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote 20: Another fact, not too trivial to mention, is that in the +original MS. of the 'Lines composed at Grasmere', etc., Wordsworth sent +it to the printer "Lines written," but changed it in proof to "Lines +composed."--Ed.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +EXTRACT FROM THE CONCLUSION OF A POEM, COMPOSED IN ANTICIPATION OF +LEAVING SCHOOL + +Composed 1786.--Published 1815 + +This poem was placed by Wordsworth among his "Juvenile Pieces." The +following note was prefixed to that Series, from 1820 to 1832: + + "Of the Poems in this class, "THE EVENING WALK" and "DESCRIPTIVE + SKETCHES" were first published in 1793. They are reprinted with some + unimportant alterations that were chiefly made very soon after their + publication. It would have been easy to amend them, in many passages, + both as to sentiment and expression, and I have not been altogether + able to resist the temptation: but attempts of this kind are made at + the risk of injuring those characteristic features, which, after all, + will be regarded as the principal recommendation of juvenile poems." + +In 1836 "unimportant" was erased before "alterations"; and after +"temptation" the following was added, "as will be obvious to the +attentive reader, in some instances: these are few, for I am aware that +attempts of this kind," etc. + + "The above, which was written some time ago, scarcely applies to the + Poem, 'Descriptive Sketches', as it now stands. The corrections, + though numerous, are not, however, such as to prevent its retaining + with propriety a place in the class of 'Juvenile Pieces.'" + +In the editions of 1845 and 1849, Wordsworth called his "Juvenile +Pieces," "Poems written in Youth."--Ed. + + ["Dear native regions," etc., 1786, Hawkshead. The beautiful image + with which this poem concludes suggested itself to me while I was + resting in a boat along with my companions under the shade of a + magnificent row of sycamores, which then extended their branches from + the shore of the promontory upon which stands the ancient, and at that + time the more picturesque, Hall of Coniston, the Seat of the Le + Flemings from very early times. The Poem of which it was the + conclusion, was of many hundred lines, and contained thoughts and + images, most of which have been dispersed through my other + writings.--I. F.] + +In the editions 1815 to 1832, the title given to this poem was 'Extract +from the conclusion of a Poem, composed upon leaving School'. The row of +sycamores at Hawkshead, referred to in the Fenwick note, no longer +exists. + +In the "Autobiographical Memoranda," dictated by Wordsworth at Rydal +Mount in November 1847, he says, " .... I wrote, while yet a schoolboy, +a long poem running upon my own adventures, and the scenery of the +county in which I was brought up. The only part of that poem which has +been preserved is the conclusion of it, which stands at the beginning of +my collected Poems." [A] + +In the eighth book of 'The Prelude', (lines 468-475), this fragment is +introduced, and there Wordsworth tells us that once, when boating on +Coniston Lake (Thurston-mere) in his boyhood, he entered under a grove +of trees on its "western marge," and glided "along the line of +low-roofed water," "as in a cloister." He adds, + + while, in that shade + Loitering, I watched the golden beams of light + Flung from the setting sun, as they reposed + In silent beauty on the naked ridge + Of a high eastern hill--thus flowed my thoughts + In a pure stream of words fresh from the heart: + +Ed. + + + * * * * * + + +THE POEM + + + Dear native regions, [B] I foretell, + From what I feel at this farewell, + That, wheresoe'er my steps may [1] tend, + And whensoe'er my course shall end, + + If in that hour a single tie [2] 5 + Survive of local sympathy, + My soul will cast the backward view, + The longing look alone on you. + + Thus, while the Sun sinks down to rest + Far in the regions of the west, 10 + Though to the vale no parting beam + Be given, not one memorial gleam, [3] + A lingering light he fondly throws [4] + On the dear hills [5] where first he rose. + + + + * * * * * + + +[Footnote A: See the 'Memoirs of William Wordsworth', by Christopher +Wordsworth (1851), vol. i. pp. 10-31.--ED] + + +[Footnote B: Compare the 'Ode, composed in January 1816', stanza +v.--Ed.] + + + * * * * * + + +[Variant 1: + +1832. + + ....shall 1815.] + + +[Variant 2: + +1815. + + That, when the close of life draws near, + And I must quit this earthly sphere, + If in that hour a tender tie MS.] + + +[Variant 3: + +1845. + + Thus, when the Sun, prepared for rest, + Hath gained the precincts of the West, + Though his departing radiance fail + To illuminate the hollow Vale, 1815. + + Thus, from the precincts of the West, + The Sun, when sinking down to rest, 1832. + + ... while sinking ... 1836. + + Hath reached the precincts ... MS.] + + +[Variant 4: + +1815. + + A lingering lustre fondly throws 1832. + +The edition of 1845 reverts to the reading of 1815.] + + +[Variant 5: + +1815. + + On the dear mountain-tops ... 1820. + +The edition of 1845 returns to the text of 1815.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +WRITTEN IN VERY EARLY YOUTH + + +Composed 1786. [A]--Published 1807 [B] + + +From 1807 to 1843 this was placed by Wordsworth in his group of +"Miscellaneous Sonnets." In 1845, it was transferred to the class of +"Poems written in Youth." It is doubtful if it was really written in +"'very' early youth." Its final form, at any rate, may belong to a later +period.--Ed. + + + * * * * * + + + Calm is all nature as a resting wheel. + The kine are couched upon the dewy grass; + The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass, + Is cropping audibly [1] his later meal: [C] + Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal 5 + O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky. + Now, in this blank of things, a harmony, + Home-felt, and home-created, comes [2] to heal + That grief for which the senses still supply + Fresh food; for only then, when memory 10 + Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrain + Those busy cares that would allay my pain; + Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel + The officious touch that makes me droop again. + + + * * * * * + + +[Footnote A: The date of the composition of this fragment is quite +unknown.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote B: But previously, in 'The Morning Post', Feb. 13, 1802.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote C: Canon Ainger calls attention to the fact that there is here +a parallel, possibly a reminiscence, from the 'Nocturnal Reverie' of +the Countess of Winchelsea. + + Whose stealing pace and lengthened shade we fear, + Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear. + +Ed.] + + + * * * * * + +[Variant 1: + +1827. + + Is up, and cropping yet ... 1807.] + + +[Variant 2: + +1838. + + ... seems ... 1807.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +AN EVENING WALK + +ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY + + +Composed 1787-9. [A]--Published 1793 + + + [The young Lady to whom this was addressed was my Sister. It was + composed at School, and during my first two College vacations. There + is not an image in it which I have not observed; and, now in my + seventy-third year, I recollect the time and place, when most of them + were noticed. I will confine myself to one instance: + + Waving his hat, the shepherd, from the vale, + Directs his winding dog the cliffs to scale,-- + The dog, loud barking, 'mid the glittering rocks, + Hunts, where his master points, the intercepted flocks. + + I was an eye-witness of this for the first time while crossing the + Pass of Dunmail Raise. Upon second thought, I will mention another + image: + + And, fronting the bright west, yon oak entwines + Its darkening boughs and leaves, in stronger lines. + + This is feebly and imperfectly expressed, but I recollect distinctly + the very spot where this first struck me. It was on the way between + Hawkshead and Ambleside, and gave me extreme pleasure. The moment was + important in my poetical history; for I date from it my consciousness + of the infinite variety of natural appearances which had been + unnoticed by the poets of any age or country, so far as I was + acquainted with them; and I made a resolution to supply in some degree + the deficiency. I could not have been at that time above fourteen + years of age. The description of the swans, that follows, was taken + from the daily opportunities I had of observing their habits, not as + confined to the gentleman's park, but in a state of nature. There were + two pairs of them that divided the lake of Esthwaite, and its + in-and-out flowing streams, between them, never trespassing a single + yard upon each other's separate domain. They were of the old + magnificent species, bearing in beauty and majesty about the same + relation to the Thames swan which that does to the goose. It was from + the remembrance of those noble creatures, I took, thirty years after, + the picture of the swan which I have discarded from the poem of + 'Dion'. [B] While I was a schoolboy, the late Mr. Curwen introduced a + little fleet of these birds, but of the inferior species, to the lake + of Windermere. Their principal home was about his own island; but they + sailed about into remote parts of the lake, and either from real or + imagined injury done to the adjoining fields, they were got rid of at + the request of the farmers and proprietors, but to the great regret of + all who had become attached to them from noticing their beauty and + quiet habits. I will conclude my notice of this poem by observing that + the plan of it has not been confined to a particular walk, or an + individual place; a proof (of which I was unconscious at the time) of + my unwillingness to submit the poetic spirit to the chains of fact and + real circumstance. The country is idealised rather than described in + any one of its local aspects.--I. F.] + +The title of this poem, as first published in 1793, was 'An Evening +Walk. An epistle; in verse. Addressed to a Young Lady, from the Lakes of +the North of England. By W. Wordsworth, B.A., of St. John's, Cambridge'. +Extracts from it were published in all the collected editions of the +poems under the general title of "Juvenile Pieces," from 1815 to 1843; +and, in 1845 and 1849, of "Poems written in Youth." The following +prefatory note to the "Juvenile Pieces" occurs in the editions 1820 to +1832. + + "They are reprinted with some unimportant alterations that were + chiefly made very soon after their publication. It would have been + easy to amend them, in many passages, both as to sentiment and + expression, and I have not been altogether able to resist the + temptation: but attempts of this kind are made at the risk of injuring + those characteristic features, which, after all, will be regarded as + the principal recommendation of juvenile poems." + +To this, Wordsworth added, in 1836, + + "The above, which was written some time ago, scarcely applies to the + Poem, 'Descriptive Sketches', as it now stands. The corrections, + though numerous, are not, however, such as to prevent its retaining + with propriety a place in the class of 'Juvenile Pieces.'" + +In May 1794 Wordsworth wrote to his friend Mathews, + + "It was with great reluctance that I sent these two little works into + the world in so imperfect a state. But as I had done nothing at the + University, I thought these little things might show that I _could_ do + something." + +Wordsworth's notes to this poem are printed from the edition of 1793. +Slight variations in the text of these notes in subsequent editions, in +the spelling of proper names, and in punctuation, are not noted.--Ed. + + 'General Sketch of the Lakes--Author's regret of his Youth which was + passed amongst them--Short description of Noon--Cascade--Noon-tide + Retreat--Precipice and sloping Lights--Face of Nature as the Sun + declines--Mountain-farm, and the + Cock--Slate-quarry--Sunset--Superstition of the Country connected with + that moment--Swans--Female Beggar--Twilight-sounds--Western + Lights--Spirits--Night--Moonlight--Hope--Night-sounds--Conclusion'. + + + * * * * * + +THE POEM + + + Far from my dearest Friend, 'tis mine to rove + Through bare grey dell, high wood, and pastoral cove; + Where Derwent rests, and listens to the roar + That stuns the tremulous cliffs of high Lodore; [1] + Where peace to Grasmere's lonely island leads, 5 + To willowy hedge-rows, and to emerald meads; + Leads to her bridge, rude church, and cottaged grounds, + Her rocky sheepwalks, and her woodland bounds; + Where, undisturbed by winds, Winander [C] sleeps [2] + 'Mid clustering isles, and holly-sprinkled steeps; 10 + Where twilight glens endear my Esthwaite's shore, + And memory of departed pleasures, more. + + Fair scenes, erewhile, I taught, a happy child, + The echoes of your rocks my carols wild: + The spirit sought not then, in cherished sadness, 15 + A cloudy substitute for failing gladness. [3] + In youth's keen [4] eye the livelong day was bright, + The sun at morning, and the stars at night, + Alike, when first the bittern's hollow bill + Was heard, or woodcocks [D] roamed the moonlight hill. [5] 20 + + In thoughtless gaiety I coursed the plain, [6] + And hope itself was all I knew of pain; + For then, the inexperienced heart would beat [7] + At times, while young Content forsook her seat, + And wild Impatience, pointing upward, showed, 25 + Through passes yet unreached, a brighter road. [8] + Alas! the idle tale of man is found + Depicted in the dial's moral round; + Hope with reflection blends her social rays [9] + To gild the total tablet of his days; 30 + Yet still, the sport of some malignant power, + He knows but from its shade the present hour. + [10] + But why, ungrateful, dwell on idle pain? + To show what pleasures yet to me remain, [11] + Say, will my Friend, with unreluctant ear, [12] 35 + The history of a poet's evening hear? + + When, in the south, the wan noon, brooding still, + Breathed a pale steam around the glaring hill, + And shades of deep-embattled clouds were seen, 40 + Spotting the northern cliffs with lights between; + When crowding cattle, checked by rails that make + A fence far stretched into the shallow lake, + Lashed the cool water with their restless tails, + Or from high points of rock looked out for fanning gales;[13] 45 + When school-boys stretched their length upon the green; + And round the broad-spread oak, a glimmering scene, + In the rough fern-clad park, the herded deer [14] + Shook the still-twinkling tail and glancing ear; + When horses in the sunburnt intake [E] stood, 50 + And vainly eyed below the tempting flood, + Or tracked the passenger, in mute distress, + With forward neck the closing gate to press--[15] + Then, while I wandered where the huddling rill + Brightens with water-breaks the hollow ghyll [F] [16] 55 + As by enchantment, an obscure retreat [17] + Opened at once, and stayed my devious feet. + While thick above the rill the branches close, + In rocky basin its wild waves repose, + Inverted shrubs, [G] and moss of gloomy green, 60 + Cling from the rocks, with pale wood-weeds between; + And its own twilight softens the whole scene, [H] + Save where aloft the subtle sunbeams shine + On withered briars that o'er the crags recline; [18] + Save where, with sparkling foam, a small cascade, 65 + Illumines, from within, the leafy shade; [19] + Beyond, along the vista of the brook, + Where antique roots its bustling course [20] o'erlook, + The eye reposes on a secret bridge [J] + Half grey, half shagged with ivy to its ridge; 70 + There, bending o'er the stream, the listless swain + Lingers behind his disappearing wain. [21] + --Did Sabine grace adorn my living line, + Blandusia's praise, wild stream, should yield to thine! + Never shall ruthless minister of death 75 + 'Mid thy soft glooms the glittering steel unsheath; + No goblets shall, for thee, be crowned with flowers, + No kid with piteous outcry thrill thy bowers; + The mystic shapes that by thy margin rove + A more benignant sacrifice approve-- 80 + A mind, that, in a calm angelic mood + Of happy wisdom, meditating good, + Beholds, of all from her high powers required, + Much done, and much designed, and more desired,-- + Harmonious thoughts, a soul by truth refined, 85 + Entire affection for all human kind. + + Dear Brook, [22] farewell! To-morrow's noon again + Shall hide me, wooing long thy wildwood strain; + But now the sun has gained his western road, + And eve's mild hour invites my steps abroad. 90 + + While, near the midway cliff, the silvered kite + In many a whistling circle wheels her flight; + Slant watery lights, from parting clouds, apace + Travel along the precipice's base; + Cheering its naked waste of scattered stone, 95 + By lichens grey, and scanty moss, o'ergrown; + Where scarce the foxglove peeps, or [23] thistle's beard; + And restless [24] stone-chat, all day long, is heard. + + How pleasant, as the sun declines, to view [25] + The spacious landscape change in form and hue! 100 + Here, vanish, as in mist, before a flood + Of bright obscurity, hill, lawn, and wood; + There, objects, by the searching beams betrayed, + Come forth, and here retire in purple shade; + Even the white stems of birch, the cottage white, 105 + Soften their glare before the mellow light; + The skiffs, at anchor where with umbrage wide + Yon chestnuts half the latticed boat-house hide, + Shed from their sides, that face the sun's slant beam, + Strong flakes of radiance on the tremulous stream: 110 + Raised by yon travelling flock, a dusty cloud + Mounts from the road, and spreads its moving shroud; + The shepherd, all involved in wreaths of fire, + Now shows a shadowy speck, and now is lost entire. + + Into a gradual calm the breezes [26] sink, [27] 115 + A blue rim borders all the lake's still brink; + There doth the twinkling aspen's foliage sleep, + And insects clothe, like dust, the glassy deep: [28] + And now, on every side, the surface breaks + Into blue spots, and slowly lengthening streaks; 120 + Here, plots of sparkling water tremble bright + With thousand thousand twinkling points of light; + There, waves that, hardly weltering, die away, + Tip their smooth ridges with a softer ray; + And now the whole wide lake in deep repose 125 + Is hushed, and like a burnished mirror glows, [29] + Save where, along the shady western marge, + Coasts, with industrious oar, the charcoal barge. [30] + + Their panniered train a group of potters goad, + Winding from side to side up the steep road; 130 + The peasant, from yon cliff of fearful edge + Shot, down the headlong path darts with his sledge; [31] + Bright beams the lonely mountain-horse illume + Feeding 'mid purple heath, "green rings," [K] and broom; + While the sharp slope the slackened team confounds, 135 + Downward [L] the ponderous timber-wain resounds; + [32] In foamy breaks the rill, with merry song, + Dashed o'er [33] the rough rock, lightly leaps along; + From lonesome chapel at the mountain's feet, + Three humble bells their rustic chime repeat; 140 + Sounds from the water-side the hammered boat; + And 'blasted' quarry thunders, heard remote! + + Even here, amid the sweep of endless woods, + Blue pomp of lakes, high cliffs and falling floods, + Not undelightful are the simplest charms, 145 + Found by the grassy [34] door of mountain-farms. + + Sweetly ferocious, [M] round his native walks, + Pride of [35] his sister-wives, the monarch stalks; + Spur-clad his nervous feet, and firm his tread; + A crest of purple tops the warrior's head. [36] 150 + Bright sparks his black and rolling [37] eye-ball hurls + Afar, his tail he closes and unfurls; + [38] On tiptoe reared, he strains [39] his clarion throat, + Threatened by faintly-answering farms remote: + Again with his shrill voice the mountain rings, 155 + While, flapped with conscious pride, resound his wings! [40] + + Where, mixed with graceful birch, the sombrous pine + And yew-tree [41] o'er the silver rocks recline; + I love to mark the quarry's moving trains, + Dwarf panniered steeds, and men, and numerous wains: 160 + How busy all [42] the enormous hive within, + While Echo dallies with its [43] various din! + Some (hear you not their chisels' clinking sound?) [44] + Toil, small as pigmies in the gulf profound; + Some, dim between the lofty [45] cliffs descried, 165 + O'erwalk the slender [46] plank from side to side; + These, by the pale-blue rocks that ceaseless ring, + In airy baskets hanging, work and sing.[47] + + Just where a cloud above the mountain rears [48] + An [49] edge all flame, the broadening sun appears; 170 + A long blue bar its ægis orb divides, + And breaks the spreading of its golden tides; + And now that orb has touched the purple steep + Whose softened image penetrates the deep.[50] + + 'Cross the calm lake's blue shades the cliffs aspire, 175 + With towers and woods, a "prospect all on fire"; [N] + While [51] coves and secret hollows, through a ray + Of fainter gold, a purple gleam betray. + Each slip of lawn the broken rocks between + Shines in the light with more than earthly green: [52] 180 + Deep yellow beams the scattered stems [53] illume, + Far in the level forest's central gloom: + Waving his hat, the shepherd, from [54] the vale, + Directs his winding dog the cliffs to scale,-- + The dog, loud barking, 'mid the glittering rocks, 185 + Hunts, where his master points, the intercepted flocks. [55] + Where oaks o'erhang the road the radiance shoots + On tawny earth, wild weeds, and twisted roots; + The druid-stones a brightened ring unfold; [56] + And all the babbling brooks are liquid gold; 190 + Sunk to a curve, the day-star lessens still, + Gives one bright glance, and drops [57] behind the hill. [P] + + In these secluded vales, if village fame, + Confirmed by hoary hairs, belief may claim; + When up the hills, as now, retired the light, 195 + Strange apparitions mocked the shepherd's sight. [58] + + The form appears of one that spurs his steed + Midway along the hill with desperate speed; [59] + Unhurt pursues his lengthened flight, while all + Attend, at every stretch, his headlong fall. 200 + Anon, appears a brave, a gorgeous show + Of horsemen-shadows moving to and fro; [60] + At intervals imperial banners stream, [61] + And now the van reflects the solar beam; [62] + The rear through iron brown betrays a sullen gleam. 205 + While silent stands the admiring crowd below, + Silent the visionary warriors go, + Winding in ordered pomp their upward way [Q] + Till the last banner of their [63] long array + Has disappeared, and every trace is fled 210 + Of splendour--save the beacon's spiry head + Tipt with eve's latest gleam of burning red. [64] + + Now, while the solemn evening shadows sail, + On slowly-waving pinions, [65] down the vale; + And, fronting the bright west, yon oak entwines 215 + Its darkening boughs and leaves, in stronger lines; [66] + 'Tis pleasant near the tranquil lake to stray [67] + Where, winding on along some secret bay, [68] + The swan uplifts his chest, and backward flings + His neck, a varying arch, between his towering wings: 220 + The eye that marks the gliding creature sees + How graceful, pride can be, and how majestic, ease. [69] + + While tender cares and mild domestic loves + With furtive watch pursue her as she moves, + The female with a meeker charm succeeds, 225 + And her brown little-ones around her leads, + Nibbling the water lilies as they pass, + Or playing wanton with the floating grass. + She, in a mother's care, her beauty's pride + Forgetting, calls the wearied to her side; [70] 230 + Alternately they mount her back, and rest + Close by her mantling wings' embraces prest. [R] + + Long may they float upon this flood serene; + Theirs be these holms untrodden, still, and green, + Where leafy shades fence off the blustering gale, 235 + And breathes in peace the lily of the vale![71] + Yon isle, which feels not even the milk-maid's feet, + Yet hears her song, "by distance made more sweet," [72] [S] + Yon isle conceals their home, their hut-like bower; + Green water-rushes overspread the floor; [73] 240 + Long grass and willows form the woven wall, + And swings above the roof the poplar tall. + Thence issuing often with unwieldy stalk, + They crush with broad black feet their flowery walk; [74] + Or, from the neighbouring water, hear at morn [75] 245 + The hound, the horse's tread, and mellow horn; + Involve their serpent-necks in changeful rings, + Rolled wantonly between their slippery wings, + Or, starting up with noise and rude delight, + Force half upon the wave their cumbrous flight. [76] 250 + + Fair Swan! by all a mother's joys caressed, + Haply some wretch has eyed, and called thee blessed; + When with her infants, from some shady seat + By the lake's edge, she rose--to face the noontide heat; + Or taught their limbs along the dusty road 255 + A few short steps to totter with their load. [77] + + I see her now, denied to lay her head, + On cold blue nights, in hut or straw-built shed, + Turn to a silent smile their sleepy cry, + By pointing to the gliding moon [78] on high. 260 + + --[79] When low-hung clouds each star of summer hide, + And fireless are the valleys far and wide, + Where the brook brawls along the public [80] road + Dark with bat-haunted ashes stretching broad, + [81] Oft has she taught them on her lap to lay 265 + The shining glow-worm; or, in heedless play, + Toss it from hand to hand, disquieted; + While others, not unseen, are free to shed + Green unmolested light upon their mossy bed. [82] + + Oh! when the sleety showers her path assail, 270 + And like a torrent roars the headstrong gale; [83] + No more her breath can thaw their fingers cold, + Their frozen arms her neck no more can fold; + [84] Weak roof a cowering form two babes to shield, + And faint the fire a dying heart can yield! 275 + Press the sad kiss, fond mother! vainly fears + Thy flooded cheek to wet them with its tears; + [85] No tears can chill them, and no bosom warms, + Thy breast their death-bed, coffined in thine arms! + + Sweet are the sounds that mingle from afar, 280 + Heard by calm lakes, as peeps the folding star, + Where the duck dabbles 'mid the rustling sedge, + And feeding pike starts from the water's edge, + Or the swan stirs the reeds, his neck and bill + Wetting, that drip upon the water still; 285 + And heron, as resounds the trodden shore, + Shoots upward, darting his long neck before. + [86] + Now, with religious awe, the farewell light + Blends with the solemn colouring of night; [87] + 'Mid groves of clouds that crest the mountain's brow, 290 + And round the west's proud lodge their shadows throw, + Like Una [T] shining on her gloomy way, + The half-seen form of Twilight roams astray; + Shedding, through paly loop-holes mild and small, + Gleams that upon the lake's still bosom fall; [88] 295 + [89] Soft o'er the surface creep those lustres pale + Tracking the motions of the fitful gale. [90] + With restless interchange at once the bright + Wins on the shade, the shade upon the light. + No favoured eye was e'er allowed to gaze 300 + On lovelier spectacle in faery days; + When gentle Spirits urged a sportive chase, + Brushing with lucid wands the water's face; + While music, stealing round the glimmering deeps, + Charmed the tall circle of the enchanted steeps. 305 + --The lights are vanished from the watery plains: + No wreck of all the pageantry remains. + Unheeded night has overcome the vales: + On the dark earth the wearied vision fails; + The latest lingerer of the forest train, 310 + The lone black fir, forsakes the faded plain; + Last evening sight, the cottage smoke, no more, + Lost in the thickened darkness, glimmers hoar; + And, towering from the sullen dark-brown mere, + Like a black wall, the mountain-steeps appear. [91] 315 + + --Now o'er the soothed accordant heart we feel + A sympathetic twilight slowly steal, + And ever, as we fondly muse, we find + The soft gloom deepening on the tranquil mind. + Stay! pensive, sadly-pleasing visions, stay! 320 + Ah no! as fades the vale, they fade away: + Yet still the tender, vacant gloom remains; + Still the cold cheek its shuddering tear retains. + + The bird, who ceased, with fading light, to thread + Silent the hedge or steamy rivulet's bed, [92] 325 + From his grey re-appearing tower shall soon + Salute with gladsome note the rising moon, + While with a hoary light she frosts the ground, + And pours a deeper blue to Aether's bound; + Pleased, as she moves, her pomp of clouds to fold 330 + In robes of azure, fleecy-white, and gold. [93] + + Above yon eastern hill, [94] where darkness broods + O'er all its vanished dells, and lawns, and woods; + Where but a mass of shade the sight can trace, + Even now she shows, half-veiled, her lovely face: [95] 335 + Across [96] the gloomy valley flings her light, + Far to the western slopes with hamlets white; + And gives, where woods the chequered upland strew, + To the green corn of summer, autumn's hue. + + Thus Hope, first pouring from her blessed horn 340 + Her dawn, far lovelier than the moon's own morn, + 'Till higher mounted, strives in vain to cheer + The weary hills, impervious, blackening near; + Yet does she still, undaunted, throw the while + On darling spots remote her tempting smile. 345 + + Even now she decks for me a distant scene, + (For dark and broad the gulf of time between) + Gilding that cottage with her fondest ray, + (Sole bourn, sole wish, sole object of my way; 350 + How fair its lawns and sheltering [97] woods appear! + How sweet its streamlet murmurs in mine ear!) + Where we, my Friend, to happy [98] days shall rise, + 'Till our small share of hardly-paining sighs + (For sighs will ever trouble human breath) 355 + Creep hushed into the tranquil breast of death. + + But now the clear bright Moon her zenith gains, + And, rimy without speck, extend the plains: + The deepest cleft the mountain's front displays [99] + Scarce hides a shadow from her searching rays; 360 + From the dark-blue faint silvery threads divide + The hills, while gleams below the azure tide; + Time softly treads; throughout the landscape breathes + A peace enlivened, not disturbed, by wreaths + Of charcoal-smoke, that o'er the fallen wood, 365 + Steal down the hill, and spread along the flood.[100] + + The song of mountain-streams, unheard by day, + Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward way. [U] + Air listens, like the sleeping water, still, + To catch the spiritual music of the hill, [101] 370 + Broke only by the slow clock tolling deep, + Or shout that wakes the ferry-man from sleep, + The echoed hoof nearing the distant shore, + The boat's first motion--made with dashing oar; [102] + Sound of closed gate, across the water borne, 375 + Hurrying the timid [103] hare through rustling corn; + The sportive outcry of the mocking owl; [104] + And at long intervals the mill-dog's howl; + The distant forge's swinging thump profound; + Or yell, in the deep woods, of lonely hound. 380 + + + + * * * * * + + +VARIANTS ON THE ABOVE POEM: + + +[Variant 1: + +1836. + + His wizard course where hoary Derwent takes + Thro' craggs, and forest glooms, and opening lakes, + Staying his silent waves, to hear the roar + That stuns the tremulous cliffs of high Lodore: + Where silver rocks the savage prospect chear + Of giant yews that frown on Rydale's mere; 1793. + + Where Derwent stops his course to hear the roar + That stuns the tremulous cliffs ... 1827. + +(Omitting two lines of the 1793 text quoted above.)] + + +[Variant 2: + +1836. + + Where, bosom'd deep, the shy Winander peeps 1793. + + Where, deep embosom'd, shy Winander peeps 1827.] + + +[Variant 3: + +1836. + + Fair scenes! with other eyes, than once, I gaze, + The ever-varying charm your round displays, + Than when, ere-while, I taught, "a happy child," + The echoes of your rocks my carols wild: + Then did no ebb of chearfulness demand + Sad tides of joy from Melancholy's hand; 1793. + + Upon the varying charm your round displays, 1820.] + + +[Variant 4: + +1820. + + ... wild ... 1793.] + + +[Variant 5: + +1836. + + ... stars of night, + Alike, when first the vales the bittern fills, + Or the first woodcocks roam'd the moonlight hills. 1793. + + Alike, when heard the bittern's hollow bill, + Or the first woodcocks roam'd the moonlight hill. 1820.] + + +[Variant 6: + +1820. + + Return Delights! with whom my road begun, + When Life rear'd laughing up her morning sun; + When Transport kiss'd away my april tear, + "Rocking as in a dream the tedious year"; + When link'd with thoughtless Mirth I cours'd the plain, 1793.] + + +[Variant 7: + +1836. + + For then, ev'n then, the little heart would beat 1793.] + + +[Variant 8: + +1836. + + And wild Impatience, panting upward, show'd + Where tipp'd with gold the mountain-summits glow'd. 1793.] + + +[Variant 9: + +1836. + + With Hope Reflexion blends her social rays 1793.] + + +[Variant 10: + +1820. + + While, Memory at my side, I wander here, + Starts at the simplest sight th' unbidden tear, + A form discover'd at the well-known seat, + A spot, that angles at the riv'let's feet, + The ray the cot of morning trav'ling nigh, + And sail that glides the well-known alders by. + +Only in the edition of 1793.] + + +[Variant 11: + +1820. + + To shew her yet some joys to me remain, 1793.] + + +[Variant 12: + +1820. + + ... with soft affection's ear, 1793.] + + +[Variant 13: + +1836. + + ... with lights between; + Gazing the tempting shades to them deny'd, + When stood the shorten'd herds amid' the tide, + Where, from the barren wall's unshelter'd end, + Long rails into the shallow lake extend; 1793. + + When, at the barren wall's unsheltered end, + Where long rails far into the lake extend, + Crowded the shortened herds, and beat the tides + With their quick tails, and lash'd their speckled sides; 1820.] + + +[Variant 14: + +1836. + + And round the humming elm, a glimmering scene! + In the brown park, in flocks, the troubl'd deer 1793. + + ... in herds, ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 15: + +1820. + + When horses in the wall-girt intake stood, + Unshaded, eying far below, the flood, + Crouded behind the swain, in mute distress, + With forward neck the closing gate to press; + And long, with wistful gaze, his walk survey'd, + 'Till dipp'd his pathway in the river shade; 1793.] + + +[Variant 16: + +1845. + + --Then Quiet led me up the huddling rill, + Bright'ning with water-breaks the sombrous gill; 1793. + + --Then, while I wandered up the huddling rill + Brightening with water-breaks the sombrous ghyll, 1820. + + Then, while I wandered where the huddling rill + Brightens with water-breaks the sombrous ghyll, 1836.] + + +[Variant 17: + +1820. + + To where, while thick above the branches close, + In dark-brown bason its wild waves repose, + Inverted shrubs, and moss of darkest green, + Cling from the rocks, with pale wood-weeds between; + Save that, atop, the subtle sunbeams shine, + On wither'd briars that o'er the craggs recline; + Sole light admitted here, a small cascade, + Illumes with sparkling foam the twilight shade. + Beyond, along the visto of the brook, + Where antique roots its bustling path o'erlook, + The eye reposes on a secret bridge + Half grey, half shagg'd with ivy to its ridge. + --Sweet rill, farewel! ... 1793.] + + +[Variant 18: + +1845. + + But see aloft the subtle sunbeams shine, + On withered briars that o'er the crags recline; + Thus beautiful! as if the sight displayed, + By its own sparkling foam that small cascade; + Inverted shrubs, with moss of gloomy green + Cling from the rocks, with pale wood-weeds between. C. + + Inverted shrubs with pale wood weeds between + Cling from the moss-grown rocks, a darksome green, + Save where aloft the subtle sunbeams shine + And its own twilight softens the whole scene. + And sparkling as it foams a small cascade + Illumines from within the impervious shade + Below, right in the vista of the brook, + Where antique roots, etc. MS.] + + +[Variant 19: + +1845. + + Sole light admitted here, a small cascade, + Illumes with sparkling foam the impervious shade; 1820.] + + +[Variant 20: + +1827. + + ... path ... 1793.] + + +[Variant 21: + +1845. + + Whence hangs, in the cool shade, the listless swain + Lingering behind his disappearing wain. 1820.] + + +[Variant 22: + +1845. + + --Sweet rill, ... 1793.] + + +[Variant 23: + +1820. + + ... and ... 1793.] + + +[Variant 24: + +1845. + + And desert ... 1793] + + +[Variant 25: + +1820. + + How pleasant, as the yellowing sun declines, + And with long rays and shades the landscape shines; + To mark the birches' stems all golden light, + That lit the dark slant woods with silvery white! + The willow's weeping trees, that twinkling hoar, + Glanc'd oft upturn'd along the breezy shore, + Low bending o'er the colour'd water, fold + Their moveless boughs and leaves like threads of gold; + The skiffs with naked masts at anchor laid, + Before the boat-house peeping thro' the shade; + Th' unwearied glance of woodman's echo'd stroke; + And curling from the trees the cottage smoke. + Their pannier'd train ... 1793.] + + +[Variant 26: + +1845. + + ... zephyrs ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 27: This stanza was added in the edition of 1820.] + + +[Variant 28: + +1845. + +This couplet was added in 1845.] + + +[Variant 29: + +1845. + + And now the universal tides repose, + And, brightly blue, the burnished mirror glows, 1820.] + + +[Variant 30: + +1845. + + The sails are dropped, the poplar's foliage sleeps, + And insects clothe, like dust, the glassy deeps. + +This couplet followed l. 127 from 1820 to 1843.] + + +[Variant 31: + +1820 + + Shot, down the headlong pathway darts his sledge; 1793.] + + +[Variant 32: + +1820. + + Beside their sheltering [i] cross of wall, the flock + Feeds on in light, nor thinks of winter's shock; + +Only in the edition of 1793.] + + +[Variant 33: + +1820. + + Dashed down ... 1793.] + + +[Variant 34: + +1836. + + ... verdant ... 1793.] + + +[Variant 35: + +1820. + + Gazed by ... 1793.] + + +[Variant 36: + +1836. + + ... his warrior head. 1793.] + + +[Variant 37: + +1836. + + ... haggard ... 1793.] + + +[Variant 38: + +1836. + + Whose state, like pine-trees, waving to and fro, + Droops, and o'er canopies his regal brow, + +This couplet was inserted in the editions 1793 to 1832.] + + +[Variant 39: + +1820. + + ... blows ... 1793.] + + +[Variant 40: This couplet was first printed in the edition of 1820.] + + +[Variant 41: + +1836. + + Bright'ning the cliffs between where sombrous pine, + And yew-trees ... 1793.] + + +[Variant 42: + +1836. + + How busy the enormous hive within, 1793.] + + +[Variant 43: + +1836. + + ... with the ... 1793.] + + +[Variant 44: + +1836. + + Some hardly heard their chissel's clinking sound, 1793.] + + +[Variant 45: + +1836. + + ... th' aëreal ... 1793.] + + +[Variant 46: + +1815. + + ... viewless ... 1793.] + + +[Variant 47: + +1836. + + Glad from their airy baskets hang and sing. 1793.] + + +[Variant 48: + +1836. + + Hung o'er a cloud, above the steep that rears 1793.] + + +[Variant 49: + +1820. + + It's ... 1793.] + + +[Variant 50: + +1845. + + And now it touches on the purple steep + That flings his shadow on the pictur'd deep. 1793. + + That flings its image ... 1832. + + And now the sun has touched the purple steep + Whose softened image penetrates the deep. 1836.] + + +[Variant 51: + +1836. + + The coves ... 1793] + + +[Variant 52: + +1836. + + The gilded turn arrays in richer green + Each speck of lawn the broken rocks between; 1793. + + ... invests with richer green 1820.] + + +[Variant 53: + +1827. + + ... boles ... 1793.] + + +[Variant 54: + +1827. + + ... in ... 1793.] + + +[Variant 55: + +1836. + + That, barking busy 'mid the glittering rocks, + Hunts, where he points, the intercepted flocks; 1793.] + + +[Variant 56: + +1845. + + The Druid stones [ii] their lighted fane unfold, 1793. + + ... a burnished ring unfold; 1836.] + + +[Variant 57: + +1827. + + ... sinks ... 1793.] + + +[Variant 58: + +1845. + + In these lone vales, if aught of faith may claim, + Thin silver hairs, and ancient hamlet fame; + When up the hills, as now, retreats the light, + Strange apparitions mock the village sight. 1793. + + In these secluded vales, if village fame, + Confirmed by silver hairs, belief may claim; + When up the hills, as now, retired the light, + Strange apparitions mocked the gazer's sight. 1820. + + ... shepherd's sight. 1836.] + + +[Variant 59: + +1836. + + A desperate form appears, that spurs his steed, + Along the midway cliffs with violent speed; 1793.] + + +[Variant 60: + +1836. + + Anon, in order mounts a gorgeous show + Of horsemen shadows winding to and fro; 1793.] + + +[Variant 61: This line was added in 1820.] + + +[Variant 62: + +1820. + + ... is gilt with evening's beam, 1793.] + + +[Variant 63: + +1849. + + ... of the ... 1836.] + + +[Variant 64: + +1836. + + Lost gradual o'er the heights in pomp they go, + While silent stands th' admiring vale below; + Till, but the lonely beacon all is fled, + That tips with eve's last gleam his spiry head. 1793. + + Till, save the lonely beacon, ... 1820. + +In the edition of 1836 the seven lines of the printed +text--205-211--replaced these four lines of the editions 1793-1832.] + + +[Variant 65: + +1836. + + On red slow-waving pinions ... 1793.] + + +[Variant 66: + +1820. + + And, fronting the bright west in stronger lines, + The oak its dark'ning boughs and foliage twines, 1793. + +The edition of 1815 omitted this couplet. It was restored in its final +form in the edition of 1820.] + + +[Variant 67: + +1836. + + I love beside the glowing lake to stray, 1793. + + How pleasant near the tranquil lake to stray, 1815.] + + +[Variant 68: + +1836. + + ... to stray, + Where winds the road along the secret bay; + By rills that tumble down the woody steeps, + And run in transport to the dimpling deeps; + Along the "wild meand'ring shore" to view, + Obsequious Grace the winding swan pursue. 1793. + + ... a secret bay; 1813. + + ... meandering shore" ... 1815.] + + +[Variant 69: + +1836. + + He swells his lifted chest, and backward flings + His bridling neck between his tow'ring wings; + Stately, and burning in his pride, divides + And glorying looks around, the silent tides: + On as he floats, the silver'd waters glow, + Proud of the varying arch and moveless form of snow. 1793. + + ... his towering wings; + In all the majesty of ease divides, 1815.] + + +[Variant 70: + +1845. + + ... her beauty's pride + Forgets, unweary'd watching every side, + She calls them near, and with affection sweet + Alternately relieves their weary feet; 1793.] + + +[Variant 71: + +1836. + + Long may ye roam these hermit waves that sleep, + In birch-besprinkl'd cliffs embosom'd deep; + These fairy holms untrodden, still, and green, + Whose shades protect the hidden wave serene; + Whence fragrance scents the water's desart gale, + The violet, and the [iii] lily of the vale; 1793. + + Long may ye float upon these floods serene; + Yours be these holms untrodden, still, and green, + Whose leafy shades fence off the blustering gale, + Where breathes in peace the lily of the vale. 1827.] + + +[Variant 72: + +1820. + + Where, tho' her far-off twilight ditty steal, + They not the trip of harmless milkmaid feel. 1793.] + + +[Variant 73: + +1836. + + Yon tuft conceals your home, your cottage bow'r. + Fresh water rushes strew the verdant floor; 1793. + + Yon isle conceals ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 74: + +1836. + + Thence issuing oft, unwieldly as ye stalk, + Ye crush with broad black feet your flow'ry walk; 1793. + + Thence issuing often with unwieldly stalk, + With broad black feet ye crush your flow'ry walk; 1820.] + + +[Variant 75: + +1820. + + Safe from your door ye hear at breezy morn, 1793.] + + +[Variant 76: + +1836. + + ... and mellow horn; + At peace inverted your lithe necks ye lave, + With the green bottom strewing o'er the wave; + No ruder sound your desart haunts invades, + Than waters dashing wild, or rocking shades. + Ye ne'er, like hapless human wanderers, throw + Your young on winter's winding sheet of snow. 1793. + + ... and mellow horn; + Involve your serpent necks in changeful rings, + Rolled wantonly between your slippery wings, + Or, starting up with noise and rude delight, + Force half upon the wave your cumbrous flight. 1820.] + + +[Variant 77: + +1836. + + Fair Swan! by all a mother's joys caress'd, + Haply some wretch has ey'd, and call'd thee bless'd; + Who faint, and beat by summer's breathless ray, + Hath dragg'd her babes along this weary way; + While arrowy fire extorting feverish groans + Shot stinging through her stark o'er labour'd bones. + --With backward gaze, lock'd joints, and step of pain, + Her seat scarce left, she strives, alas! in vain, + To teach their limbs along the burning road + A few short steps to totter with their load, + Shakes her numb arm that slumbers with its weight, + And eyes through tears the mountain's shadeless height; + And bids her soldier come her woes to share, + Asleep on Bunker's [iv] charnel hill afar; + For hope's deserted well why wistful look? + Chok'd is the pathway, and the pitcher broke. 1793. + +In 1793 this passage occupied the place of the six lines of the final +text (250-255). + + + ... and called thee bless'd; + The whilst upon some sultry summer's day + She dragged her babes along this weary way; + Or taught their limbs along the burning road + A few short steps to totter with their load. 1820. + + The while ... 1832.] + + +[Variant 78: + +1845. + + ... a shooting star ... 1793.] + + +[Variant 79: + +1845. + + I hear, while in the forest depth he sees, + The Moon's fix'd gaze between the opening trees, + In broken sounds her elder grief demand, + And skyward lift, like one that prays, his hand, + If, in that country, where he dwells afar, + His father views that good, that kindly star; + --Ah me! all light is mute amid the gloom, + The interlunar cavern of the tomb. 1793-1832. + + In broken sounds her elder child demand, + While toward the sky he lifts his pale bright hand, 1836. + + --Alas! all light ... 1836. + +Those eight lines were withdrawn in 1845.] + + +[Variant 80: + +1836. + + ... painful ... 1793.] + + +[Variant 81: + +1820. + + The distant clock forgot, and chilling dew, + Pleas'd thro' the dusk their breaking smiles to view, + +Only in the edition of 1793.] + + +[Variant 82: + +1836. + + ... on her lap to play + Delighted, with the glow-worm's harmless ray + Toss'd light from hand to hand; while on the ground + Small circles of green radiance gleam around. 1793.] + + +[Variant 83: + +1836. + + Oh! when the bitter showers her path assail, + And roars between the hills the torrent gale, 1793. + + ... sleety showers ... 1827.] + + +[Variant 84: + +1827. + + Scarce heard, their chattering lips her shoulder chill, + And her cold back their colder bosoms thrill; + All blind she wilders o'er the lightless heath, + Led by Fear's cold wet hand, and dogg'd by Death; + Death, as she turns her neck the kiss to seek, + Breaks off the dreadful kiss with angry shriek. + Snatch'd from her shoulder with despairing moan, + She clasps them at that dim-seen roofless stone.-- + "Now ruthless Tempest launch thy deadliest dart! + Fall fires--but let us perish heart to heart." 1793. + +The first, third, and fourth of these couplets were omitted +from the edition of 1820. The whole passage was withdrawn in +1827.] + + +[Variant 85: + +1820. + + Soon shall the Light'ning hold before thy head + His torch, and shew them slumbering in their bed, + +Only in the edition of 1793.] + + +[Variant 86: + +1820. + + While, by the scene compos'd, the breast subsides, + Nought wakens or disturbs it's tranquil tides; + Nought but the char that for the may-fly leaps, + And breaks the mirror of the circling deeps; + Or clock, that blind against the wanderer born + Drops at his feet, and stills his droning horn. + --The whistling swain that plods his ringing way + Where the slow waggon winds along the bay; + The sugh [v] of swallow flocks that twittering sweep, + The solemn curfew swinging long and deep; + The talking boat that moves with pensive sound, + Or drops his anchor down with plunge profound; + Of boys that bathe remote the faint uproar, + And restless piper wearying out the shore; + These all to swell the village murmurs blend, + That soften'd from the water-head descend. + While in sweet cadence rising small and still + The far-off minstrels of the haunted hill, + As the last bleating of the fold expires, + Tune in the mountain dells their water lyres. + +Only in the edition of 1793.] + + +[Variant 87: + +1845. + + ... of the night; 1793.] + + +[Variant 88: + +1815. + + Thence, from three paly loopholes mild and small, + Slow lights upon the lake's still bosom fall, 1793.] + + +[Variant 89: + +1827. + + Beyond the mountain's giant reach that hides + In deep determin'd gloom his subject tides. + --Mid the dark steeps repose the shadowy streams, + As touch'd with dawning moonlight's hoary gleams, + Long streaks of fairy light the wave illume + With bordering lines of intervening gloom, 1793. + +The second and third of these couplets were cancelled in the edition of +1815, and the whole passage was withdrawn in 1827.] + + +[Variant 90: + +1836. + + Soft o'er the surface creep the lustres pale + Tracking with silvering path the changeful gale. 1793. + + ... those lustres pale + Tracking the fitful motions of the gale. 1815.] + + +[Variant 91: + +1815. + + --'Tis restless magic all; at once the bright [vi] + Breaks on the shade, the shade upon the light, + Fair Spirits are abroad; in sportive chase + Brushing with lucid wands the water's face, + While music stealing round the glimmering deeps + Charms the tall circle of th' enchanted steeps. + --As thro' th' astonished woods the notes ascend, + The mountain streams their rising song suspend; + Below Eve's listening Star, the sheep walk stills + It's drowsy tinklings on th' attentive hills; + The milkmaid stops her ballad, and her pail + Stays it's low murmur in th' unbreathing vale; + No night-duck clamours for his wilder'd mate, + Aw'd, while below the Genii hold their state. + --The pomp is fled, and mute the wondrous strains, + No wrack of all the pageant scene remains, + [vii] So vanish those fair Shadows, human Joys, + But Death alone their vain regret destroys. + Unheeded Night has overcome the vales, + On the dark earth the baffl'd vision fails, + If peep between the clouds a star on high, + There turns for glad repose the weary eye; + The latest lingerer of the forest train, + The lone-black fir, forsakes the faded plain; + Last evening sight, the cottage smoke no more, + Lost in the deepen'd darkness, glimmers hoar; + High towering from the sullen dark-brown mere, + Like a black wall, the mountain steeps appear, + Thence red from different heights with restless gleam + Small cottage lights across the water stream, + Nought else of man or life remains behind + To call from other worlds the wilder'd mind, + Till pours the wakeful bird her solemn strains + [viii] Heard by the night-calm of the watry plains. + --No purple prospects now the mind employ + Glowing in golden sunset tints of joy, + But o'er the sooth'd ... + +Only in the edition of 1793.] + + +[Variant 92: + +1836. + + The bird, with fading light who ceas'd to thread + Silent the hedge or steaming rivulet's bed, 1793. + + The bird, who ceased, with fading light, to thread 1815.] + + +[Variant 93: + +1836. + + Salute with boding note the rising moon, + Frosting with hoary light the pearly ground, + And pouring deeper blue to Aether's bound; + Rejoic'd her solemn pomp of clouds to fold + In robes of azure, fleecy white, and gold, + While rose and poppy, as the glow-worm fades, + Checquer with paler red the thicket shades. 1793. + + +The last two lines occur only in the edition of 1793. + + And pleased her solemn pomp of clouds to fold 1815.] + + +[Variant 94: + +1836. + + Now o'er the eastern hill, ... 1793. + + See, o'er ... 1815.] + + +[Variant 95: + +1836. + + She lifts in silence up her lovely face; 1793.] + + +[Variant 96: + +1836. + + Above ... 1793.] + + +[Variant 97: + +1815. + + ... silvery ... 1793.] + + +[Variant 98: + +1815. + + ... golden ... 1793.] + + +[Variant 99: + +1836. + + The deepest dell the mountain's breast displays, 1793. + + ... the mountain's front ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 100: + +1836. + + The scene is waken'd, yet its peace unbroke, + By silver'd wreaths of quiet charcoal smoke, + That, o'er the ruins of the fallen wood, + Steal down the hills, and spread along the flood. 1793.] + + + +[Variant 101: + +1836. + + All air is, as the sleeping water, still, + List'ning th' aëreal music of the hill, 1793. + + Air listens, as the sleeping water still, + To catch the spiritual music of the hill, 1832.] + + +[Variant 102: + +1836. + + Soon follow'd by his hollow-parting oar, + And echo'd hoof approaching the far shore; 1793.] + + +[Variant 103: + +1836. + + ... the feeding ... 1793.] + + +[Variant 104: + +1836. + + The tremulous sob of the complaining owl; 1793.] + + + * * * * * + + +FOOTNOTES ON VARIANTS (Sub-Footnotes) + + +[Sub-Footnote i: These rude structures, to protect the flocks, are +frequent in this country: the traveller may recollect one in Withburne, +another upon Whinlatter.--W. W. 1793.] + + +[Sub-Footnote ii: Not far from Broughton is a Druid monument, of which I +do not recollect that any tour descriptive of this country makes +mention. Perhaps this poem may fall into the hands of some curious +traveller, who may thank me for informing him, that up the Duddon, the +river which forms the aestuary at Broughton, may be found some of the +most romantic scenery of these mountains.--W. W. 1793. + +This circle is at the top of Swinside, a glen about four miles from +Broughton. It consists of 50 stones, 90 yards in circumference; and is +on the fell, which is part of the range terminating in Black +Combe.--Ed.] + + +[Sub-Footnote iii: The lily of the valley is found in great abundance in +the smaller islands of Winandermere.--W. W. 1793.] + + +[Sub-Footnote iv: In the 1793 edition this line reads "Asleep on +Minden's charnel plain afar." The 'errata', list inserted in some copies +of that edition gives "Bunker's charnel hill."--Ed.] + + +[Sub-Footnote v: Sugh, a Scotch word, expressive, as Mr. Gilpin explains +it, of the sound of the motion of a stick through the air, or of the +wind passing through the trees. See Burns' 'Cottar's Saturday +Night'.--W. W. 1793. + +The line is in stanza ii., l. 1: + + November chill blaws loud, wi' angry sugh.--Ed.] + + +[Sub-Footnote vi: This long passage occupies, in the edition of 1793, +the place of lines 297-314 in the final text given above.--Ed.] + + +[Sub-Footnote vii: + + "So break those glittering shadows, human joys" + +(YOUNG).--W. W. 1793. + +The line occurs 'Night V, The Complaint', l. 1042, or l. 27 from the +end.--Ed.] + + +[Sub-Footnote viii: + + "Charming the night-calm with her powerful song." + +A line of one of our older poets.--W. W. 1793. + +This line I have been unable to discover, but see Webster and Dekker in +'Westward Hoe', iv. c. + + "Charms with her excellent voice an awful silence through all this + building." + +Ed.] + + + + * * * * * + + +FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT + + +[Footnote A: See note to the "Juvenile Pieces" in the edition of 1836 +(p. 1).--Ed.] + + +[Footnote B: It may not be irrelevant to mention that our late poet, +Robert Browning, besought me--both in conversation, and by letter--to +restore this "discarded" picture, in editing 'Dion'.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote C: These lines are only applicable to the middle part of that +lake.--W. W. 1793.] + + +[Footnote D: In the beginning of winter, these mountains, in the +moonlight nights, are covered with immense quantities of woodcocks; +which, in the dark nights, retire into the woods.--W. W. 1793.] + + +[Footnote E: The word 'intake' is local, and signifies a +mountain-inclosure.--W. W. 1793.] + + +[Footnote F: Gill is also, I believe, a term confined to this country. +Glen, gill, and dingle, have the same meaning.--W. W. 1793. + +The spelling "Ghyll" is first used in the edition of 1820 in the text. +In the note to that edition it remains "gill". In 1827 the spelling in +the note was "ghyll."--Ed.] + + +[Footnote G: Compare Dr. John Brown: + + Not a passing breeze + Sigh'd to the grove, which in the midnight air + Stood motionless, and in the peaceful floods + Inverted hung. + +and see note A to page 31.--Ed. [Footnote U of this poem]] + + +[Footnote H: This line was first inserted in the edition of 1845. In the +following line, the edition of 1793 has + + Save that, atop, the subtle ... + +Subsequent editions previous to 1845 have + + Save that aloft ... + +Ed.] + + +[Footnote J: The reader, who has made the tour of this country, will +recognize, in this description, the features which characterize the +lower waterfall in the gardens of Rydale.--W. W. 1793.] + + +[Footnote K: + + "Vivid rings of green." + +Greenwood's Poem on Shooting.--W. W. 1793. + +The title is 'A Poem written during a Shooting Excursion on the Moors'. +It was published by Cruttwell at Bath in 1787, 4to, pp. 25. The +quotation is from stanza xvi., l. 11.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote L: + + "Down the rough slope the pondrous waggon rings." + +BEATTIE.--W. W. + +1793. See 'The Minstrel', stanza xxxix., l. 4.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote M: + +"Dolcemente feroce." + +TASSO. In this description of the cock, I remembered a spirited one of +the same animal in the 'L'Agriculture ou Les Géorgiques Françoises', of +M. Rossuet.--W. W. 1793.] + + +[Footnote N: I am unable to trace this quotation.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote P: From Thomson: see Scott's 'Critical Essays'.--W. W. 1793. + +It is difficult to know to what Wordsworth here alludes, but compare +'The Seasons', "Summer," l. 1467. + + and now a golden curve, + Gives one bright glance, then total disappears.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote Q: See a description of an appearance of this kind in Clark's +'Survey of the Lakes', accompanied with vouchers of its veracity, that +may amuse the reader.--W. W. 1793. + +The passage in Clark's folio volume, 'A Survey of the Lakes', etc., +which suggested to Wordsworth the above lines in the 'Evening Walk', is +to be found in chapter i. of the second book, p. 55. It gives a weird +account of the appearance of horsemen being exercised in troops upon + + "Southen-fell side, as seen on the 25th of June 1744 by William + Lancaster of Blakehills, and a farm servant, David Strichet: + + "These visionary horsemen seemed to come from the lowest part of + Southen-fell, and became visible just at a place called Knott. They + then moved in regular troops along the side of the fell, till they + came opposite Blakehills, when they went over the mountain. Then they + described a kind of curvilinear path upon the side of the fell, and + both these first and last appearances were bounded by the top of the + mountain. + + "Frequently the last, or last but one, in a troop would leave his + place, and gallop to the front, and then take the same pace with the + rest--a regular swift walk. Thus changes happened to every troop (for + many troops appeared) and oftener than once or twice, yet not at all + times alike.... Nor was this phenomenon seen at Blakehill only, it was + seen by every person at every cottage within the distance of a mile. + Neither was it confined to a momentary view, for from the time that + Strichet first observed it, the appearance must have lasted at least + two hours and a half, viz. from half past seven till the night coming + on prevented further view." + +This interesting optical illusion--which suggests the wonderful island +in the Atlantic, seen from the isles of Aran near Galway, alluded to in +the 'Chorographical description of West, or H-Ier-Connaught', of R. +O'Flaherty--was caused by the peculiar angle of the light from the +setting sun, the reflection of the water of the Solway, and the +refraction of the vapour and clouds above the Solway. These aerial and +visionary horsemen were being exercised somewhere above the +Kirkcudbright shore. It was not the first time the phenomenon had been +seen within historic times, on the same fell-side, and at the same time +of year. Canon Rawnsley writes to me, + + "I have an idea that the fact that it took place at midsummer eve + (June 27), the eve of the Feast of St. John, upon which occasion the + shepherds hereabout used to light bonfires on the hills (no doubt a + relic of the custom of the Beltane fires of old Norse days, perhaps of + earlier sun-worship festivals of British times), may have had + something to do with the naming of the mountain Blencathara of which + Southen-fell (or Shepherd's-fell, as the name implies) is part. + Blencathara, we are told, may mean the Hill of Demons, or the haunted + hill. My suggestion is that the old sun-worshippers, who met in + midsummer eve on Castrigg at the Druid circle or Donn-ring, saw just + the same phenomenon as Strichet and Lancaster saw upon Southen-fell, + and hence the name. Nay, perhaps the Druid circle was built where it + is, because it was well in view of the Demon Hill." + +Ed.] + + +[Footnote R: This is a fact of which I have been an eye-witness.--W. W. +1793.] + + +[Footnote S: The quotation is from Collins' 'The Passions', l. 60. +Compare 'Personal Talk', l. 26.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote T: Alluding to this passage of Spenser: + + ... Her angel face + As the great eye of Heaven shined bright, + And made a sunshine in that shady place. W. W. 1793. + +This passage is in 'The Fairy Queen', book I. canto iii. stanza 4.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote U: Compare Dr. John Brown: + + But the soft murmur of swift-gushing rills, + Forth issuing from the mountain's distant steep + (Unheard till now, and now scarce heard), proclaim'd + All things at rest. + +This Dr. John Brown--a singularly versatile English divine +(1717-1766)--was one of the first, as Wordsworth pointed put, to lead +the way to a true estimate of the English Lakes. His description of the +Vale of Keswick, in a letter to a friend, is as fine as anything in +Gray's 'Journal'. Wordsworth himself quotes the lines given in this +footnote in the first section of his 'Guide through the District of the +Lakes'.--Ed.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +LINES WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING + + +Composed 1789.--Published 1798 + + + [This title is scarcely correct. It was during a solitary walk on the + banks of the Cam that I was first struck with this appearance, and + applied it to my own feelings in the manner here expressed, changing + the scene to the Thames, near Windsor. This, and the three stanzas of + the following poem, 'Remembrance of Collins', formed one piece; but, + upon the recommendation of Coleridge, the three last stanzas were + separated from the other.--I. F.] + +The title of the poem in 1798, when it consisted of five stanzas, was +'Lines written near Richmond, upon the Thames, at Evening'. When, in the +edition of 1800, it was divided, the title of the first part was, 'Lines +written when sailing in a Boat at Evening'; that of the second part was +'Lines written near Richmond upon the Thames'. + +From 1815 to 1843, both poems were placed by Wordsworth among those "of +Sentiment and Reflection." In 1845 they were transferred to "Poems +written in Youth."--Ed. + + + * * * * * + +THE POEM + + + How richly glows the water's breast + Before us, tinged with evening hues, [1] + While, facing thus the crimson west, + The boat her silent course [2] pursues! + And see how dark the backward stream! 5 + A little moment past so smiling! + And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, + Some other loiterers [3] beguiling. + + Such views the youthful Bard allure; + But, heedless of the following gloom, 10 + He deems their colours shall endure + Till peace go with him to the tomb. + --And let him nurse his fond deceit, + And what if he must die in sorrow! + Who would not cherish dreams so sweet, 15 + Though grief and pain may come to-morrow? + + + * * * * * + +VARIANTS ON THE TEXT + + +[Variant 1: + +1815. + + How rich the wave, in front, imprest + With evening-twilight's summer hues, 1798.] + + +[Variant 2: + +1802. + + ... path ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 3: + +1815. + + ... loiterer ... 1798.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS + + +COMPOSED UPON THE THAMES NEAR RICHMOND [A] + + +Composed 1789.--Published 1798 + + + * * * * * + + + Glide gently, thus for ever glide,[B] + O Thames! that other bards may see + As lovely visions by thy side + As now, fair river! come to me. + O glide, fair stream! for ever so, 5 + Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, + Till all our minds for ever flow + As thy deep waters now are flowing. + + Vain thought!--Yet be as now thou art, + That in thy waters may be seen 10 + The image of a poet's heart, + How bright, how solemn, how serene! + Such as did once the Poet bless, [1] + Who murmuring here a later [C] ditty, [2] + Could find no refuge from distress 15 + But in the milder grief of pity. + + Now let us, as we float along, [3] + For _him_ [4] suspend the dashing oar; [D] + And pray that never child of song + May know that Poet's sorrows more. [5] 20 + How calm! how still! the only sound, + The dripping of the oar suspended! + --The evening darkness gathers round + By virtue's holiest Powers attended. + + + + * * * * * + + +VARIANTS ON THE TEXT + + +[Variant 1: + +1800. + + Such heart did once the poet bless, 1798.] + + +[Variant 2: + +1815. + + Who, pouring here a _later_ [i] ditty, 1798.] + + +[Variant 3: + +1802. + + Remembrance, as we glide along, 1798. + + ... float ... 1800.] + + +[Variant 4: + +1802. + + For him ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 5: + +1802. + + May know his freezing sorrows more. 1798.] + + +[Sub-Footnote i: The italics only occur in the editions of 1798 and +1800.--Ed.] + + + + * * * * * + + +FOOTNOTES TO THE TEXT + + +[Footnote A: The title in the editions 1802-1815 was 'Remembrance of +Collins, written upon the Thames near Richmond'.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote B: Compare the 'After-thought' to "The River Duddon. A Series +of Sonnets": + + Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide. + +Ed.] + + +[Footnote C: Collins's 'Ode on the Death of Thomson', the last written, +I believe, of the poems which were published during his life-time. This +Ode is also alluded to in the next stanza.--W. W. 1798.] + + +[Footnote D: Compare Collins's 'Ode on the Death of Thomson', 'The Scene +on the Thames near Richmond': + + Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore + When Thames in summer wreaths is drest. + And oft suspend the dashing oar + To bid his gentle spirit rest. + +As Mr. Dowden suggests, the _him_ was probably italicised by Wordsworth, +"because the oar is suspended not for Thomson but for Collins." The +italics were first used in the edition of 1802.--Ed.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES TAKEN DURING A PEDESTRIAN TOUR AMONG THE ALPS + + +Composed 1791-2. [A]--Published 1793 + + + TO THE REV. ROBERT JONES, FELLOW OF ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE + + DEAR SIR, [B]--However desirous I might have been of giving you proofs + of the high place you hold in my esteem, I should have been cautious + of wounding your delicacy by thus publicly addressing you, had not the + circumstance of our having been companions among the Alps, seemed to + give this dedication a propriety sufficient to do away any scruples + which your modesty might otherwise have suggested. [C] + + In inscribing this little work to you, I consult my heart. You know + well how great is the difference between two companions lolling in a + post-chaise, and two travellers plodding slowly along the road, side + by side, each with his little knapsack of necessaries upon his + shoulders. How much more of heart between the two latter! + + I am happy in being conscious that I shall have one reader who will + approach the conclusion of these few pages with regret. You they must + certainly interest, in reminding you of moments to which you can + hardly look back without a pleasure not the less dear from a shade of + melancholy. You will meet with few images without recollecting the + spot where we observed them together; consequently, whatever is feeble + in my design, or spiritless in my colouring, will be amply supplied by + your own memory. + + With still greater propriety I might have inscribed to you a + description of some of the features of your native mountains, through + which we have wandered together, in the same manner, with so much + pleasure. But the sea-sunsets, which give such splendour to the vale + of Clwyd, Snowdon, the chair of Idris, the quiet village of + Bethgelert, Menai and her Druids, the Alpine steeps of the Conway, and + the still more interesting windings of the wizard stream of the Dee, + remain yet untouched. Apprehensive that my pencil may never be + exercised on these subjects, I cannot let slip this opportunity of + thus publicly assuring you with how much affection and esteem + + I am, dear Sir, + Most sincerely yours, + W. WORDSWORTH. + + LONDON, 1793. + + + [Much the greatest part of this poem was composed during my walks upon + the banks of the Loire, in the years 1791, 1792. I will only notice + that the description of the valley filled with mist, beginning--'In + solemn shapes'--was taken from that beautiful region of which the + principal features are Lungarn and Sarnen. Nothing that I ever saw in + Nature left a more delightful impression on my mind than that which I + have attempted, alas, how feebly! to convey to others in these lines. + Those two lakes have always interested me especially, from bearing in + their size and other features, a resemblance to those of the North of + England. It is much to be deplored that a district so beautiful should + be so unhealthy as it is.--I. F.] + +As the original text of the 'Descriptive Sketches' is printed in +Appendix I. (p. 309) to this volume--with all the notes to that edition +of 1793--it is not quoted in the footnotes to the final text in the +pages which follow, except in cases which will justify themselves. +Therefore the various readings which follow begin with the edition of +1815, which was, however, a mere fragment of the original text. Almost +the whole of the poem of 1793 was reproduced in 1820, but there were +many alterations of the text in that edition, and in those of 1827, +1832, 1836 and 1845. Wordsworth's own footnotes here reproduced are +those which he retained in the edition of 1849. + +'Descriptive Sketches' was ranked among the "Juvenile Pieces" from 1815 +onwards: but in 1836 it was put in a class by itself along with the +'Female Vagrant'. [D]--Ed. + +'Happiness (if she had been to be found on earth) among the charms of +Nature--Pleasures of the pedestrian Traveller--Author crosses France to +the Alps--Present state of the Grande Chartreuse--Lake of Como--Time, +Sunset--Same Scene, Twilight--Same Scene, Morning; its voluptuous +Character; Old man and forest-cottage music--River Tusa--Via Mala and +Grison Gipsy--Sckellenen-thal--Lake of Uri--Stormy sunset--Chapel of +William Tell--Force of local emotion--Chamois-chaser--View of the higher +Alps--Manner of Life of a Swiss mountaineer, interspersed with views of +the higher Alps--Golden Age of the Alps--Life and views continued--Ranz +des Vaches, famous Swiss Air--Abbey of Einsiedlen and its +pilgrims--Valley of Chamouny--Mont Blanc--Slavery of Savoy--Influence of +liberty on cottage-happiness--France--Wish for the Extirpation of +slavery--Conclusion'. + + + * * * * * + +THE POEM + + + Were there, below, a spot of holy ground + Where from distress a refuge might be found, + And solitude prepare the soul for heaven; + Sure, nature's God that spot to man had given [1] + Where falls the purple morning far and wide 5 + In flakes of light upon the mountain-side; + Where with loud voice the power of water shakes [2] + The leafy wood, or sleeps in quiet lakes. + + Yet not unrecompensed the man shall roam, + Who at the call of summer quits his home, 10 + And plods through some wide realm o'er vale and height, + Though seeking only holiday delight; [3] + At least, not owning to himself an aim + To which the sage would give a prouder name. [4] + No gains too cheaply earned his fancy cloy, 15 + Though every passing zephyr whispers joy; + Brisk toil, alternating with ready ease, + Feeds the clear current of his sympathies. [5] + For him sod-seats the cottage-door adorn; + And peeps the far-off spire, his evening bourn! 20 + Dear is the forest frowning o'er his head, + And dear the velvet green-sward to his tread: [6] + Moves there a cloud o'er mid-day's flaming eye? + Upward he looks--"and calls it luxury:" [E] + Kind Nature's charities his steps attend; 25 + In every babbling brook he finds a friend; + While [7] chastening thoughts of sweetest use, bestowed + By wisdom, moralise his pensive road. + Host of his welcome inn, the noon-tide bower, + To his spare meal he calls the passing poor; 30 + He views the sun uplift his golden fire, + Or sink, with heart alive like Memnon's lyre; [F] + Blesses the moon that comes with kindly ray, + To light him shaken by his rugged way. [8] + Back from his sight no bashful children steal; 35 + He sits a brother at the cottage-meal; [9] + His humble looks no shy restraint impart; + Around him plays at will the virgin heart. + While unsuspended wheels the village dance, + The maidens eye him with enquiring glance, 40 + Much wondering by what fit of crazing care, + Or desperate love, bewildered, he came there. [10] + + A hope, that prudence could not then approve, + That clung to Nature with a truant's love, + O'er Gallia's wastes of corn my footsteps led; 45 + Her files of road-elms, high above my head + In long-drawn vista, rustling in the breeze; + Or where her pathways straggle as they please + By lonely farms and secret villages. + But lo! the Alps ascending white in air, [11] 50 + Toy with the sun and glitter from afar. + + And now, emerging from the forest's gloom, + I greet thee, Chartreuse, while I mourn thy doom. + Whither is fled that Power whose frown severe + Awed sober Reason till she crouched in fear? [12] 55 + _That_ Silence, once in deathlike fetters bound, + Chains that were loosened only by the sound + Of holy rites chanted in measured round? [13] + + --The voice of blasphemy the fane alarms, + The cloister startles at the gleam of arms. [14] 60 + The [15] thundering tube the aged angler hears, [G] + Bent o'er the groaning flood that sweeps away his tears. [16] + Cloud-piercing pine-trees nod their troubled heads, [17] + Spires, rocks, and lawns a browner night o'erspreads; + Strong terror checks the female peasant's sighs, 65 + And start the astonished shades at female eyes. + From Bruno's forest screams the affrighted jay, + And slow the insulted eagle wheels away. + A viewless flight of laughing Demons mock + The Cross, by angels planted [H] on the aërial rock. [18] 70 + The "parting Genius" [J] sighs with hollow breath + Along the mystic streams of Life and Death.[K] + Swelling the outcry dull, that long resounds + Portentous through her old woods' trackless bounds, + Vallombre, [L] 'mid her falling fanes deplores 75 + For ever broke, the sabbath of her bowers. + + More pleased, my foot the hidden margin roves + Of Como, bosomed deep in chestnut groves. + No meadows thrown between, the giddy steeps + Tower, bare or sylvan, from the narrow deeps. 80 + --To towns, whose shades of no rude noise [19] complain, + From ringing team apart [20] and grating wain-- + To flat-roofed towns, that touch the water's bound, + Or lurk in woody sunless glens profound, + Or, from the bending rocks, obtrusive cling, 85 + And o'er the whitened wave their shadows fling-- + The pathway leads, as round the steeps it twines; [21] + And Silence loves its purple roof of vines. + The loitering traveller [22] hence, at evening, sees + From rock-hewn steps the sail between the trees; 90 + Or marks, 'mid opening cliffs, fair dark-eyed maids + Tend the small harvest of their garden glades; + Or stops the solemn mountain-shades to view + Stretch o'er the pictured mirror broad and blue, + And track the yellow lights from steep to steep, 95 + As up the opposing hills they slowly creep. [23] + Aloft, here, half a village shines, arrayed + In golden light; [24] half hides itself in shade: + While, from amid the darkened roofs, the spire, + Restlessly flashing, seems to mount like fire: [25] 100 + There, all unshaded, blazing forests throw + Rich golden verdure on the lake [26] below. + Slow glides the sail along the illumined shore, + And steals into the shade the lazy oar; + Soft bosoms breathe around contagious sighs, 105 + And amorous music on the water dies. + + How blest, delicious scene! the eye that greets + Thy open beauties, or thy lone retreats; + Beholds the unwearied sweep of wood that scales + Thy cliffs; the endless waters of thy vales; [27] 110 + Thy lowly cots that sprinkle all the shore, [28] + Each with its [29] household boat beside the door; + [30] Thy torrents shooting from the clear-blue sky; + Thy towns, that cleave, like swallows' nests, on high; [31] + That glimmer hoar in eve's last light descried 115 + Dim from the twilight water's shaggy side, + Whence lutes and voices down the enchanted woods + Steal, and compose the oar-forgotten floods; + [32]--Thy lake, that, streaked or dappled, blue or grey, + 'Mid smoking woods gleams hid from morning's ray [33] 120 + Slow-travelling down the western hills, to' enfold [34] + Its green-tinged margin in a blaze of gold; + Thy glittering steeples, whence the matin bell + Calls forth the woodman from his desert cell, + And quickens the blithe sound of oars that pass 125 + Along the steaming lake, to early mass. [35] + But now farewell to each and all--adieu + To every charm, and last and chief to you, [36] + Ye lovely maidens that in noontide shade + Rest near your little plots of wheaten glade; [37] 130 + To all that binds [38] the soul in powerless trance, + Lip-dewing song, and ringlet-tossing dance; + Where sparkling eyes and breaking smiles illume + The sylvan cabin's lute-enlivened gloom. + --Alas! the very murmur of the streams 135 + Breathes o'er the failing soul voluptuous dreams, + While Slavery, forcing the sunk mind to dwell + On joys that might disgrace the captive's cell, + Her shameless timbrel shakes on Como's marge, + And lures [39] from bay to bay the vocal barge. 140 + + Yet are thy softer arts with power indued + To soothe and cheer the poor man's solitude. + By silent cottage-doors, the peasant's home + Left vacant for the day, I loved to roam. [40] + But once I pierced the mazes of a wood 145 + In which a cabin undeserted stood; [41] + There an old man an olden measure scanned + On a rude viol touched with withered hand. [42] + As lambs or fawns in April clustering lie [43] + Under a hoary oak's thin canopy, 150 + Stretched at his feet, with stedfast upward eye, + His children's children listened to the sound; [44] + --A Hermit with his family around! + + But let us hence; for fair Locarno smiles + Embowered in walnut slopes and citron isles: 155 + Or seek at eve the banks of Tusa's stream, + Where, [45] 'mid dim towers and woods, her [M] waters gleam. + From the bright wave, in solemn gloom, retire + The dull-red steeps, and, darkening still, aspire + To where afar rich orange lustres glow 160 + Round undistinguished clouds, and rocks, and snow: + Or, led where Via Mala's chasms confine + The indignant waters of the infant Rhine, + Hang o'er the abyss, whose else impervious gloom [46] + His burning eyes with fearful light illume. 165 + + The mind condemned, without reprieve, to go + O'er life's long deserts with its charge of woe, + With sad congratulation joins the train + Where beasts and men together o'er the plain + Move on--a mighty caravan of pain: 170 + Hope, strength, and courage, social suffering brings, + Freshening the wilderness with shades and springs. + --There be whose lot far otherwise is cast: + Sole human tenant of the piny waste, [47] + By choice or doom a gipsy wanders here, 175 + A nursling babe her only comforter; + Lo, where she sits beneath yon shaggy rock, + A cowering shape half hid in curling smoke! [48] + + When lightning among clouds and mountain-snows + Predominates, and darkness comes and goes, 180 + And the fierce torrent, at the flashes broad + Starts, like a horse, beside the glaring road-- + She seeks a covert from the battering shower + In the roofed bridge [N]; the bridge, in that dread hour, + Itself all trembling at the torrent's power. [49] 185 + + Nor is she more at ease on some _still_ night, + When not a star supplies the comfort of its light; + Only the waning moon hangs dull and red + Above a melancholy mountain's head, + Then sets. In total gloom the Vagrant sighs, 190 + Stoops her sick head, and shuts her weary eyes; + Or on her fingers counts the distant clock, + Or, to the drowsy crow of midnight cock, + Listens, or quakes while from the forest's gulf + Howls near and nearer yet the famished wolf. [50] 195 + + From the green vale of Urseren smooth and wide + Descend we now, the maddened Reuss our guide; [51] + By rocks that, shutting out the blessed day, + Cling tremblingly to rocks as loose as they; + By cells [P] upon whose image, while he prays, 200 + The kneeling peasant scarcely dares to gaze; + By many a votive death-cross [Q] planted near, + And watered duly with the pious tear, + That faded silent from the upward eye + Unmoved with each rude form of peril nigh; [52] 205 + Fixed on the anchor left by Him who saves + Alike in whelming snows, and roaring waves. + + But soon a peopled region on the sight + Opens--a little world of calm delight; [53] + Where mists, suspended on the expiring gale, 210 + Spread roof like o'er the deep secluded vale, [54] + And beams of evening slipping in between, + Gently illuminate a sober scene:--[55] + Here, on the brown wood-cottages [R] they sleep, [56] + There, over rock or sloping pasture creep. [57] 215 + On as we journey, in clear view displayed, + The still vale lengthens underneath its shade + Of low-hung vapour: on the freshened mead + The green light sparkles;--the dim bowers recede. [58] + While pastoral pipes and streams the landscape lull, 220 + And bells of passing mules that tinkle dull, + In solemn shapes before the admiring eye + Dilated hang the misty pines on high, + Huge convent domes with pinnacles and towers, + And antique castles seen through gleamy [59] showers. 225 + + From such romantic dreams, my soul, awake! + To sterner pleasure, where, by Uri's lake + In Nature's pristine majesty outspread, + Winds neither road nor path for foot to tread: [60] + The rocks rise naked as a wall, or stretch, 230 + Far o'er the water, hung with groves of beech; [61] + Aerial pines from loftier steeps ascend, + Nor stop but where creation seems to end. [62] + Yet here and there, if 'mid the savage scene + Appears a scanty plot of smiling green, 235 + Up from the lake a zigzag path will creep + To reach a small wood-hut hung boldly on the steep. [63] + --Before those thresholds (never can they know [64] + The face of traveller passing to and fro,) + No peasant leans upon his pole, to tell 240 + For whom at morning tolled the funeral bell; + Their watch-dog ne'er his angry bark foregoes, + Touched by the beggar's moan of human woes; + The shady porch ne'er offered a cool seat + To pilgrims overcome by summer's heat. [65] 245 + Yet thither the world's business finds its way + At times, and tales unsought beguile the day, + And _there_ are those fond thoughts which Solitude, [66] + However stern, is powerless to exclude. [67] + There doth the maiden watch her lover's sail 250 + Approaching, and upbraid the tardy gale; + At midnight listens till his parting oar, + And its last echo, can be heard no more. [68] + + And what if ospreys, cormorants, herons cry, + Amid tempestuous vapours driving by, [69] 255 + Or hovering over wastes too bleak to rear + That common growth of earth, the foodful ear; [70] + Where the green apple shrivels on the spray, + And pines the unripened pear in summer's kindliest ray; [71] + Contentment shares the desolate domain [72] 260 + With Independence, child of high Disdain. + Exulting 'mid the winter of the skies, + Shy as the jealous chamois, Freedom flies, + And grasps by fits her sword, and often eyes; + And sometimes, as from rock to rock she bounds 265 + The Patriot nymph starts at imagined sounds, + And, wildly pausing, oft she hangs aghast, + Whether some old Swiss air hath checked her haste + Or thrill of Spartan fife is caught between the blast. [73] + + Swoln with incessant rains from hour to hour, [74] 270 + All day the floods a deepening murmur pour: + The sky is veiled, and every cheerful sight: + Dark is the region as with coming night; + But what a sudden burst of overpowering light! + Triumphant on the bosom of the storm, 275 + Glances the wheeling eagle's glorious form![75] + Eastward, in long perspective glittering, shine + The wood-crowned cliffs that o'er the lake recline; + Those lofty cliffs a hundred streams unfold, [76] + At once to pillars turned that flame with gold: 280 + Behind his sail the peasant shrinks, to shun + The _west_, [77] that burns like one dilated sun, + A crucible of mighty compass, felt + By mountains, glowing till they seem to melt. [78] + + But, lo! the boatman, overawed, before 285 + The pictured fane of Tell suspends his oar; + Confused the Marathonian tale appears, + While his eyes sparkle with heroic tears. [79] + And who, that walks where men of ancient days + Have wrought with godlike arm the deeds of praise, 290 + Feels not the spirit of the place control, + Or rouse [80] and agitate his labouring soul? + Say, who, by thinking on Canadian hills, + Or wild Aosta lulled by Alpine rills, + On Zutphen's plain; or on that highland dell, 295 + Through which rough Garry cleaves his way, can tell + What high resolves exalt the tenderest thought + Of him whom passion rivets to the spot, [81] + Where breathed the gale that caught Wolfe's happiest sigh, + And the last sunbeam fell on Bayard's eye; 300 + Where bleeding Sidney from the cup retired, + And glad Dundee in "faint huzzas" [S] expired? + + But now with other mind I stand alone + Upon the summit of this naked cone, + And watch the fearless chamois-hunter chase 305 + His prey, through tracts abrupt of desolate space, [82] + [T] Through vacant worlds where Nature never gave + A brook to murmur or a bough to wave, + Which unsubstantial Phantoms sacred keep; + Thro' worlds where Life, and Voice, and Motion sleep; 310 + Where silent Hours their death-like sway extend, + Save when the avalanche breaks loose, to rend + Its way with uproar, till the ruin, drowned + In some dense wood or gulf of snow profound, + Mocks the dull ear of Time with deaf abortive sound. [83] 315 + --'Tis his, while wandering on from height to height, + To see a planet's pomp and steady light + In the least star of scarce-appearing night; + While the pale moon moves near him, on the bound + Of ether, shining with diminished round, [84] 320 + And far and wide the icy summits blaze, + Rejoicing in the glory of her rays: + To him the day-star glitters small and bright, + Shorn of its beams, insufferably white, + And he can look beyond the sun, and view 325 + Those fast-receding depths of sable blue + Flying till vision can no more pursue! [85] + --At once bewildering mists around him close, + And cold and hunger are his least of woes; + The Demon of the snow, with angry roar 330 + Descending, shuts for aye his prison door. + Soon with despair's whole weight his spirits sink; + Bread has he none, the snow must be his drink; + And, ere his eyes can close upon the day, [86] + The eagle of the Alps o'ershades her prey. 335 + + Now couch thyself where, heard with fear afar, [87] + Thunders through echoing pines the headlong Aar; + Or rather stay to taste the mild delights + Of pensive Underwalden's [U] pastoral heights. + --Is there who 'mid these awful wilds has seen 340 + The native Genii walk the mountain green? + Or heard, while other worlds their charms reveal, + Soft music o'er [88] the aërial summit steal? + While o'er the desert, answering every close, + Rich steam of sweetest perfume comes and goes. 345 + --And sure there is a secret Power that reigns + Here, where no trace of man the spot profanes, + Nought but the _chalets_, [V] flat and bare, on high + Suspended 'mid the quiet of the sky; + Or distant herds that pasturing upward creep, 350 + And, not untended, climb the dangerous steep. [89] + How still! no irreligious sound or sight + Rouses the soul from her severe delight. + An idle voice the sabbath region fills + Of Deep that calls to Deep across the hills, 355 + And with that voice accords the soothing sound [90] + Of drowsy bells, for ever tinkling round; + Faint wail of eagle melting into blue + Beneath the cliffs, and pine-woods' steady _sugh_; [W] + The solitary heifer's deepened low; 360 + Or rumbling, heard remote, of falling snow. + All motions, sounds, and voices, far and nigh, + Blend in a music of tranquillity; [91] + Save when, a stranger seen below [92] the boy + Shouts from the echoing hills with savage joy. 365 + + When, from the sunny breast of open seas, + And bays with myrtle fringed, the southern breeze + Comes on to gladden April with the sight + Of green isles widening on each snow-clad height; [93] + When shouts and lowing herds the valley fill, 370 + And louder torrents stun the noon-tide hill, + [94] The pastoral Swiss begin the cliffs to scale, + Leaving to silence the deserted vale; [95] + And like the Patriarchs in their simple age + Move, as the verdure leads, from stage to stage; [96] 375 + High and more high in summer's heat they go, [97] + And hear the rattling thunder far below; + Or steal beneath the mountains, half-deterred, + Where huge rocks tremble to the bellowing herd. [98] + + One I behold who, 'cross the foaming flood, 380 + Leaps with a bound of graceful hardihood; + Another high on that green ledge;--he gained + The tempting spot with every sinew strained; [99] + And downward thence a knot of grass he throws, + Food for his beasts in time of winter snows. [100] 385 + --Far different life from what Tradition hoar + Transmits of happier lot in times of yore! [101] + Then Summer lingered long; and honey flowed + From out the rocks, the wild bees' safe abode: [102] + Continual waters [103] welling cheered the waste, 390 + And plants were wholesome, now of deadly taste: + Nor Winter yet his frozen stores had piled, + Usurping where the fairest herbage smiled: + Nor Hunger driven the herds from pastures bare, + To climb the treacherous cliffs for scanty fare. [104] 395 + Then the milk-thistle flourished through the land, + And forced the full-swoln udder to demand, + Thrice every day, the pail and welcome hand. [105] + Thus does the father to his children tell + Of banished bliss, by fancy loved too well. [106] 400 + Alas! that human guilt provoked the rod [107] + Of angry Nature to avenge her God. + Still, Nature, ever just, to him imparts + Joys only given to uncorrupted hearts. + + 'Tis morn: with gold the verdant mountain glows; 405 + More high, the snowy peaks with hues of rose. + Far-stretched beneath the many-tinted hills, + A mighty waste of mist the valley fills, + A solemn sea! whose billows wide around [108] + Stand motionless, to awful silence bound: 410 + Pines, on the coast, through mist their tops uprear, + That like to leaning masts of stranded ships appear. + A single chasm, a gulf of gloomy blue, + Gapes in the centre of the sea--and through + That dark mysterious gulf ascending, sound 415 + Innumerable streams with roar profound. [109] + Mount through the nearer vapours notes of birds, + And merry flageolet; the low of herds, + The bark of dogs, the heifer's tinkling bell, + Talk, laughter, and perchance a church-tower knell: [110] 420 + Think not, the peasant from aloft has gazed + And heard with heart unmoved, with soul unraised: [111] + Nor is his spirit less enrapt, nor less + Alive to independent happiness, [112] + Then, when he lies, out-stretched, at even-tide 425 + Upon the fragrant mountain's purple side: [113] + For as the pleasures of his simple day + Beyond his native valley seldom stray, + Nought round its darling precincts can he find + But brings some past enjoyment to his mind; 430 + While Hope, reclining upon Pleasure's urn, [114] + Binds her wild wreaths, and whispers his return. + + Once, Man entirely free, alone and wild, + Was blest as free--for he was Nature's child. + He, all superior but his God disdained, 435 + Walked none restraining, and by none restrained: + Confessed no law but what his reason taught, + Did all he wished, and wished but what he ought. + As man in his primeval dower arrayed + The image of his glorious Sire displayed, 440 + Even so, by faithful [115] Nature guarded, here + The traces of primeval Man appear; + The simple [116] dignity no forms debase; + The eye sublime, and surly lion-grace: + The slave of none, of beasts alone the lord, 445 + His book he prizes, nor neglects his sword; [117] + --Well taught by that to feel his rights, prepared + With this "the blessings he enjoys to guard." [X] + + And, as his native hills encircle ground + For many a marvellous [118] victory renowned, 450 + The work of Freedom daring to oppose, + With few in arms, [Y] innumerable foes, + When to those famous [119] fields his steps are led, + An unknown power connects him with the dead: + For images of other worlds are there; 455 + Awful the light, and holy is the air. + Fitfully, and in flashes, through his soul, + Like sun-lit tempests, troubled transports roll; + His bosom heaves, his Spirit towers amain, [120] + Beyond the senses and their little reign. 460 + + And oft, when that dread vision hath past by, [121] + He holds with God himself communion high, + There where the peal [122] of swelling torrents fills + The sky-roofed temple of the eternal hills; + Or, when upon the mountain's silent brow 465 + Reclined, he sees, above him and below, + Bright stars of ice and azure fields of snow; + While needle peaks of granite shooting bare + Tremble in ever-varying tints of air. + And when a gathering weight of shadows brown 470 + Falls on the valleys as the sun goes down; + And Pikes, of darkness named and fear and storms, [Z] + Uplift in quiet their illumined forms, [123] + In sea-like reach of prospect round him spread, + Tinged like an angel's smile all rosy red-- 475 + Awe in his breast with holiest love unites, + And the near heavens impart their own delights. [124] + + When downward to his winter hut he goes, + Dear and more dear the lessening circle grows; + That hut which on the hills so oft employs 480 + His thoughts, the central point of all his joys. [125] + And as a swallow, at the hour of rest, + Peeps often ere she darts into her nest, + So to the homestead, where the grandsire tends + A little prattling child, he oft descends, 485 + To glance a look upon the well-matched pair; [126] + Till storm and driving ice blockade him there. + There, [127] safely guarded by the woods behind, + He hears the chiding of the baffled wind, + Hears Winter calling all his terrors round, 490 + And, blest within himself, he shrinks not from the sound. [128] + + Through Nature's vale his homely pleasures glide, + Unstained by envy, discontent, and pride; + The bound of all his vanity, to deck, + With one bright bell, a favourite heifer's neck; 495 + Well pleased [129] upon some simple annual feast, + Remembered half the year and hoped the rest, + If dairy-produce, from his inner hoard, + Of thrice ten summers dignify [130] the board. + --Alas! in every clime a flying ray 500 + Is all we have to cheer our wintry way; + [131] + And here the unwilling mind [132] may more than trace + The general sorrows of the human race: + The churlish gales of penury, that blow + Cold as the north-wind o'er a waste of snow, [133] 505 + To them [134] the gentle groups of bliss deny + That on the noon-day bank of leisure lie. + Yet more;--compelled by Powers which only deign + That _solitary_ man disturb their reign, + Powers that support an unremitting [135] strife 510 + With all the tender charities of life, + Full oft the father, when his sons have grown + To manhood, seems their title to disown; [136] + And from his nest [137] amid the storms of heaven + Drives, eagle-like, those sons as he was driven; 515 + With stern composure [138] watches to the plain-- + And never, eagle-like, beholds again! + + When long familiar joys are all resigned, + Why does their sad remembrance haunt the mind? [139] + Lo! where through flat Batavia's willowy groves, 520 + Or by the lazy Seine, the exile roves; + O'er the curled waters Alpine measures swell, + And search the affections to their inmost cell; + Sweet poison spreads along the listener's veins, + Turning past pleasures into mortal pains; [140] 525 + Poison, which not a frame of steel can brave, + Bows his young head with sorrow to the grave. [Aa] + + Gay lark of hope, thy silent song resume! + Ye flattering eastern lights, once more the hills illume! [141] + Fresh [142] gales and dews of life's delicious morn, 530 + And thou, lost fragrance of the heart, return! + Alas! the little joy to man allowed, + Fades like the lustre of an evening cloud; [143] + Or like the beauty in a flower installed, + Whose season was, and cannot be recalled. 535 + Yet, when opprest by sickness, grief, or care, + And taught that pain is pleasure's natural heir, + We still confide in more than we can know; + Death would be else the favourite friend of woe. [144] + + 'Mid savage rocks, and seas of snow that shine, 540 + Between interminable tracts of pine, + Within a temple stands an awful shrine, [145] + By an uncertain light revealed, that falls + On the mute Image and the troubled walls. + Oh! give not me that eye of hard disdain 545 + That views, undimmed, Ensiedlen's [Bb] wretched fane. + While ghastly faces through the gloom appear, [146] + Abortive joy, and hope that works in fear; [147] + While prayer contends with silenced agony, [148] + Surely in other thoughts contempt may die. 550 + If the sad grave of human ignorance bear + One flower of hope--oh, pass and leave it there! [Cc] + + The tall sun, pausing [149] on an Alpine spire, + Flings o'er the wilderness a stream of fire: + Now meet we other pilgrims ere the day [150] 555 + Close on the remnant of their weary way; + While they are drawing toward the sacred floor + Where, so they fondly think, the worm shall gnaw no more. [151] + How gaily murmur and how sweetly taste + The fountains [Dd] reared for them [152] amid the waste! 560 + Their thirst they slake:--they wash their toil-worn feet, + And some with tears of joy each other greet. [153] + Yes, I must [154] see you when ye first behold + Those holy turrets tipped with evening gold, + In that glad moment will for you a sigh 565 + Be heaved, of charitable sympathy; [155] + In that glad moment when your [156] hands are prest + In mute devotion on the thankful breast! + + Last, let us turn to Chamouny that shields [157] + With rocks and gloomy woods [158] her fertile fields: 570 + Five streams of ice amid her cots descend, + And with wild flowers and blooming orchards blend;--[Ee] + A scene more fair than what the Grecian feigns + Of purple lights and ever-vernal plains; + Here all the seasons revel hand in hand: 575 + 'Mid lawns and shades by breezy rivulets fanned [159] + [160] They sport beneath that mountain's matchless height [161] + That holds no commerce with the summer night. [Ee] + From age to age, throughout [162] his lonely bounds + The crash of ruin fitfully resounds; 580 + Appalling [163] havoc! but serene his brow, + Where daylight lingers on [164] perpetual snow; + Glitter the stars, and all is black below. [Ee] + + What marvel then if many a Wanderer sigh, + While roars the sullen Arve in anger by, [165] 585 + That not for thy reward, unrivall'd [166] Vale! [Ff] + Waves the ripe harvest in the autumnal gale; + That thou, the slave of slaves, art doomed to pine + And droop, while no Italian arts are thine, + To soothe or cheer, to soften or refine. [167] 590 + + Hail Freedom! whether it was mine to stray, + With shrill winds whistling round my lonely way, [168] + On [169] the bleak sides of Cumbria's heath-clad moors, + Or where dank sea-weed lashes Scotland's shores; + To scent the sweets of Piedmont's breathing rose, 595 + And orange gale that o'er Lugano blows; + Still have I found, where Tyranny prevails, + That virtue languishes and pleasure fails, [170] + While the remotest hamlets blessings share + In thy loved [171] presence known, and only there; 600 + _Heart_-blessings--outward treasures too which the eye + Of the sun peeping through the clouds can spy, + And every passing breeze will testify. [172] + There, to the porch, belike with jasmine bound + Or woodbine wreaths, a smoother path is wound; [173] 605 + The housewife there a brighter garden sees, + Where hum on busier wing her happy bees; [174] + On infant cheeks there fresher roses blow; + And grey-haired men look up with livelier brow,--[175] + To greet the traveller needing food and rest; 610 + Housed for the night, or but a half-hour's guest. [176] + + And oh, fair France! though now the traveller sees + Thy three-striped banner fluctuate on the breeze;[177] + Though martial songs have banished songs of love, + And nightingales desert the village grove, [178] 615 + Scared by the fife and rumbling drum's alarms, + And the short thunder, and the flash of arms; + That cease not till night falls, when far and nigh, + Sole sound, the Sourd [Gg] prolongs his mournful cry! [179] + --Yet, hast thou found that Freedom spreads her power 620 + Beyond the cottage-hearth, the cottage-door: + All nature smiles, and owns beneath her eyes + Her fields peculiar, and peculiar skies. + Yes, as I roamed where Loiret's waters glide + Through rustling aspens heard from side to side, 625 + When from October clouds a milder light + Fell where the blue flood rippled into white; + Methought from every cot the watchful bird + Crowed with ear-piercing power till then unheard; + Each clacking mill, that broke the murmuring streams, 630 + Rocked the charmed thought in more delightful dreams; + Chasing those pleasant dreams, [180] the falling leaf + Awoke a fainter sense [181] of moral grief; + The measured echo of the distant flail + Wound in more welcome cadence down the vale; 635 + With more majestic course the water rolled, + And ripening foliage shone with richer gold. [182] + --But foes are gathering--Liberty must raise + Red on the hills her beacon's far-seen blaze; + Must bid the tocsin ring from tower to tower!-- 640 + Nearer and nearer comes the trying hour! [183] + Rejoice, brave Land, though pride's perverted ire + Rouse hell's own aid, and wrap thy fields in fire: + Lo, from the flames a great and glorious birth; + As if a new-made heaven were hailing a new earth! [184] 645 + --All cannot be: the promise is too fair + For creatures doomed to breathe terrestrial air: + Yet not for this will sober reason frown + Upon that promise, not the hope disown; + She knows that only from high aims ensue 650 + Rich guerdons, and to them alone are due. [185] + + Great God! by whom the strifes of men are weighed + In an impartial balance, give thine aid + To the just cause; and, oh! do thou preside + Over the mighty stream now spreading wide: [Hh] 655 + So shall its waters, from the heavens supplied + In copious showers, from earth by wholesome springs, + Brood o'er the long-parched lands with Nile-like wings! + And grant that every sceptred child of clay + Who cries presumptuous, "Here the flood shall stay," [186] 660 + May in its progress see thy guiding hand, + And cease the acknowledged purpose to withstand; [187] + Or, swept in anger from the insulted shore, + Sink with his servile bands, to rise no more! [188] + + To-night, my Friend, within this humble cot 665 + Be scorn and fear and hope alike forgot [189] + In timely sleep; and when, at break of day, + On the tall peaks the glistening sunbeams play, [190] + With a light heart our course we may renew, + The first whose footsteps print the mountain dew. [191] 670 + + + + * * * * * + + +VARIANTS ON THE TEXT + + +[Variant 1: + +1827. + + ... a spot of holy ground, + By Pain and her sad family unfound, + Sure, Nature's God that spot to man had given, + Where murmuring rivers join the song of even; + Where falls ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 2: + +1836. + + Where the resounding power of water shakes 1820. + + Where with loud voice the power of waters shakes 1827.] + + +[Variant 3: + +1836. + + And not unrecompensed the man shall roam, + Who, to converse with Nature, quits his home, + And plods o'er hills and vales his way forlorn, + Wooing her various charms from eve to morn. 1820. + + Yet not unrecompensed the man shall roam, + Who at the call of summer quits his home, + And plods through some far realm o'er vale and height, + Though seeking only holiday delight; 1827.] + + +[Variant 4: Lines 13 and 14 were introduced in 1827.] + + +[Variant 5: + +1827. + + No sad vacuities [i] his heart annoy;-- + Blows not a Zephyr but it whispers joy; + For him lost flowers their idle sweets exhale; + He tastes the meanest note that swells the gale; + For him sod-seats ... 1815. + + Breathes not a zephyr but it whispers joy; + For him the loneliest flowers their sweets exhale; + He marks "the meanest note that swells the [ii] gale;" 1820.] + + +[Variant 6: + +1820. + + And dear the green-sward to his velvet tread; 1815.] + + +[Variant 7: + +1815. + + Whilst ... Only in 1820.] + + +[Variant 8: + +1820. + + ... with kindest ray + To light him shaken by his viewless way. 1815.] + + +[Variant 9: + +1836. + + With bashful fear no cottage children steal + From him, a brother at the cottage meal, 1815.] + + +[Variant 10: + +1845. + + Much wondering what sad stroke of crazing Care, + Or desperate Love could lead a wanderer there. 1815. + + Much wondering in what fit of crazing care, + Or desperate love, a wanderer came there. 1836.] + + +[Variant 11: + +1836. + + Me, lured by hope her sorrows to remove, + A heart that could not much itself approve, + O'er Gallia's wastes of corn dejected led, + Her road elms rustling high above my head, + Or through her truant pathways' native charms, + By secret villages and lonely farms, + To where the Alps ... 1820. + + ... could not much herself approve, 1827. + + ... lured by hope its sorrows to remove, 1832. + +The lines 46, 47, were expanded in the edition of 1836 from one line in +the editions of 1820-1832.] + + +[Variant 12: + +1836. + + I sigh at hoary Chartreuse' doom. + Where now is fled that Power whose frown severe + Tamed "sober Reason" till she crouched in fear? + That breathed a death-like peace these woods around; + The cloister startles ... 1815. + + Even now, emerging from the forest's gloom, + I heave a sigh at hoary Chartreuse' doom. + Where now is fled that Power whose frown severe + Tamed "sober Reason" till she crouched in fear? 1820.] + + +[Variant 13: + +1836. + + That breathed a death-like silence wide around, + Broke only by the unvaried torrent's sound, + Or prayer-bell by the dull cicada drown'd. 1820. + +The editions of 1827 and 1832 omit these lines.] + + +[Variant 14: + +1836. + + The cloister startles at the gleam of arms, + And Blasphemy the shuddering fane alarms; 1815.] + + +[Variant 15: + +1793. + + That ... 1827. + +The edition of 1836 returns to the text of 1793.] + + +[Variant 16: + +1836. + + And swells the groaning torrent with his tears. 1815. + +In the editions 1815-1832 lines 61, 62 followed line 66.] + + +[Variant 17: + +1836. + + Nod the cloud-piercing pines their troubled heads, 1815.] + + +[Variant 18: + +1836. + + The cross with hideous laughter Demons mock, + By angels planted on the aereal rock. 1815. + + The cross, by angels on the aërial rock + Planted, a flight of laughing demons mock. 1832.] + + +[Variant 19: + +1836. + + ... sound ... 1815.] + + +[Variant 20: + +1836. + + To ringing team unknown ... 1815.] + + +[Variant 21: + +1827. + + Wild round the steeps the little pathway twines, 1815.] + + +[Variant 22: + +1836. + + The viewless lingerer ... 1815.] + + +[Variant 23: + +1845. + + Tracking the yellow sun from steep to steep, + As up the opposing hills, with tortoise foot, they creep. 1815. + + And track the yellow light ... 1836. + + ... on naked steeps + As up the opposing hill it slowly creeps. C.] + + +[Variant 24: + +1845. + + Here half a village shines, in gold arrayed, + Bright as the moon; ... 1815.] + + +[Variant 25: + +1827. + + From the dark sylvan roofs the restless spire + Inconstant glancing, mounts like springing fire. 1815.] + + +[Variant 26: + +1836. + + ... the waves ... 1815.] + + +[Variant 27: + +1836. + + Th' unwearied sweep of wood thy cliffs that scales; + The never-ending waters of thy vales; 1815.] + + +[Variant 28: + +1836. + +Line 111 was previously three lines, thus-- + + The cots, those dim religious groves embower, + Or, under rocks that from the water tower + Insinuated, sprinkling all the shore, 1815.] + + +[Variant 29: + +1836. + + ... his ... 1815.] + + +[Variant 30: + +1836. + + Whose flaccid sails in forms fantastic droop, + Bright'ning the gloom where thick the forests stoop; + +Only in the editions 1815 to 1832.] + + +[Variant 31: + +1827. + + ... like swallows' nests that cleave on high; 1815.] + + +[Variant 32: + +1827. + + While Evening's solemn bird melodious weeps, + Heard, by star-spotted bays, beneath the steeps; + +Only in the editions of 1815 and 1820.] + + +[Variant 33: + +1836. + + --Thy lake, mid smoking woods, that blue and grey + Gleams, streaked or dappled, hid from morning's ray 1815. + + As beautiful the flood where blue or grey + Dappled, or streaked, as hid from morning's ray. C.] + + +[Variant 34: + +1836. + + ... to fold 1815.] + + +[Variant 35: + +1836. + + From thickly-glittering spires the matin bell + Calling the woodman from his desert cell, + A summons to the sound of oars, that pass, + Spotting the steaming deeps, to early mass; + Slow swells the service o'er the water born, + While fill each pause the ringing woods of morn. 1815. + + Calls forth the woodman with its cheerful knell. C.] + + +[Variant 36: This couplet was first added in 1845.] + + +[Variant 37: + +1845. + + Farewell those forms that in thy noon-tide shade, + Rest, near their little plots of wheaten glade; 1820. + + Ye lovely forms that in the noontide shade + Rest near their little plots of wheaten glade. C.] + + +[Variant 38: + +1845. + + Those charms that bind ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 39: + +1836. + + And winds, ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 40: + +1836. + + Yet arts are thine that soothe the unquiet heart, + And smiles to Solitude and Want impart. + I lov'd, 'mid thy most desart woods astray, + With pensive step to measure my slow way, + By lonely, silent cottage-doors to roam, + The far-off peasant's day-deserted home. 1820. + + I loved by silent cottage-doors to roam, + The far-off peasant's day-deserted home; 1827. + +These two lines take the place of the second and third couplets of the +1820 text quoted above.] + + +[Variant 41: + +1836. + + Once did I pierce to where a cabin stood; + The red-breast peace had buried it in wood, 1820. + + And once I pierced the mazes of a wood, + Where, far from public haunt, a cabin stood; 1827.] + + +[Variant 42: + +1836. + + There, by the door a hoary-headed Sire + Touched with his withered hand an ancient lyre; 1820.] + + +[Variant 43: + +1836. + +This and the following line were expanded from + + Beneath an old-grey oak, as violets lie, 1820.] + + +[Variant 44: + +1836. + + ... joined the holy sound; 1820.] + + +[Variant 45: + +1836. + + While ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 46: + +1845. + + Bend o'er th' abyss, the else impervious gloom 1820. + + Hang o'er th' abyss:--... 1827. + + ... the abyss:--... 1832.] + + +[Variant 47: + +1836. + + Freshening the waste of sand with shades and springs. + --_She_, solitary, through the desart drear + Spontaneous wanders, hand in hand with Fear. 1820. + + By choice or doom a gipsy wanders here, + Companionless, or hand in hand with fear; + Lo! where she sits beneath yon shaggy rock, + A cowering shape half-seen through curling smoke. MS.] + + +[Variant 48: + +1836. + + The Grison gypsey here her tent hath placed, + Sole human tenant of the piny waste; + Her tawny skin, dark eyes, and glossy locks, + Bend o'er the smoke that curls beneath the rocks.[iii] 1820.] + + +[Variant 49: + +1845. + +Lines 179-185 were substituted in 1845 for + + A giant moan along the forest swells + Protracted, and the twilight storm foretels, + And, ruining from the cliffs, their deafening load + Tumbles,--the wildering Thunder slips abroad; + On the high summits Darkness comes and goes, + Hiding their fiery clouds, their rocks, and snows; + The torrent, traversed by the lustre broad, + Starts like a horse beside the flashing road; + In the roofed bridge, at that terrific hour, + She seeks a shelter from the battering show'r. + --Fierce comes the river down; the crashing wood + Gives way, and half it's pines torment the flood; + [iv] Fearful, beneath, the Water-spirits call, + And the bridge vibrates, tottering to its fall. 1820. + + When rueful moans along the forest swell + Protracted, and the twilight storm foretel, + And, headlong from the cliffs, a deafening load + Tumbles,--and wildering thunder slips abroad; + When on the summits Darkness comes and goes, + Hiding their fiery clouds, their rocks, and snows; + And the fierce torrent, from the lustre broad, + Starts, like a horse beside the flashing road-- + She seeks a covert from the battering shower + In the roofed bridge; the bridge, in that dread hour, + Itself all quaking at the torrent's power. 1836.] + + +[Variant 50: + +1845. + +Lines 186-195 were substituted in 1845 for + + --Heavy, and dull, and cloudy is the night; + No star supplies the comfort of it's light, + Glimmer the dim-lit Alps, dilated, round, + And one sole light shifts in the vale profound; [s1] + While, [s2] opposite, the waning moon hangs still, + And red, above her [s3] melancholy hill. + By the deep quiet gloom appalled, she sighs, [s4] + Stoops her sick head, and shuts her weary eyes. + She hears, upon the mountain forest's brow, + The death-dog, howling loud and long, below; + --Breaking th' ascending roar of desert floods, + And insect buzz, that stuns the sultry woods, [s5] + On viewless fingers [s6] counts the valley-clock, + Followed by drowsy crow of midnight cock. + --Bursts from the troubled larch's giant boughs + The pie, and, chattering, breaks the night's repose. [s7] + The dry leaves stir as with the serpent's walk, + And, far beneath, Banditti voices talk; + Behind her hill, [s8] the Moon, all crimson, rides, + And his red eyes the slinking Water hides. + --Vexed by the darkness, from the piny gulf + Ascending, nearer howls the famished wolf, [s9] + While thro' the stillness scatters wild dismay + Her babe's small cry, that leads him to his prey. 1820. + +s1-s9: see Sub-Variants below. txt. Ed.] + + +[Variant 51: + +1836. + + Now, passing Urseren's open vale serene, + Her quiet streams, and hills of downy green, + Plunge with the Russ embrowned by Terror's breath, + Where danger roofs the narrow walks of death; 1815. + + Plunge where the Reuss with fearless might has rent + His headlong way along a dark descent. MS. + +In the edition of 1836 these two couplets of 1815 were compressed into +one, and in that edition lines 200-201 preceded lines 198-199. They were +transposed in 1840.] + + +[Variant 52: + +1836. + + By floods, that, thundering from their dizzy height, + Swell more gigantic on the stedfast sight; + Black drizzling crags, that beaten by the din, + Vibrate, as if a voice complained within; + Bare steeps, where Desolation stalks afraid, + Unstedfast, by a blasted yew unstayed; + By cells whose image, trembling as he prays, + Awe-struck, the kneeling peasant scarce surveys; + Loose hanging rocks the Day's bless'd eye that hide, + And crosses reared to Death on every side, + Which with cold kiss Devotion planted near, + And bending water'd with the human tear; + That faded "silent" from her upward eye, + Unmoved with each rude form of Danger nigh, 1815.] + + +[Variant 53: + +1836. + + On as we move a softer prospect opes, + Calm huts, and lawns between, and sylvan slopes. 1815.] + + +[Variant 54: + +1845. + + While mists, suspended on the expiring gale, + Moveless o'er-hang the deep secluded vale, 1815. + + Where mists, 1836. + + Where mists suspended on the evening gale, + Spread roof-like o'er a deep secluded vale, C. + + Given to clear view beneath a hoary veil + Of mists suspended on the evening gale. MS.] + + +[Variant 55: + +1836. + + The beams of evening, slipping soft between, + Light up of tranquil joy a sober scene. 1815. + + Gently illuminate a sober scene; 1827.] + + +[Variant 56: In the editions 1815-1832 ll. 214, 215 follow, instead of +preceding, ll. 216-219.] + + +[Variant 57: + +1845. + + On the low brown wood-huts delighted sleep + Along the brightened gloom reposing deep. 1815. + + Here, on the brown wood-cottages they sleep, + There, over lawns and sloping woodlands creep. 1836. + + There, over lawn or sloping pasture creep. C.] + + +[Variant 58: + +1845. + + Winding its dark-green wood and emerald glade, + The still vale lengthens underneath the shade; + While in soft gloom the scattering bowers recede, + Green dewy lights adorn the freshened mead, 1815. + + Winding its darksome wood and emerald glade, + The still vale lengthens underneath the shade + Of low-hung vapour: on the freshened mead + The green light sparkles;--the dim bowers recede. 1836.] + + +[Variant 59: + +1836. + + ... drizzling ... 1815.] + + +[Variant 60: + +1845. + + ... my soul awake, + Lo! Fear looks silent down on Uri's lake; + Where by the unpathwayed margin still and dread + Was never heard the plodding peasant's tread: 1815.] + + +[Variant 61: + +1845. + + Tower like a wall the naked rocks, or reach + Far o'er the secret water dark with beech; 1815. + + Tower-like rise up the naked rocks, or stretch 1836.] + + +[Variant 62: + +1845. + + More high, to where creation seems to end, + Shade above shade the desert pines ascend. 1815. + + ... the aërial pines ... 1820. + + Shade above shade, the aërial pines ascend, + Nor stop but where creation seems to end. 1836.] + + +[Variant 63: + +1845. + +(Compressing eight lines into four.) + + Yet, with his infants, man undaunted creeps + And hangs his small wood-hut upon the steeps, + Where'er, below, amid the savage scene + Peeps out a little speck of smiling green. + A garden-plot the mountain air perfumes, + Mid the dark pines a little orchard blooms; + A zig-zag path from the domestic skiff, + Threading the painful crag, surmounts the cliff. 1815. + + ... wood-cabin on the steeps. 1820. + + ... the desert air perfumes, 1820. + + Thridding the painful crag, ... 1832. + + Yet, wheresoe'er amid the savage scene + Peeps out a little spot of smiling green, + Man with his babes undaunted thither creeps, + And hangs his small wood-hut upon the steeps. + A garden-plot ... 1836.] + + +[Variant 64: + +1845. + + --Before those hermit doors, that never know 1815. + + --Before those lonesome doors, ... 1836.] + + +[Variant 65: + +1845. + + The grassy seat beneath their casement shade + The pilgrim's wistful eye hath never stayed. 1815. + + The shady porch ne'er offered a cool seat + To pilgrims overpowered by summer's heat. 1836.] + +[Variants 66 and 67: See Appendix III.--Ed.] + + +[Variant 68: + +1845. + +Lines 246 to 253 were previously: + + --There, did the iron Genius not disdain + The gentle Power that haunts the myrtle plain, + There might the love-sick Maiden sit, and chide + Th' insuperable rocks and severing tide, + There watch at eve her Lover's sun-gilt sail + Approaching, and upbraid the tardy gale, + There list at midnight, till is heard no more, + Below, the echo of his parting oar, + There hang in fear, when growls the frozen stream, [v] + To guide his dangerous tread, the taper's gleam. 1815. + + There might the maiden chide, in love-sick mood, + The insuperable rocks and severing flood; 1836. + + At midnight listen till his parting oar, + And its last echo, can be heard no more. 1836. + + Yet tender thoughts dwell there, no solitude + Hath power youth's natural feelings to exclude; + There doth the maiden watch her lover's sail + Approaching, and upbraid the tardy gale. C.] + + +[Variant 69: + +1845. + + Mid stormy vapours ever driving by, + Where ospreys, cormorants, and herons cry; 1815. + + Where ospreys, cormorants, and herons cry, + 'Mid stormy vapours ever driving by, 1836.] + + +[Variant 70: + +1836. + + Where hardly given the hopeless waste to cheer, + Denied the bread of life the foodful ear, 1815. + + Hovering o'er rugged wastes too bleak to rear + That common growth of earth, the foodful ear; 1820.] + + +[Variant 71: + +1820. + + Dwindles the pear on autumn's latest spray, + And apple sickens pale in summer's ray; 1815.] + + +[Variant 72: + +1845. + + Ev'n here Content has fixed her smiling reign 1815.] + + +[Variant 73: + +1845. + + And often grasps her sword, and often eyes: + Her crest a bough of Winter's bleakest pine, + Strange "weeds" and alpine plants her helm entwine, + And wildly-pausing oft she hangs aghast, + While thrills the "Spartan fife" between the blast. 1815. + + Flowers of the loftiest Alps her helm entwine; + And, wildly pausing, oft she hangs aghast, + As thrills ... 1836. + + And oft at Fancy's call she stands aghast, + As if some old Swiss air had checked her haste, + Or thrill of Spartan fife were caught between the blast. C.] + + +[Variant 74: + +1845. + + 'Tis storm; and, hid in mist from hour to hour, 1815.] + + +[Variant 75: + +1845. + + Glances the fire-clad eagle's wheeling form; 1815. + + ... glorious form; 1836.] + + +[Variant 76: + +1845. + + Wide o'er the Alps a hundred streams unfold, 1815. + + Those eastern cliffs ... 1836.] + + +[Variant 77: + +1845. + + ... strives to shun + The west ... 1815. + + ... tries to shun + The _west_, ... 1836.] + + +[Variant 78: + +1845. + + Where in a mighty crucible expire + The mountains, glowing hot, like coals of fire. 1815.] + + +[Variant 79: + +1836. + + While burn in his full eyes the glorious tears. 1820.] + + +[Variant 80: + +1836. + + Exalt, and agitate ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 81: + +1836. + + On Zutphen's plain; or where, with soften'd gaze, + The old grey stones the plaided chief surveys; + Can guess the high resolve, the cherished pain + Of him whom passion rivets to the plain, 1820.] + + +[Variant 82: + +1836. + + And watch, from pike to pike, amid the sky + Small as a bird the chamois-chaser fly, 1820.] + + +[Variant 83: + +1836. + + Thro' worlds where Life, and Sound, and Motion sleep; + Where Silence still her death-like reign extends, + Save when the startling cliff unfrequent rends: + In the deep snow the mighty ruin drowned, + Mocks the dull ear ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 84: + +1836. + + While the near moon, that coasts the vast profound, + Wheels pale and silent her diminished round, 1820.] + + +[Variant 85: + +1827. + + Flying more fleet than vision can pursue! 1820.] + + +[Variant 86: + +1836. + + Then with Despair's whole weight his spirits sink, + No bread to feed him, and the snow his drink, + While, ere his eyes ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 87: + +1836. + + Hence shall we turn where, heard with fear afar, 1820.] + + +[Variant 88: + +1836. + + ... from ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 89: + +1836. + + Nought but the herds that pasturing upward creep, + Hung dim-discover'd from the dangerous steep, + Or summer hamlet, flat and bare, on high + Suspended, mid the quiet of the sky. 1815.] + + +[Variant 90: + +1836. + + Broke only by the melancholy sound 1815.] + + +[Variant 91: The two previous lines were added in 1836.] + + +[Variant 92: + +1832. + + Save that, the stranger seen below, ... 1815.] + + +[Variant 93: + +1836. + + When warm from myrtle bays and tranquil seas, + Comes on, to whisper hope, the vernal breeze, + When hums the mountain bee in May's glad ear, + And emerald isles to spot the heights appear, 1815.] + + +[Variant 94: + + When fragrant scents beneath th' enchanted tread + Spring up, his choicest wealth around him spread, + +Inserted in the editions 1815 to 1832.] + + +[Variant 95: + +1836. + + The pastoral Swiss begins the cliffs to scale, + To silence leaving the deserted vale, 1815] + + +[Variant 96: + +1836. + + Mounts, where the verdure leads, from stage to stage, + And pastures on, as in the Patriarch's age: 1815.] + + +[Variant 97: + +1836. + + O'er lofty heights serene and still they go, 1815.] + + +[Variant 98: + +1836. + +(Omitting the first of the two following couplets.) + + They cross the chasmy torrent's foam-lit bed, + Rocked on the dizzy larch's narrow tread; + Or steal beneath loose mountains, half deterr'd, + That sigh and shudder to the lowing herd. 1815.] + + +[Variant 99: This couplet was added in the edition of 1836.] + + +[Variant 100: + +1836. + +Lines 380-385 were previously: + + --I see him, up the midway cliff he creeps + To where a scanty knot of verdure peeps, + Thence down the steep a pile of grass he throws, + The fodder of his herds in winter snows. 1815.] + + +[Variant 101: + +1836. + + ... to what tradition hoar + Transmits of days more blest ... 1815.] + + +[Variant 102: + +1845. + + Then Summer lengthened out his season bland, + And with rock-honey flowed the happy land. 1815. + + Then Summer lingered long; and honey flowed + Out of the rocks, the wild bees' safe abode. 1836.] + + +[Variant 103: + +1836. + + Continual fountains ... 1815.] + + +[Variant 104: + +1836. + + Nor Hunger forced the herds from pastures bare + For scanty food the treacherous cliffs to dare. 1815.] + + +[Variant 105: + +1836. + + Then the milk-thistle bade those herds demand + Three times a day the pail and welcome hand. 1815.] + + +[Variant 106: + +1836. + + Thus does the father to his sons relate, + On the lone mountain top, their changed estate. 1815.] + + +[Variant 107: + +1836. + + But human vices have provoked the rod 1815. + +In the editions 1815-1832 this and the following line preceded lines +399-400. They took their final position in the edition of 1836.] + + +[Variant 108: + +1836. + + ... whose vales and mountains round 1820.] + + +[Variant 109: + +1836. + +(Compressing eight lines into six.) + + ... to awful silence bound. + A gulf of gloomy blue, that opens wide + And bottomless, divides the midway tide. + Like leaning masts of stranded ships appear + The pines that near the coast their summits rear; + Of cabins, woods, and lawns a pleasant shore + Bounds calm and clear the chaps still and hoar; + Loud thro' that midway gulf ascending, sound + Unnumber'd streams with hollow roar profound: 1820.] + + +[Variant 110: + +1836. + + Mount thro' the nearer mist the chaunt of birds, + And talking voices, and the low of herds, + The bark of dogs, the drowsy tinkling bell, + And wild-wood mountain lutes of saddest swell. 1820.] + + +[Variant 111: + +1836. + + Think not, suspended from the cliff on high, + He looks below with undelighted eye. 1820.] + + +[Variant 112: This couplet was added in the edition of 1836.] + + +[Variant 113: + +1836. + + --No vulgar joy is his, at even tide + Stretch'd on the scented mountain's purple side. 1820.] + + +[Variant 114: + +1836. + + While Hope, that ceaseless leans on Pleasure's urn, 1820.] + + +[Variant 115: + +1836. + + ... by vestal ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 116: + +1836. + + ... native ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 117: + +1832. + + He marches with his flute, his book, and sword; 1820.] + + +[Variant 118: + +1845. + + ... wonderous ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 119: + +1840. + + ... glorious ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 120: + +1836. + + Uncertain thro' his fierce uncultured soul + Like lighted tempests troubled transports roll; + To viewless realms his Spirit towers amain, 1820.] + + +[Variant 121: + +1836. + + And oft, when pass'd that solemn vision by, 1820.] + + +[Variant 122: + +1836. + + Where the dread peal ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 123: + +1836. + + --When the Sun bids the gorgeous scene farewell, + Alps overlooking Alps their state up-swell; + Huge Pikes of Darkness named, of Fear and Storms, + Lift, all serene, their still, illumined forms, 1820.] + + +[Variant 124: + +1845. + + --Great joy, by horror tam'd, dilates his heart, + And the near heavens their own delights impart. 1820. + +In the editions 1820-1832 this couplet preceded the four lines above +quoted. + + Fear in his breast with holy love unites, + And the near heavens impart their own delights. 1836.] + + +[Variant 125: + +1836. + + That hut which from the hills his eyes employs + So oft, the central point of all his joys, 1815. + + ... his eye ... 1832.] + + +[Variant 126: + +1836 + + And as a swift, by tender cares opprest, + Peeps often ere she dart into her nest, + So to the untrodden floor, where round him looks + His father, helpless as the babe he rocks, + Oft he descends to nurse the brother pair, 1820.] + + +[Variant 127: + +1820. + + Where, ... 1815.] + + +[Variant 128: + +1836. + + Rush down the living rocks with whirlwind sound. 1815.] + + +[Variant 129: + +1820. + + Content ... 1815. ] + + +[Variant 130: + +1836. + + ... consecrate ... 1815.] + + +[Variant 131: The following lines were erased in 1836, and in all +subsequent editions: + + "Here," cried a swain, whose venerable head + Bloom'd with the snow-drops of Man's narrow bed, + Last night, while by his dying fire, as clos'd + The day, in luxury my limbs repos'd, + Here Penury oft from misery's mount will guide + Ev'n to the summer door his icy tide, + And here the avalanche of Death destroy + The little cottage of domestic Joy. 1793.] + + ... a Swain, upon whose hoary head + The "blossoms of the grave" were thinly spread, 1820. + + ... a thoughtful Swain, upon whose head 1827.] + + +[Variant 132: + +1836. + + But, ah! the unwilling mind ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 133: + +1836. + + The churlish gales, that unremitting blow + Cold from necessity's continual snow, 1820.] + + +[Variant 134: + +1836. + + To us ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 135: + +1836. + + ... a never-ceasing ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 136: + +1836. + + The father, as his sons of strength become + To pay the filial debt, for food to roam, 1820.] + + +[Variant 137: + +1836. + + From his bare nest ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 138: + +1836. + + His last dread pleasure! watches ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 139: + +1836. + + When the poor heart has all its joys resigned, + Why does their sad remembrance cleave behind? 1820.] + + +[Variant 140: + +1836. + + Soft o'er the waters mournful measures swell, + Unlocking tender thought's "memorial cell"; + Past pleasures are transformed to mortal pains + And poison spreads along the listener's veins. 1820. + + While poison ... 1827.] + + +[Variant 141: + +1836. + + Fair smiling lights the purpled hills illume! 1815.] + + +[Variant 142: + +1836. + + Soft ... 1815.] + + +[Variant 143: + +1836. + + Soon flies the little joy to man allowed, + And grief before him travels like a cloud: 1815.] + + +[Variant 144: + +1836. (Expanding four lines into six.) + + For come Diseases on, and Penury's rage, + Labour, and Care, and Pain, and dismal Age, + Till, Hope-deserted, long in vain his breath + Implores the dreadful untried sleep of Death. 1815.] + + +[Variant 145: + +1836. + + A Temple stands; which holds an awful shrine, 1815.] + + +[Variant 146: + +1836. + + Pale, dreadful faces round the Shrine appear, 1815.] + + +[Variant 147: + +1836. After this line the editions of 1815-1832 have the following +couplet: + + While strives a secret Power to hush the crowd, + Pain's wild rebellious burst proclaims her rights aloud, + +and this is followed by lines 545-6 of the final text.] + + +[Variant 148: + +1836. + +From 1815 to 1832, the following two couplets followed line 546. The +first of these was withdrawn in 1836. + + Mid muttering prayers all sounds of torment meet, + Dire clap of hands, distracted chafe of feet; + While loud and dull ascends the weeping cry, + Surely in other thoughts contempt may die. 1815.] + + +[Variant 149: + +1836. + + --The tall Sun, tiptoe ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 150: + +1836. + + At such an hour there are who love to stray, + And meet the advancing Pilgrims ere the day 1820. + + Now let us meet the Pilgrims ere the day + Close on the remnant of their weary way; 1827.] + + +[Variant 151: + +1836. + + For ye are drawing tow'rd that sacred floor, + Where the charmed worm of pain shall gnaw no more. 1820. + + While they are drawing toward the sacred floor 1827.] + + +[Variant 152: + +1827. + + ... for you ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 153: + +1836. + + --Now with a tearful kiss each other greet, + Nor longer naked be your toil-worn feet, 1820. + + There some with tearful kiss each other greet, + And some, with reverence, wash their toil-worn feet. 1827.] + + +[Variant 154: + +1836. + + Yes I will see you when you first behold 1820. + + ... ye ... 1827.] + + +[Variant 155: This couplet was added in 1836.] + + +[Variant 156: + +1836. + + ... the hands ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 157: + +1836. + + Last let us turn to where Chamouny shields, 1820.] + + +[Variant 158: + +1827. + + Bosomed in gloomy woods, ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 159: + +1836. + + Here lawns and shades by breezy rivulets fann'd, + Here all the Seasons revel hand in hand. 1820.] + + +[Variant 160: + +1836. + + --Red stream the cottage-lights; the landscape fades, + Erroneous wavering mid the twilight shades. + +Inserted in the editions 1820 to 1832.] + + +[Variant 161: + +1836. + + Alone ascends that Mountain named of white, 1820. + + Alone ascends that Hill of matchless height, 1827.] + + +[Variant 162: + +1836. + + ... amid ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 163: + +1836. + + Mysterious ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 164: + +1836. + + ... 'mid ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 165: + +1836. + + At such an hour I heaved a pensive sigh, + When roared the sullen Arve in anger by, 1820.] + + +[Variant 166: + +1836. + + ... delicious ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 167: + +1836. + + Hard lot!--for no Italian arts are thine + To cheat, or chear, to soften, or refine. 1820. + + To soothe or cheer, ... 1827.] + + +[Variant 168: + +1836. + + Beloved Freedom! were it mine to stray, + With shrill winds roaring ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 169: + +1836. + + O'er ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 170: + +1836. + +(Compressing four lines into two.) + + ... o'er Lugano blows; + In the wide ranges of many a varied round, + Fleet as my passage was, I still have found + That where proud courts their blaze of gems display, + The lilies of domestic joy decay, 1820. + + That where despotic courts their gems display, 1827.] + + +[Variant 171: + +1836. + + In thy dear ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 172: The previous three lines were added in the edition of 1836.] + + +[Variant 173: + +1836. + + The casement's shed more luscious woodbine binds, + And to the door a neater pathway winds; 1820.] + + +[Variant 174: + +1836. + +(Compressing six lines into two.) + + At early morn, the careful housewife, led + To cull her dinner from its garden bed, + Of weedless herbs a healthier prospect sees, + While hum with busier joy her happy bees; + In brighter rows her table wealth aspires, + And laugh with merrier blaze her evening fires; 1820.] + + +[Variant 175: + +1836. + + Her infants' cheeks with fresher roses glow, + And wilder graces sport around their brow; 1820.] + + +[Variant 176: + +1836. + +(Compressing four lines into two.) + + By clearer taper lit, a cleanlier board + Receives at supper hour her tempting hoard; + The chamber hearth with fresher boughs is spread, + And whiter is the hospitable bed. 1820.] + + +[Variant 177: + +1845. + +(Compressing four lines into two.) + + And oh, fair France! though now along the shade + Where erst at will the grey-clad peasant strayed, + Gleam war's discordant garments through the trees, + And the red banner mocks the froward breeze; 1820. + + ... discordant vestments through the trees, + And the red banner fluctuates in the breeze; 1827. + + ... though in the rural shade + Where at his will, so late, the grey-clad peasant strayed, + Now, clothed in war's discordant garb, he sees + The three-striped banner fluctuate on the breeze; 1836.] + + +[Variant 178: + +1836. + + Though now no more thy maids their voices suit + To the low-warbled breath of twilight lute, + And, heard the pausing village hum between, + No solemn songstress lull the fading green, 1820. + + Though martial songs have banish'd songs of love, + And nightingales forsake the village grove, 1827. + +(Compressing the four lines of 1820 into two.)] + + +[Variant 179: + +1836. + + While, as Night bids the startling uproar die, + Sole sound, the Sourd renews his mournful cry! 1820.] + + +[Variant 180: + +1836. + + Chasing those long long dreams, ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 181: + +1845. + + ... fainter pang ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 182: + +1836. + + A more majestic tide [vi] the water roll'd, + And glowed the sun-gilt groves in richer gold. 1820.] + + +[Variant 183: + +1836. + +(Compressing six lines into four.) + + --Though Liberty shall soon, indignant, raise + Red on the hills his beacon's comet blaze; + Bid from on high his lonely cannon sound, + And on ten thousand hearths his shout rebound; + His larum-bell from village-tower to tower + Swing on the astounded ear its dull undying roar; 1820.] + + +[Variant 184: + +1836. + + Yet, yet rejoice, though Pride's perverted ire + Rouze Hell's own aid, and wrap thy hills on fire! + Lo! from the innocuous flames, a lovely birth, + With its own Virtues springs another earth: 1820.] + + +[Variant 185: + +1836. + +Lines 646-651 were previously + + Nature, as in her prime, her virgin reign + Begins, and Love and Truth compose her train; + While, with a pulseless hand, and stedfast gaze, + Unbreathing Justice her still beam surveys. 1820.] + + +[Variant 186: + +1836. + +(Expanding eight lines into nine.) + + Oh give, great God, to Freedom's waves to ride + Sublime o'er Conquest, Avarice, and Pride, + To sweep where Pleasure decks her guilty bowers + And dark Oppression builds her thick-ribbed towers! + --Give them, beneath their breast while gladness springs + To brood the nations o'er with Nile-like wings; + And grant that every sceptred Child of clay, + Who cries, presumptuous, "here their tides shall stay," 1820.] + + +[Variant 187: This couplet was added in 1836.] + + +[Variant 188: + +1836. + + Swept in their anger from the affrighted shore, + With all his creatures sink--to rise no more! 1820.] + + +[Variant 189: + +1845. + + Be the dead load of mortal ills forgot! 1820 + + Be fear and joyful hope alike forgot 1836.] + + +[Variant 190: This couplet was added in 1827.] + + +[Variant 191: + +1836. + + Renewing, when the rosy summits glow + At morn, our various journey, sad and slow. 1820. + + With lighter heart our course we may renew, + The first whose footsteps print the mountain dew. 1827.] + + + + * * * * * + +SUB-VARIANTS + + +[Sub-Variant 1: + + A single taper in the vale profound + Shifts, while the Alps dilated glimmer round; 1832.] + + +[Sub-Variant 2: + + And, ... 1832.] + + +[Sub-Variant 3: + + ... above yon ... 1836.] + + +[Sub-Variant 4: + + By the deep gloom appalled, the Vagrant sighs, 1836.] + + +[Sub-Variant 5: This couplet was cancelled in the edition of 1827.] + + +[Sub-Variant 6: + + Or on her fingers ... 1836.] + + +[Sub-Variant 7: This couplet was withdrawn in 1827.] + + +[Sub-Variant 8: + + Behind the hill ... 1836.] + + +[Sub-Variant 9: + + Near and yet nearer, from the piny gulf + Howls, by the darkness vexed, the famished wolf, 1836.] + + + * * * * * + + +FOOTNOTES + + +[Footnote A: See note to the "Juvenile Pieces" in the edition of 1836 +(p. 1).--Ed.] + + +[Footnote B: There is something characteristic in Wordsworth's +addressing an intimate travelling companion in this way. S. T. C., or +Charles Lamb, would have written, as we do, "My dear Jones"; but +Wordsworth addressed his friend as "Dear Sir," and described his sister +as "a Young Lady," and as a "Female Friend."--Ed.] + + +[Footnote C: In a small pocket copy of the 'Orlando Furioso' of +Ariosto--now in the possession of the poet's grandson, Mr. Gordon +Wordsworth--of which the title-page is torn away, the following is +written on the first page, "My companion in the Alps with Jones. W. +Wordsworth:" also "W. W. to D. W." (He had given it to his sister +Dorothy.) On the last page is written, "I carried this Book with me in +my pedestrian tour in the Alps with Jones. W. Wordsworth." Dorothy +Wordsworth gave this interesting relic to Miss Quillinan, from whose +library it passed to that of its present owner.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote D: By an evident error, corrected in the first reprint of this +edition (1840). See p. 79.--Ed. [the end of the introductory text to +'Guilt and Sorrow', the next poem in this text.]] + + +[Footnote E: See Addison's 'Cato', Act 1. Scene i., l. 171: + + Blesses his stars, and thinks it luxury.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote F: The lyre of Memnon is reported to have emitted melancholy +or chearful tones, as it was touched by the sun's evening or morning +rays.--W. W. 1793.] + + +[Footnote G: Compare Pope's 'Windsor Forest', ll. 129, 130; + + He lifts the tube, and levels with his eye: + Straight a short thunder breaks the frozen sky: + +Ed.] + + +[Footnote H: Alluding to crosses seen on the tops of the spiry rocks of +the Chartreuse, which have every appearance of being inaccessible.--W. +W. 1793.] + + +[Footnote J: Compare Milton's 'Ode on the Nativity', stanza xx.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote K: Names of rivers at the Chartreuse.--W. W. 1793.] + + +[Footnote L: Name of one of the valleys of the Chartreuse.--W. W. 1793.] + + +[Footnote M: The river along whose banks you descend in crossing the +Alps by the Simplon Pass---W. W. 1793.] + + +[Footnote N: Most of the bridges among the Alps are of wood and covered: +these bridges have a heavy appearance, and rather injure the effect of +the scenery in some places.--W. W. 1793.] + + +[Footnote P: The Catholic religion prevails here; these cells are, as is +well known, very common in the Catholic countries, planted, like the +Roman tombs, along the roadside.--W. W. 1793.] + + +[Footnote Q: Crosses commemorative of the deaths of travellers by the +fall of snow and other accidents very common along this dreadful +road.--W. W. 1793.] + + +[Footnote R: The houses in the more retired Swiss valleys are all built +of wood.--W. W. 1793.] + + +[Footnote S: See Burns's 'Postscript' to his 'Cry and Prayer': + + And when he fa's, +His latest draught o' breathin' leaves him + In faint huzzas. + +Ed.] + + +[Footnote T: For most of the images in the next sixteen verses I am +indebted to M. Raymond's interesting observations annexed to his +translation of Coxe's 'Tour in Switzerland'.--W. W. 1793.] + + +[Footnote U: The people of this Canton are supposed to be of a more +melancholy disposition than the other inhabitants of the Alps: this, if +true, may proceed from their living more secluded.--W. W. 1793.] + + +[Footnote V: This picture is from the middle region of the Alps.--W. W. +1815. _Chalets_ are summer huts for the Swiss herdsmen.--W. W. 1836.] + + +[Footnote W: Sugh, a Scotch word expressive of the sound of the wind +through the trees.--W. W. 1793. + +It may be as well to add that, in this Scotch word, the "gh" is +pronounced; so that, as used colloquially, the word could never rhyme +with "blue."--Ed.] + + +[Footnote X: See Smollett's 'Ode to Leven Water' in 'Humphry Clinker', +and compare 'The Italian Itinerant and the Swiss Goatherd', in +"Memorials of a Tour on the Continent" in 1820, part ii. 1.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote Y: Alluding to several battles which the Swiss in very small +numbers have gained over their oppressors the house of Austria; and in +particular, to one fought at Naeffels near Glarus, where three hundred +and thirty men defeated an army of between fifteen and twenty thousand +Austrians. Scattered over the valley are to be found eleven stones, with +this inscription, 1388, the year the battle was fought, marking out as I +was told upon the spot, the several places where the Austrians +attempting to make a stand were repulsed anew.--W. W. 1793.] + + +[Footnote Z: As Schreck-Horn, the pike of terror. Wetter-Horn, the pike +of storms, etc., etc.--W. W. 1793.] + + +[Footnote Aa: The effect of the famous air called in French Ranz des +Vaches upon the Swiss troops.--W. W. 1793.] + + +[Footnote Bb: This shrine is resorted to, from a hope of relief, by +multitudes, from every corner of the Catholick world, labouring under +mental or bodily afflictions.--W. W. 1793.] + +[Footnote Cc: Compare the Stanzas 'Composed in one of the Catholic +Cantons', in the "Memorials of a Tour on the Continent" (1820), which +refer to Einsiedlen.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote Dd: Rude fountains built and covered with sheds for the +accommodation of the pilgrims, in their ascent of the mountain.--W. W. +1793.] + + +[Footnote Ee: Compare Coleridge's 'Hymn before Sun-rise, in the Vale of +Chamouni': + + And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! + ... + ... Who, with living flowers + Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? + ... + O struggling with the darkness all the night, + And visited all night by troops of stars, + ... + The Arve and Arveiron at thy base + Rave ceaselessly; + +Compare also Shelley's 'Mont Blanc'.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote Ff: See note on Coleridge's 'Hymn before Sun-rise' on previous +page.--Ed.[in Footnote Ff directly above]] + + +[Footnote Gg: An insect so called, which emits a short, melancholy cry, +heard, at the close of the summer evenings, on the banks of the +Loire.--W. W, 1793.] + + +[Footnote Hh: The duties upon many parts of the French rivers were so +exorbitant that the poorer people, deprived of the benefit of water +carriage, were obliged to transport their goods by land.--W. W. 1793.] + + + * * * * * + +SUB-FOOTNOTES + + +[Sub-Footnote i: In the edition of 1815, the 28 lines, from "No sad +vacuities" to "a wanderer came there," are entitled "Pleasures of the +Pedestrian."--Ed.] + + +[Sub-Footnote ii: See 'Ode on the Pleasure arising from Vicissitude', l. +54: + + The meanest floweret of the vale, + The simplest note that swells the gale. + +Ed.] + + +[Sub-Footnote iii: In the editions of 1820 to 1832 the four lines +beginning "The Grison gypsey," etc., precede those beginning "The mind +condemned," etc.--Ed.] + + +[Sub-Footnote iv: In the edition of 1793 Wordsworth put the following +note: + + "Red came the river down, and loud, and oft + The angry Spirit of the water shriek'd." + +(HOME'S _Douglas_.) + +See Act III. l. 86; or p. 32 in the edition of 1757.--Ed.] + + +[Sub-Footnote v: This and the following line are only in the editions of +1815 and 1820.--Ed.] + + +[Sub-Footnote vi: Compare the Sonnet entitled 'The Author's Voyage down +the Rhine, thirty years ago', in the "Memorials of a Tour on the +Continent' in 1820, and the note appended to it.--Ed.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +GUILT AND SORROW; OR, INCIDENTS UPON SALISBURY PLAIN + + +Composed 1791-4.--Published as 'The Female Vagrant' in "Lyrical Ballads" +in 1798, and as 'Guilt and Sorrow' in the "Poems of Early and Late +Years," and in "Poems written in Youth," in 1845, and onward. + + + ADVERTISEMENT, PREFIXED TO THE FIRST EDITION OF THIS POEM, PUBLISHED + IN 1842. + + Not less than one-third of the following poem, though it has from time + to time been altered in the expression, was published so far back as + the year 1798, under the title of 'The Female Vagrant'. The extract is + of such length that an apology seems to be required for reprinting it + here; but it was necessary to restore it to its original position, or + the rest would have been unintelligible. The whole was written before + the close of the year 1794, and I will detail, rather as matter of + literary biography than for any other reason, the circumstances under + which it was produced. + + During the latter part of the summer of 1793, having passed a month in + the Isle of Wight, in view of the fleet which was then preparing for + sea off Portsmouth at the commencement of the war, I left the place + with melancholy forebodings. The American war was still fresh in + memory. The struggle which was beginning, and which many thought would + be brought to a speedy close by the irresistible arms of Great Britain + being added to those of the allies, I was assured in my own mind would + be of long continuance, and productive of distress and misery beyond + all possible calculation. This conviction was pressed upon me by + having been a witness, during a long residence in revolutionary + France, of the spirit which prevailed in that country. After leaving + the Isle of Wight, I spent two [A] days in wandering on foot over + Salisbury Plain, which, though cultivation was then widely spread + through parts of it, had upon the whole a still more impressive + appearance than it now retains. + + The monuments and traces of antiquity, scattered in abundance over + that region, led me unavoidably to compare what we know or guess of + those remote times with certain aspects of modern society, and with + calamities, principally those consequent upon war, to which, more than + other classes of men, the poor are subject. In those reflections, + joined with some particular facts that had come to my knowledge, the + following stanzas originated. + + In conclusion, to obviate some distraction in the minds of those who + are well acquainted with Salisbury Plain, it may be proper to say, + that of the features described as belonging to it, one or two are + taken from other desolate parts of England. + + + * * * * * + + [Unwilling to be unnecessarily particular, I have assigned this poem + to the dates 1793 and '94; but, in fact, much of the Female Vagrant's + story was composed at least two years before. All that relates to her + sufferings as a sailor's wife in America, and her condition of mind + during her voyage home, were faithfully taken from the report made to + me of her own case by a friend who had been subjected to the same + trials, and affected in the same way. Mr. Coleridge, when I first + became acquainted with him, was so much impressed with this poem, that + it would have encouraged me to publish the whole as it then stood; but + the mariner's fate appeared to me so tragical, as to require a + treatment more subdued, and yet more strictly applicable in + expression, than I had at first given to it. This fault was corrected + nearly sixty years afterwards, when I determined to publish the whole. + It may be worth while to remark, that, though the incidents of this + attempt do only in a small degree produce each other, and it deviates + accordingly from the general rule by which narrative pieces ought to + be governed, it is not, therefore, wanting in continuous hold upon the + mind, or in unity, which is effected by the identity of moral interest + that places the two personages upon the same footing in the reader's + sympathies. My ramble over many parts of Salisbury Plain put me, as + mentioned in the preface, upon writing this poem, and left upon my + mind imaginative impressions, the force of which I have felt to this + day. From that district I proceeded to Bath, Bristol, and so on to the + banks of the Wye; where I took again to travelling on foot. In + remembrance of that part of my journey, which was in '93, I began the + verses,--'Five years have passed,' etc.--I. F.] + + + * * * * * + +The foregoing is the Fenwick note to 'Guilt and Sorrow'. The note to +'The Female Vagrant',--which was the title under which one-third of the +longer poem appeared in all the complete editions prior to 1845--is as +follows.--Ed. + + + * * * * * + + + [I find the date of this is placed in 1792, in contradiction, by + mistake, to what I have asserted in 'Guilt and Sorrow'. The correct + date is 1793-4. The chief incidents of it, more particularly her + description of her feelings on the Atlantic, are taken from life.--I. + F.] + + + * * * * * + + +In 1798 there were thirty stanzas in this poem; in 1802, twenty-six; in +1815, fourteen; in 1820, twenty-five. Stanzas I. to XXII., XXXV. to +XXXVII., and LI. to LXXIV. occur only in the collected edition of 1842, +vol. vii. (also published as "Poems, chiefly of Early and Late Years"), +and in subsequent editions. Wordsworth placed 'The Female Vagrant' among +his "Juvenile Pieces" from 1815 to 1832. In 1836, he included it along +with 'Descriptive Sketches' in his Table of Contents; [B] but as he +numbered it IV. in the text--the other poems belonging to the "Juvenile +Pieces" being numbered I. II. and III.--it is clear that he meant it to +remain in that class. The "Poems written in Youth," of the edition of +1845, include many others in addition to the "Juvenile Pieces" of +editions 1815 to 1836.--Ed. + + + * * * * * + + +I + + A traveller on the skirt of Sarum's Plain + Pursued his vagrant way, with feet half bare; + Stooping his gait, but not as if to gain + Help from the staff he bore; for mien and air + Were hardy, though his cheek seemed worn with care 5 + Both of the time to come, and time long fled: + Down fell in straggling locks his thin grey hair; + A coat he wore of military red + But faded, and stuck o'er with many a patch and shred. + + +II + + While thus he journeyed, step by step led on, 10 + He saw and passed a stately inn, full sure + That welcome in such house for him was none. + No board inscribed the needy to allure + Hung there, no bush proclaimed to old and poor + And desolate, "Here you will find a friend!" 15 + The pendent grapes glittered above the door;-- + On he must pace, perchance 'till night descend, + Where'er the dreary roads their bare white lines extend. + + +III + + The gathering clouds grew red with stormy fire, + In streaks diverging wide and mounting high; 20 + That inn he long had passed; the distant spire, + Which oft as he looked back had fixed his eye, + Was lost, though still he looked, in the blank sky. + Perplexed and comfortless he gazed around, + And scarce could any trace of man descry, 25 + Save cornfields stretched and stretching without bound; + But where the sower dwelt was nowhere to be found. + + +IV + + No tree was there, no meadow's pleasant green, + No brook to wet his lip or soothe his ear; + Long files of corn-stacks here and there were seen, 30 + But not one dwelling-place his heart to cheer. + Some labourer, thought he, may perchance be near; + And so he sent a feeble shout--in vain; + No voice made answer, he could only hear + Winds rustling over plots of unripe grain, 35 + Or whistling thro' thin grass along the unfurrowed plain. + + +V + + Long had he fancied each successive slope + Concealed some cottage, whither he might turn + And rest; but now along heaven's darkening cope + The crows rushed by in eddies, homeward borne. 40 + Thus warned he sought some shepherd's spreading thorn + Or hovel from the storm to shield his head, + But sought in vain; for now, all wild, forlorn, + And vacant, a huge waste around him spread; + The wet cold ground, he feared, must be his only bed. 45 + + +VI + + And be it so--for to the chill night shower + And the sharp wind his head he oft hath bared; + A Sailor he, who many a wretched hour + Hath told; for, landing after labour hard, + Full long [1] endured in hope of just reward, 50 + He to an armèd fleet was forced away + By seamen, who perhaps themselves had shared + Like fate; was hurried off, a helpless prey, + 'Gainst all that in _his_ heart, or theirs perhaps, said nay. + + +VII + + For years the work of carnage did not cease. 55 + And death's dire aspect daily he surveyed, + Death's minister; then came his glad release, + And hope returned, and pleasure fondly made + Her dwelling in his dreams. By Fancy's aid + The happy husband flies, his arms to throw 60 + Round his wife's neck; the prize of victory laid + In her full lap, he sees such sweet tears flow + As if thenceforth nor pain nor trouble she could know. + + +VIII + + Vain hope! for fraud took all that he had earned. + The lion roars and gluts his tawny brood 65 + Even in the desert's heart; but he, returned, + Bears not to those he loves their needful food. + His home approaching, but in such a mood + That from his sight his children might have run, + He met a traveller, robbed him, shed his blood; 70 + And when the miserable work was done + He fled, a vagrant since, the murderer's fate to shun. + + +IX + + From that day forth no place to him could be + So lonely, but that thence might come a pang + Brought from without to inward misery. 75 + Now, as he plodded on, with sullen clang + A sound of chains along the desert rang; + He looked, and saw upon a gibbet high + A human body that in irons swang, + Uplifted by the tempest whirling by; 80 + And, hovering, round it often did a raven fly. [C] + + +X + + It was a spectacle which none might view, + In spot so savage, but with shuddering pain; + Nor only did for him at once renew + All he had feared from man, but roused a train 85 + Of the mind's phantoms, horrible as vain. + The stones, as if to cover him from day, + Rolled at his back along the living plain; + He fell, and without sense or motion lay; + But, when the trance was gone, feebly pursued [2] his way. 90 + + +XI + + As one whose brain habitual [3] frensy fires + Owes to the fit in which his soul hath tossed + Profounder quiet, when the fit retires, + Even so the dire phantasma which had crossed + His sense, in sudden vacancy quite lost, 95 + Left his mind still as a deep evening stream. + Nor, if accosted now, in thought engrossed, + Moody, or inly troubled, would he seem + To traveller who might talk of any casual theme. + + +XII + + Hurtle the clouds in deeper darkness piled, 100 + Gone is the raven timely rest to seek; + He seemed the only creature in the wild + On whom the elements their rage might wreak; + Save that the bustard, of those regions bleak + Shy tenant, seeing by the uncertain light 105 + A man there wandering, gave a mournful shriek, + And half upon the ground, with strange affright, + Forced hard against the wind a thick unwieldy flight. + + +XIII + + All, all was cheerless to the horizon's bound; + The weary eye--which, wheresoe'er it strays, 110 + Marks nothing but the red sun's setting round, + Or on the earth strange lines, in former days + Left by gigantic arms--at length surveys + What seems an antique castle spreading wide; + Hoary and naked are its walls, and raise 115 + Their brow sublime: in shelter there to bide + He turned, while rain poured down smoking on every side. + + +XIV + + Pile of Stone-henge! so proud to hint yet keep + Thy secrets, thou that lov'st to stand and hear + The Plain resounding to the whirlwind's sweep, 120 + Inmate of lonesome Nature's endless year; + Even if thou saw'st the giant wicker rear + For sacrifice its throngs of living men, + Before thy face did ever wretch appear, + Who in his heart had groaned with deadlier pain 125 + Than he who, tempest-driven, thy shelter now would gain? [4] + +XV + + Within that fabric of mysterious form, + Winds met in conflict, each by turns supreme; + And, from the perilous ground dislodged, [5] through storm + And rain he wildered on, no moon to stream 130 + From gulf of parting clouds one friendly beam, + Nor any friendly sound his footsteps led; + Once did the lightning's faint disastrous gleam + Disclose a naked guide-post's double head, + Sight which tho' lost at once a gleam of pleasure shed. 135 + + +XVI + + No swinging sign-board creaked from cottage elm + To stay his steps with faintness overcome; + 'Twas dark and void as ocean's watery realm + Roaring with storms beneath night's starless gloom; + No gipsy cower'd o'er fire of furze or broom; 140 + No labourer watched his red kiln glaring bright, + Nor taper glimmered dim from sick man's room; + Along the waste no line of mournful light + From lamp of lonely toll-gate streamed athwart the night. + + +XVII + + At length, though hid in clouds, the moon arose; 145 + The downs were visible--and now revealed + A structure stands, which two bare slopes enclose. + It was a spot, where, ancient vows fulfilled, + Kind pious hands did to the Virgin build + A lonely Spital, the belated swain 150 + From the night terrors of that waste to shield: + But there no human being could remain, + And now the walls are named the "Dead House" of the plain. + + +XVIII + + Though he had little cause to love the abode + Of man, or covet sight of mortal face, 155 + Yet when faint beams of light that ruin showed, + How glad he was at length to find some trace + Of human shelter in that dreary place. + Till to his flock the early shepherd goes, + Here shall much-needed sleep his frame embrace. 160 + In a dry nook where fern the floor bestrows + He lays his stiffened limbs,--his eyes begin to close; + + +XIX + + When hearing a deep sigh, that seemed to come + From one who mourned in sleep, he raised his head, + And saw a woman in the naked room 165 + Outstretched, and turning on a restless bed: + The moon a wan dead light around her shed. + He waked her--spake in tone that would not fail, + He hoped, to calm her mind; but ill he sped, + For of that ruin she had heard a tale 170 + Which now with freezing thoughts did all her powers assail; + + +XX + + Had heard of one who, forced from storms to shroud, + Felt the loose walls of this decayed Retreat + Rock to incessant neighings shrill and loud, + While his horse pawed the floor with furious heat; 175 + Till on a stone, that sparkled to his feet, + Struck, and still struck again, the troubled horse: + The man half raised the stone with pain and sweat, + Half raised, for well his arm might lose its force + Disclosing the grim head of a late murdered corse. 180 + + +XXI + + Such tale of this lone mansion she had learned, + And, when that shape, with eyes in sleep half drowned, + By the moon's sullen lamp she first discerned, + Cold stony horror all her senses bound. + Her he addressed in words of cheering sound; 185 + Recovering heart, like answer did she make; + And well it was that, of the corse there found, + In converse that ensued she nothing spake; + She knew not what dire pangs in him such tale could wake. + + +XXII + + But soon his voice and words of kind intent 190 + Banished that dismal thought; and now the wind + In fainter howlings told its _rage_ was spent: + Meanwhile discourse ensued of various kind, + Which by degrees a confidence of mind + And mutual interest failed not to create. 195 + And, to a natural sympathy resigned, + In that forsaken building where they sate + The Woman thus retraced her own untoward fate. + [6] + + +XXIII + + "By Derwent's side my father dwelt--a man + Of virtuous life, by pious parents bred; [7] 200 + And I believe that, soon as I began + To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed, + And in his hearing there my prayers I said: + And afterwards, by my good father taught, + I read, and loved the books in which I read; 205 + For books in every neighbouring house I sought, + And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought. + + +XXIV [8] + + "A little croft we owned--a plot of corn, + A garden stored with peas, and mint, and thyme, + And flowers for posies, oft on Sunday morn 210 + Plucked while the church bells rang their earliest chime. + Can I forget our freaks at shearing time! + My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied; + The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy prime; + The swans that with white chests upreared in pride 215 + Rushing and racing came to meet me at the water-side! [9] + + +XXV + + "The staff I well [10] remember which upbore + The bending body of my active sire; + His seat beneath the honied sycamore + Where [11] the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire; 220 + When market-morning came, the neat attire + With which, though bent on haste, myself I decked; + Our watchful house-dog, that would tease and tire + The stranger till its barking-fit I checked; [12] + The red-breast, known for years, which at my casement pecked. 225 + + +XXVI + + "The suns of twenty summers danced along,-- + Too little marked how fast they rolled away: + But, through severe mischance and cruel wrong, + My father's substance fell into decay: + We toiled and struggled, hoping for a day 230 + When Fortune might [13] put on a kinder look; + But vain were wishes, efforts vain as they; + He from his old hereditary nook + Must part; the summons [14] came;--our final leave we took. [15] + [16] + + +XXVII + + "It was indeed a miserable hour [17] 235 + When, from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed, + Peering above the trees, the steeple tower + That on his marriage day sweet music made! + Till then, he hoped his bones might there be laid + Close by my mother in their native bowers: 240 + Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed;-- + I could not pray:--through tears that fell in showers + Glimmered our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours! [18] + + +XXVIII + + "There was a Youth whom I had loved so long, + That when I loved him not I cannot say: 245 + 'Mid the green mountains many a thoughtless song [19] + We two had sung, like gladsome birds [20] in May; + When we began to tire of childish play, + We seemed still more and more to prize each other; + We talked of marriage and our marriage day; 250 + And I in truth did love him like a brother, + For never could I hope to meet with such another. + + +XXIX + + "Two years were passed since to a distant town + He had repaired to ply a gainful trade: [21] + What tears of bitter grief, till then unknown! 255 + What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed! + To him we turned:--we had no other aid: + Like one revived, upon his neck I wept; + And her whom he had loved in joy, he said, + He well could love in grief; his faith he kept; 260 + And in a quiet home once more my father slept. + + +XXX + + "We lived in peace and comfort; and were blest + With daily bread, by constant toil supplied. [22] + Three lovely babes had lain upon my breast; [23] + And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed, 265 + And knew not why. My happy father died, + When threatened war [24] reduced the children's meal: + Thrice happy! that for him the grave could hide [25] + The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel, + And tears that [26] flowed for ills which patience might [27] 270 + not heal. + + +XXXI + + "'Twas a hard change; an evil time was come; + We had no hope, and no relief could gain: + But soon, with proud parade, [28] the noisy drum + Beat round to clear [29] the streets of want and pain. + My husband's arms now only served to strain 275 + Me and his children hungering in his view; + In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain: + To join those miserable men he flew, + And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we drew. + + +XXXII + + "There were we long neglected, and we bore 280 + Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weighed [30] + Green fields before us, and our native shore, + We breathed a pestilential air, that made + Ravage for which no knell was heard. We prayed + For our departure; wished and wished--nor knew, 285 + 'Mid that long sickness and those hopes delayed, [31] + That happier days we never more must view. + The parting signal streamed--at last the land withdrew. + + +XXXIII + + "But the calm summer season now was past. [32] + On as we drove, the equinoctial deep 290 + Ran mountains high before the howling blast, + And many perished in the whirlwind's sweep. + We gazed with terror on their gloomy sleep, [33] + Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue, + Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap, 295 + That we the mercy of the waves should rue: + We reached the western world, a poor devoted crew. + [34] + + +XXXIV + + "The pains and plagues that on our heads came down, + Disease and famine, agony and fear, + In wood or wilderness, in camp or town, 300 + It would unman the firmest heart to hear. [35] + All perished--all in one remorseless year, + Husband and children! one by one, by sword + And ravenous plague, all perished: every tear + Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board 305 + A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored." + + +XXXV + + Here paused she of all present thought forlorn, + Nor voice, nor sound, that moment's pain expressed, + Yet Nature, with excess of grief o'erborne, + From her full eyes their watery load released. 310 + He too was mute: and, ere her weeping ceased, + He rose, and to the ruin's portal went, + And saw the dawn opening the silvery east + With rays of promise, north and southward sent; + And soon with crimson fire kindled the firmament. 315 + + +XXXVI + + "O come," he cried, "come, after weary night + Of such rough storm, this happy change to view." + So forth she came, and eastward looked; the sight + Over her brow like dawn of gladness threw; + Upon her cheek, to which its youthful hue 320 + Seemed to return, dried the last lingering tear, + And from her grateful heart a fresh one drew: + The whilst her comrade to her pensive cheer + Tempered fit words of hope; and the lark warbled near. + + +XXXVII + + They looked and saw a lengthening road, and wain 325 + That rang down a bare slope not far remote: + The barrows glistered bright with drops of rain, + Whistled the waggoner with merry note, + The cock far off sounded his clarion throat; + But town, or farm, or hamlet, none they viewed, 330 + Only were told there stood a lonely cot + A long mile thence. While thither they pursued + Their way, the Woman thus her mournful tale renewed. + + +XXXVIII + + "Peaceful as this immeasurable plain + Is now, by beams of dawning light imprest, [36] 335 + In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main; + The very ocean hath its hour of rest. + I too forgot the heavings of my breast. [37] + How quiet 'round me ship and ocean were! + As quiet all within me. I was blest, 340 + And looked, and fed upon the silent air + Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair.[38] + + +XXXIX + + "Ah! how unlike those late terrific sleeps, + And groans that rage of racking famine spoke; + The unburied dead that lay in festering heaps,[39] 345 + The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke, + The shriek that from the distant battle broke, + The mine's dire earthquake, and the pallid host + Driven by the bomb's incessant thunder-stroke + To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish tossed, 350 + Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost! + [40] + + +XL + + "Some mighty gulf of separation passed, + I seemed transported to another world; + A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast + The impatient mariner the sail unfurled, 355 + And, whistling, called the wind that hardly curled + The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home + And from all hope I was for ever hurled. + For me--farthest from earthly port to roam + Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might come. 360 + + +XLI + + "And oft I thought (my fancy was so strong) + That I, at last, a resting-place had found; + 'Here will I dwell,' said I, 'my whole life long, [41] + Roaming the illimitable waters round; + Here will I live, of all but heaven disowned, 365 + And end my days upon the peaceful flood.'--[42] + To break my dream the vessel reached its bound; + And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, + And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food. + + +XLII + + "No help I sought; in sorrow turned adrift, 370 + Was hopeless, as if cast on some bare rock; [43] + Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift, + Nor raised [44] my hand at any door to knock. + I lay where, with his drowsy mates, the cock + From the cross-timber of an out-house hung: 375 + Dismally [45] tolled, that night, the city clock! + At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung, + Nor to the beggar's language could I fit [46] my tongue. + + +XLIII + + "So passed a second day; and, when the third + Was come, I tried in vain the crowd's resort. [47] 380 + --In deep despair, by frightful wishes stirred, + Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort; + There, pains which nature could no more support, + With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall; + And, after many interruptions short [48] 385 + Of hideous sense, I sank, [49] nor step could crawl: + Unsought for was the help that did my life recal. [50] + + +XLIV + + "Borne to a hospital, I lay with brain + Drowsy and weak, and shattered memory; [51] + I heard my neighbours in their beds complain 390 + Of many things which never troubled me-- + Of feet still bustling round with busy glee, + Of looks where common kindness had no part, + Of service done with cold formality, [52] + Fretting the fever round the languid heart, 395 + And groans which, as they said, might [53] make a dead man + start. + + +XLV + + "These things just served to stir the slumbering [54] sense, + Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. + With strength did memory return; [55] and, thence + Dismissed, again on open day I gazed, 400 + At houses, men, and common light, amazed. + The lanes I sought, and, as the sun retired, + Came where beneath the trees a faggot blazed; + The travellers [56] saw me weep, my fate inquired, + And gave me food--and rest, more welcome, more desired. 405 + [57] + + +XLVI + + "Rough potters seemed they, trading soberly + With panniered asses driven from door to door; + But life of happier sort set forth to me, [58] + And other joys my fancy to allure-- + The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor 410 + In barn uplighted; and companions boon, + Well met from far with revelry secure + Among the forest glades, while jocund June [59] + Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon. + + +XLVII + + "But ill they suited me--those journeys dark [60] 415 + O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch! + To charm the surly house-dog's faithful bark, + Or hang on tip-toe at the lifted latch. + The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match. + The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill, 420 + And ear still busy on its nightly watch, + Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill: + Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still. + + +XLVIII + + "What could I do, unaided and unblest? + My [61] father! gone was every friend of thine: 425 + And kindred of dead husband are at best + Small help; and, after marriage such as mine, + With little kindness would to me incline. + Nor was I [62] then for toil or service fit; + My deep-drawn sighs no effort could confine; 430 + In open air forgetful would I sit [63] + Whole hours, with [64] idle arms in moping sorrow knit. + + +XLIX + + "The roads I paced, I loitered through the fields; + Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused, + Trusted my life to what chance bounty yields, [65] 435 + Now coldly given, now utterly refused. + The ground [66] I for my bed have often used: + But what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth, + Is that I have my inner self abused, + Forgone the home delight of constant truth, 440 + And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth. + + +L + + "Through tears the rising sun I oft have viewed, + Through tears have seen him towards that world descend [67] + Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude: + Three years a wanderer now my course I bend--[68] 445 + Oh! tell me whither--for no earthly friend + Have I."--She ceased, and weeping turned away; + As if because her tale was at an end, + She wept; because she had no more to say + Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay. 450 + + +LI + + True sympathy the Sailor's looks expressed, + His looks--for pondering he was mute the while. + Of social Order's care for wretchedness, + Of Time's sure help to calm and reconcile, + Joy's second spring and Hope's long-treasured smile, 455 + 'Twas not for _him_ to speak--a man so tried. + Yet, to relieve her heart, in friendly style + Proverbial words of comfort he applied, + And not in vain, while they went pacing side by side. + + +LII + + Ere long, from heaps of turf, before their sight, 460 + Together smoking in the sun's slant beam, + Rise various wreaths that into one unite + Which high and higher mounts with silver gleam: + Fair spectacle,--but instantly a scream + Thence bursting shrill did all remark prevent; 465 + They paused, and heard a hoarser voice blaspheme, + And female cries. Their course they thither bent, + And met a man who foamed with anger vehement. + + +LIII + + A woman stood with quivering lips and pale, + And, pointing to a little child that lay 470 + Stretched on the ground, began a piteous tale; + How in a simple freak of thoughtless play + He had provoked his father, who straightway, + As if each blow were deadlier than the last, + Struck the poor innocent. Pallid with dismay 475 + The Soldier's Widow heard and stood aghast; + And stern looks on the man her grey-haired Comrade cast. + + +LIV + + His voice with indignation rising high + Such further deed in manhood's name forbade; + The peasant, wild in passion, made reply 480 + With bitter insult and revilings sad; + Asked him in scorn what business there he had; + What kind of plunder he was hunting now; + The gallows would one day of him be glad;-- + Though inward anguish damped the Sailor's brow, 485 + Yet calm he seemed as thoughts so poignant would allow. + + +LV + + Softly he stroked the child, who lay outstretched + With face to earth; and, as the boy turned round + His battered head, a groan the Sailor fetched + As if he saw--there and upon that ground-- 490 + Strange repetition of the deadly wound + He had himself inflicted. Through his brain + At once the griding iron passage found; [D] + Deluge of tender thoughts then rushed amain, + Nor could his sunken eyes the starting tear restrain. 495 + + +LVI + + Within himself he said--What hearts have we! + The blessing this a father gives his child! + Yet happy thou, poor boy! compared with me, + Suffering not doing ill--fate far more mild. + The stranger's looks and tears of wrath beguiled 500 + The father, and relenting thoughts awoke; + He kissed his son--so all was reconciled. + Then, with a voice which inward trouble broke + Ere to his lips it came, the Sailor them bespoke. + + +LVII + + "Bad is the world, and hard is the world's law 505 + Even for the man who wears the warmest fleece; + Much need have ye that time more closely draw + The bond of nature, all unkindness cease, + And that among so few there still be peace: + Else can ye hope but with such numerous foes 510 + Your pains shall ever with your years increase?"-- + While from his heart the appropriate lesson flows, + A correspondent calm stole gently o'er his woes. + + +LVIII + + + Forthwith the pair passed on; and down they look + Into a narrow valley's pleasant scene 515 + Where wreaths of vapour tracked a winding brook, + That babbled on through groves and meadows green; + A low-roofed house peeped out the trees between; + The dripping groves resound with cheerful lays, + And melancholy lowings intervene 520 + Of scattered herds, that in the meadow graze, + Some amid lingering shade, some touched by the sun's rays. + + +LIX + + They saw and heard, and, winding with the road + Down a thick wood, they dropt into the vale; + Comfort by prouder mansions unbestowed 525 + Their wearied frames, she hoped, would soon regale. + Erelong they reached that cottage in the dale: + It was a rustic inn;--the board was spread, + The milk-maid followed with her brimming pail, + And lustily the master carved the bread, 530 + Kindly the housewife pressed, and they in comfort fed. + + +LX + + + Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, must part; + Wanderers whose course no longer now agrees. + She rose and bade farewell! and, while her heart + Struggled with tears nor could its sorrow ease, 535 + She left him there; for, clustering round his knees, + With his oak-staff the cottage children played; + And soon she reached a spot o'erhung with trees + And banks of ragged earth; beneath the shade + Across the pebbly road a little runnel strayed. 540 + + +LXI + + A cart and horse beside the rivulet stood; + Chequering the canvas roof the sunbeams shone. + She saw the carman bend to scoop the flood + As the wain fronted her,--wherein lay one, + A pale-faced Woman, in disease far gone. 545 + The carman wet her lips as well behoved; + Bed under her lean body there was none, + Though even to die near one she most had loved + She could not of herself those wasted limbs have moved. + + +LXII + + The Soldier's Widow learned with honest pain 550 + And homefelt force of sympathy sincere, + Why thus that worn-out wretch must there sustain + The jolting road and morning air severe. + The wain pursued its way; and following near + In pure compassion she her steps retraced 555 + Far as the cottage. "A sad sight is here," + She cried aloud; and forth ran out in haste + The friends whom she had left but a few minutes past. + + +LXIII + + While to the door with eager speed they ran, + From her bare straw the Woman half upraised 560 + Her bony visage--gaunt and deadly wan; + No pity asking, on the group she gazed + With a dim eye, distracted and amazed; + Then sank upon her straw with feeble moan. + Fervently cried the housewife--"God be praised, 565 + I have a house that I can call my own; + Nor shall she perish there, untended and alone!" + + +LXIV + + So in they bear her to the chimney seat, + And busily, though yet with fear, untie + Her garments, and, to warm her icy feet 570 + And chafe her temples, careful hands apply. + Nature reviving, with a deep-drawn sigh + She strove, and not in vain, her head to rear; + Then said--"I thank you all; if I must die, + The God in heaven my prayers for you will hear; 575 + Till now I did not think my end had been so near. + + +LXV + + "Barred every comfort labour could procure, + Suffering what no endurance could assuage, + I was compelled to seek my father's door, + Though loth to be a burthen on his age. 580 + But sickness stopped me in an early stage + Of my sad journey; and within the wain + They placed me--there to end life's pilgrimage, + Unless beneath your roof I may remain: + For I shall never see my father's door again. 585 + + +LXVI + + "My life, Heaven knows, hath long been burthensome; + But, if I have not meekly suffered, meek + May my end be! Soon will this voice be dumb: + Should child of mine e'er wander hither, speak + Of me, say that the worm is on my cheek.-- 590 + Torn from our hut, that stood beside the sea + Near Portland lighthouse in a lonesome creek, + My husband served in sad captivity + On shipboard, bound till peace or death should set him free. + + +LXVII + + "A sailor's wife I knew a widow's cares, 595 + Yet two sweet little ones partook my bed; + Hope cheered my dreams, and to my daily prayers + Our heavenly Father granted each day's bread; + Till one was found by stroke of violence dead, + Whose body near our cottage chanced to lie; 600 + A dire suspicion drove us from our shed; + In vain to find a friendly face we try, + Nor could we live together those poor boys and I; + + +LXVIII + + "For evil tongues made oath how on that day + My husband lurked about the neighbourhood; 605 + Now he had fled, and whither none could say, + And _he_ had done the deed in the dark wood-- + Near his own home!--but he was mild and good; + Never on earth was gentler creature seen; + He'd not have robbed the raven of its food. 610 + My husband's loving kindness stood between + Me and all worldly harms and wrongs however keen." + + +LXIX + + Alas! the thing she told with labouring breath + The Sailor knew too well. That wickedness + His hand had wrought; and when, in the hour of death, 615 + He saw his Wife's lips move his name to bless + With her last words, unable to suppress + His anguish, with his heart he ceased to strive; + And, weeping loud in this extreme distress, + He cried--"Do pity me! That thou shouldst live 620 + I neither ask nor wish--forgive me, but forgive!" + + +LXX + + To tell the change that Voice within her wrought + Nature by sign or sound made no essay; + A sudden joy surprised expiring thought, + And every mortal pang dissolved away. 625 + Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay; + Yet still while over her the husband bent, + A look was in her face which seemed to say, + "Be blest: by sight of thee from heaven was sent + Peace to my parting soul, the fulness of content." 630 + + +LXXI + + _She_ slept in peace,--his pulses throbbed and stopped, + Breathless he gazed upon her face,--then took + Her hand in his, and raised it, but both dropped, + When on his own he cast a rueful look. + His ears were never silent; sleep forsook 635 + His burning eyelids stretched and stiff as lead; + All night from time to time under him shook + The floor as he lay shuddering on his bed; + And oft he groaned aloud, "O God, that I were dead!" + + +LXXII + + The Soldier's Widow lingered in the cot; 640 + And, when he rose, he thanked her pious care + Through which his Wife, to that kind shelter brought, + Died in his arms; and with those thanks a prayer + He breathed for her, and for that merciful pair. + The corse interred, not one hour he remained 645 + Beneath their roof, but to the open air + A burthen, now with fortitude sustained, + He bore within a breast where dreadful quiet reigned. + + +LXXIII + + Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared + For act and suffering, to the city straight 650 + He journeyed, and forthwith his crime declared: + "And from your doom," he added, "now I wait, + Nor let it linger long, the murderer's fate." + Not ineffectual was that piteous claim: + "O welcome sentence which will end though late," 655 + He said, "the pangs that to my conscience came + Out of that deed. My trust, Saviour! is in thy name!" + + +LXXIV + + His fate was pitied. Him in iron case + (Reader, forgive the intolerable thought) + They hung not:--no one on _his_ form or face 660 + Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought; + No kindred sufferer, to his death-place brought + By lawless curiosity or chance, + When into storm the evening sky is wrought, + Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance, 665 + And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable trance. + + + * * * * * + +VARIANTS ON THE TEXT + + +[Variant 1: + +1845. + + Three years ... 1842.] + + +[Variant 2: + +1845. + + ... rose and pursued ... 1842.] + + +[Variant 3: + +1845. + + ... demoniac ... 1842.] + + +[Variant 4: + +1845. + + Than he who now at night-fall treads thy bare domain! 1842.] + + +[Variant 5: + +1845. + + And, from its perilous shelter driven, ... 1842.] + + +[Variant 6: The following stanza was only in the editions of 1798 and +1800: + + By Derwent's side my Father's cottage stood, + (The Woman thus her artless story told) + One field, a flock, and what the neighbouring flood + Supplied, to him were more than mines of gold. + Light was my sleep; my days in transport roll'd: + With thoughtless joy I stretch'd along the shore + My father's nets, or watched, when from the fold + High o'er the cliffs I led my fleecy store, + A dizzy depth below! his boat and twinkling oar. 1798. + + ... or from the mountain fold + Saw on the distant lake his twinkling oar + Or watch'd his lazy boat still less'ning more and more. 1800.] + + +[Variant 7: + +1842. + + My father was a good and pious man, + An honest man by honest parents bred, 1798.] + + +[Variant 8: Stanzas XXIV. and XXV. were omitted from the editions of +1802 and 1805. They were restored in 1820.] + + +[Variant 9: + +1842. + + Can I forget what charms did once adorn + My garden, stored with pease, and mint, and thyme, + And rose and lilly for the sabbath morn? + The sabbath bells, and their delightful chime; + The gambols and wild freaks at shearing time; + My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied; + The cowslip-gathering at May's dewy prime; + The swans, that, when I sought the water-side, + From far to meet me came, spreading their snowy pride. 1798. + + Can I forget our croft and plot of corn; + Our garden, stored ... 1836. + + The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy prime; 1820. + + The swans, that with white chests upheaved in pride, + Rushing and racing came to meet me at the waterside. 1836.] + + +[Variant 10: + +1842. + + ... yet ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 11: + +1802. + + When ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 12: + +1836. + + My watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire, + When stranger passed, so often I have check'd; 1798.] + + +[Variant 13: + +1845. + + ... would ... 1842.] + + +[Variant 14: + +1845. + + ... summer ... 1842.] + + +[Variant 15: + +1845. + + The suns of twenty summers danced along,-- + Ah! little marked, how fast they rolled away: + Then rose a mansion proud our woods among, + And cottage after cottage owned its sway, + No joy to see a neighbouring house, or stray + Through pastures not his own, the master took; + My Father dared his greedy wish gainsay; + He loved his old hereditary nook, + And ill could I the thought of such sad parting brook. 1798. + + Then rose a stately hall our woods among, 1800. + + ... how fast they rolled away: + But, through severe mischance, and cruel wrong, + My father's substance fell into decay; + We toiled, and struggled--hoping for a day + When Fortune should put on a kinder look; + But vain were wishes--efforts vain as they: + He from his old hereditary nook + Must part,--the summons came,--our final leave we took. 1820.] + + +[Variant 16: The following stanza occurs only in the editions 1798 to +1805: + + But, when he had refused the proffered gold, + To cruel injuries he became a prey, + Sore traversed in whate'er he bought and sold: + His troubles grew upon him day by day, + Till all his substance fell into decay. + His little range of water was denied; [i] + All but the bed where his old body lay, + All, all was seized, and weeping, side by side, + We sought a home where we uninjured might abide. 1798. + + And all his substance fell into decay. + They dealt most hardly with him, and he tried + To move their hearts--but it was vain--for they + Seized all he had; and, weeping ... 1802-5.] + + + +[Variant 17: + +1820. + + Can I forget that miserable hour, 1798. + + It was in truth a lamentable hour 1802.] + + +[Variant 18: + +1798. + + I saw our own dear home, that was ... 1802. + +The edition of 1820 returns to the text of 1798.] + + +[Variant 19: + +1827. + + ... many and many a song 1798.] + + +[Variant 20: + +1800. + + ... little birds ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 21: + +1836. + + His father said, that to a distant town + He must repair, to ply the artist's trade. 1798. + + Two years were pass'd, since to a distant Town + He had repair'd to ply the artist's trade. 1802.] + + +[Variant 22: + +1802. + + Four years each day with daily bread was blest, + By constant toil and constant prayer supplied. 1798.] + + +[Variant 23: + +1836. + + Three lovely infants lay upon my breast; 1798.] + + +[Variant 24: + +1842. + + When sad distress... 1798.] + + +[Variant 25: + +1836. + + ... from him the grave did hide 1798. + + ... for him ... 1820.] + + +[Variant 26: + +1798. + + ... which ... Only in 1820.] + + +[Variant 27: + +1836. + + ... could ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 28: + +1798. + + But soon, day after day, ... 1802. + +The edition of 1820 reverts to the reading of 1798.] + + +[Variant 29: + +1836. + + ... to sweep ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 30: + +1836. + + There foul neglect for months and months we bore, + Nor yet the crowded fleet its anchor stirred. 1798. + + There, long were we neglected, and we bore + Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weigh'd; 1802.] + + +[Variant 31: + +1802. + + Green fields before us and our native shore, + By fever, from polluted air incurred, + Ravage was made, for which no knell was heard. + Fondly we wished, and wished away, nor knew, + 'Mid that long sickness, and those hopes deferr'd, 1798.] + + +[Variant 32: + +1802. + + But from delay the summer calms were past. 1798.] + + +[Variant 33: + +1802. + + We gazed with terror on the gloomy sleep + Of them that perished in the whirlwind's sweep, 1798.] + + +[Variant 34: + + Oh! dreadful price of being to resign + All that is dear _in_ being! better far + In Want's most lonely cave till death to pine, + Unseen, unheard, unwatched by any star; + Or in the streets and walks where proud men are, + Better our dying bodies to obtrude, + Than dog-like, wading at the heels of war, + Protract a curst existence, with the brood + That lap (their very nourishment!) their brother's blood. + +Only in the editions of 1798 and 1800.] + + +[Variant 35: + +1842. + + It would thy brain unsettle even to hear. 1798.] + + +[Variant 36: + +1842. + + Peaceful as some immeasurable plain + By the first beams of dawning light impress'd, 1798.] + + +[Variant 37: + +1827. + + ... has its hour of rest, + That comes not to the human mourner's breast. 1798. + + I too was calm, though heavily distress'd! 1802.] + + +[Variant 38: + +1842. + + Remote from man, and storms of mortal care, + A heavenly silence did the waves invest; + I looked and looked along the silent air, + Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair. 1798. + + Oh me, how quiet sky and ocean were! + My heart was healed within me, I was bless'd. + And looked, and looked ... 1802. + + My heart was hushed within me, ... 1815. + + As quiet all within me, ... 1827.] + + +[Variant 39: + +1800. + + Where looks inhuman dwelt on festering heaps! 1798.] + + +[Variant 40: The following stanza appeared only in the editions +1798-1805: + + Yet does that burst of woe congeal my frame, + When the dark streets appeared to heave and gape, + While like a sea the storming army came, + And Fire from Hell reared his gigantic shape, + And Murder, by the ghastly gleam, and Rape + Seized their joint prey, the mother and the child! + But from these crazing thoughts my brain, escape! + --For weeks the balmy air breathed soft and mild, + And on the gliding vessel Heaven and Ocean smiled. 1798. + + At midnight once the storming Army came, + Yet do I see the miserable sight, + The Bayonet, the Soldier, and the Flame + That followed us and faced us in our flight: + When Rape and Murder by the ghastly light + Seized their joint prey, the Mother and the Child! + But I must leave these thoughts.--From night to night, + From day to day, the air breathed soft and mild; + And on the gliding vessel Heaven and Ocean smiled. 1802-5.] + + +[Variant 41: + +1802. + + And oft, robb'd of my perfect mind, I thought + At last my feet a resting-place had found: + Here will I weep in peace, (so fancy wrought,) 1798.] + + +[Variant 42: + +1842. + + Here watch, of every human friend disowned, + All day, my ready tomb the ocean-flood-- 1798. + + Here will I live:--of every friend disown'd, + Here will I roam about the ocean flood.-- 1802. + + And end my days upon the ocean flood."-- 1815.] + + +[Variant 43: + +1842. + + By grief enfeebled was I turned adrift, + Helpless as sailor cast on desart rock; 1798. + + Helpless as sailor cast on some bare rock; 1836.] + + +[Variant 44: + +1842. + + Nor dared ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 45: + +1802. + + How dismal ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 46: + +1832. + + ... frame ... 1798.] + +[Variant 47: + +1836. + + So passed another day, and so the third: + Then did I try, in vain, the crowd's resort, 1798.] + + +[Variant 48: + +1827. + + Dizzy my brain, with interruption short 1798. + + And I had many interruptions short 1802.] + + +[Variant 49: + +1802. + + ... sunk ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 50: + +1827. + + And thence was borne away to neighbouring hospital. 1798. + + And thence was carried to a neighbouring Hospital. 1802.] + + +[Variant 51: + +1827. + + Recovery came with food: but still, my brain + Was weak, nor of the past had memory. 1798.] + + +[Variant 52: + +1842. + + ... with careless cruelty, 1798.] + + +[Variant 53: + +1815. + + ... would ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 54: + +1836. + + ... torpid ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 55: + +1827. + + Memory, though slow, returned with strength; ... 1798. + + My memory and my strength returned; ... 1802.] + + +[Variant 56: + +1802. + + The wild brood ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 57: The following stanza occurs only in the editions of 1798 to +1805: + + My heart is touched to think that men like these, + The rude earth's tenants, were my first relief: + How kindly did they paint their vagrant ease! + And their long holiday that feared not grief, + For all belonged to all, and each was chief. + No plough their sinews strained; on grating road + No wain they drove, and yet, the yellow sheaf + In every vale for their delight was stowed: + For them, in nature's meads, the milky udder flowed. 1798. + + My heart is touched to think that men like these, + Wild houseless Wanderers, were my first relief: 1802. + + In every field, with milk their dairy overflow'd. 1802.] + + +[Variant 58: + +1836. + + Semblance, with straw and pannier'd ass, they made + Of potters wandering on from door to door: + But life of happier sort to me pourtrayed, 1798. + + They with their pannier'd Asses semblance made + Of Potters ... 1802.] + + +[Variant 59: + +1836. + + In depth of forest glade, when ... 1798. + + Among the forest glades when ... 1802.] + + +[Variant 60: + +1802. + + But ill it suited me, in journey dark 1798.] + + +[Variant 61: + +1802. + + Poor father! ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 62: + +1842. + + Ill was I ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 63: + +1842. + + With tears whose course no effort could confine, + By high-way side forgetful would I sit 1798. + + By the road-side forgetful would I sit 1802. + + In the open air forgetful ... 1836.] + + +[Variant 64: + +1836. + + ... my ... 1798.] + + + +[Variant 65: + +1836. + + I lived upon the mercy of the fields, + And oft of cruelty the sky accused; + On hazard, or what general bounty yields, 1798. + + I led a wandering life among the fields; + Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused, + I liv'd upon what casual bounty yields, 1802.] + + +[Variant 66: + +1802. + + The fields ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 67: + +1836. + + Three years a wanderer, often have I view'd, + In tears, the sun towards that country tend 1798. + + Three years thus wandering, ... 1802.] + + +[Variant 68: + +1836. + + And now across this moor my steps I bend-- 1798.] + + + + * * * * * + + +FOOTNOTES + + +[Footnote A: In the 'Prelude', he says it was "three summer days." See +book xiii. l. 337.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote B: By an evident error, corrected in the first reprint of this +edition (1840). See p. 37.--Ed.[Footnote D of 'Descriptive Sketches', +the preceding poem in this text.]] + + +[Footnote C: From a short MS. poem read to me when an under-graduate, by +my schoolfellow and friend Charles Farish, long since deceased. The +verses were by a brother of his, a man of promising genius, who died +young.--W. W. 1842. + +Charles Farish was the author of 'The Minstrels of Winandermere'.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote D: Compare Milton's "grinding sword," 'Paradise Lost', vi. l. +329.--Ed.] + + + + * * * * * + + +SUB-FOOTNOTE + + +[Sub-Footnote i: Several of the Lakes in the north of England are let +out to different Fishermen, in parcels marked out by imaginary lines +drawn from rock to rock.--W. W. 1798.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE, WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF +ESTHWAITE, ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, COMMANDING [A] A BEAUTIFUL +PROSPECT + + +Composed 1795.--Published 1798 + + + [Composed in part at school at Hawkshead. The tree has disappeared, + and the slip of Common on which it stood, that ran parallel to the + lake, and lay open to it, has long been enclosed; so that the road has + lost much of its attraction. This spot was my favourite walk in the + evenings during the latter part of my school-time. The individual + whose habits and character are here given, was a gentleman of the + neighbourhood, a man of talent and learning, who had been educated at + one of our Universities, and returned to pass his time in seclusion on + his own estate. He died a bachelor in middle age. Induced by the + beauty of the prospect, he built a small summer-house, on the rocks + above the peninsula on which the Ferry House [B] stands. This property + afterwards passed into the hands of the late Mr. Curwen. The site was + long ago pointed out by Mr. West, in his 'Guide', as the pride of the + Lakes, and now goes by the name of "The Station." So much used I to be + delighted with the view from it, while a little boy, that some years + before the first pleasure house was built, I led thither from + Hawkshead a youngster about my own age, an Irish boy, who was a + servant to an itinerant conjurer. My notion was to witness the + pleasure I expected the boy would receive from the prospect of the + islands below and the intermingling water. I was not disappointed; and + I hope the fact, insignificant as it may appear to some, may be + thought worthy of note by others who may cast their eye over these + notes.--I. F.] + + + * * * * * + + +From 1815 to 1843 these 'Lines' were placed by Wordsworth among his +"Poems of Sentiment and Reflection." In 1845, they were classed among +"Poems written in Youth."--Ed. + + + * * * * * + +THE POEM + + + Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands + Far from all human dwelling: what if here + No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb? + What if the bee love not these barren boughs? [1] + Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, 5 + That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind + By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. + Who he was + That piled these stones and with the mossy sod + First covered, and here taught this aged Tree [2] 10 + With its dark arms to form a circling bower, [3] + I well remember.--He was one who owned + No common soul. In youth by science nursed, + And led by nature into a wild scene + Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth 15 + A favoured Being, knowing no desire + Which genius did not hallow; 'gainst the taint + Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate, + And scorn,--against all enemies prepared, + All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, 20 + Owed him no service; wherefore he at once + With indignation turned himself away, [4] + And with the food of pride sustained his soul + In solitude.--Stranger! these gloomy boughs + Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit, 25 + His only visitants a straggling sheep, + The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper: [5] + And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath, + And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er, [6] + Fixing his downcast [7] eye, he many an hour 30 + A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here + An emblem of his own unfruitful life: + And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze + On the more distant scene,--how lovely 'tis + Thou seest,--and he would gaze till it became 35 + Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain + The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor, that time, + When nature had subdued him to herself, [8] + Would he forget those Beings to whose minds + Warm from the labours of benevolence 40 + The world, and human life, [9] appeared a scene + Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh, + Inly disturbed, to think [10] that others felt + What he must never feel: and so, lost Man! + On visionary views would fancy feed, 45 + Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale + He died,--this seat his only monument. + If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms + Of young imagination have kept pure, + Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride, 50 + Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, + Is littleness; that he who feels contempt + For any living thing, hath faculties + Which he has never used; that thought with him + Is in its infancy. The man whose eye 55 + Is ever on himself doth look on one, + The least of Nature's works, one who might move + The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds + Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou! + Instructed that true knowledge leads to love; 60 + True dignity abides with him alone + Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, + Can still suspect, and still revere himself, + In lowliness of heart. + + + * * * * * + + + +The place where this Yew-tree stood may be found without difficulty. It +was about three-quarters of a mile from Hawkshead, on the eastern shore +of the lake, a little to the left above the present highway, as one goes +towards Sawrey. Mr. Bowman, the son of Wordsworth's last teacher at the +grammar-school of Hawkshead, told me that it stood about forty yards +nearer the village than the yew which is now on the roadside, and is +sometimes called "Wordsworth's Yew." In the poet's school-days the road +passed right through the unenclosed common, and the tree was a +conspicuous object. It was removed, he says, owing to the popular belief +that its leaves were poisonous, and might injure the cattle grazing in +the common. The present tree is erroneously called "Wordsworth's Yew." +Its proximity to the place where the tree of the poem stood has given +rise to the local tradition.--Ed. + + + * * * * * + + +VARIANTS ON THE TEXT + + +[Variant 1: + +1832. + + What if these barren boughs the bee not loves; 1798.] + + +[Variant 2: + +1836. + + First covered o'er, and taught this aged tree, 1798.] + + +[Variant 3: + +1800. + + Now wild, to bend its arms in circling shade, 1798.] + + +[Variant 4: + +1802. + + ... In youth, by genius nurs'd, + And big with lofty views, he to the world + Went forth, pure in his heart, against the taint + Of dissolute tongues, 'gainst jealousy, and hate, + And scorn, against all enemies prepared, + All but neglect: and so, his spirit damped + At once, with rash disdain he turned away, 1798. + + ... The world, for so it thought, + Owed him no service: he was like a plant + Fair to the sun, the darling of the winds, + But hung with fruit which no one, that passed by, + Regarded, and, his spirit damped at once, + With indignation did he turn away 1800.] + + +[Variant 5: + +1798. + + The stone-chat, or the sand-lark, restless Bird + Piping along the margin of the lake; 1815. + + The text of 1820 returned to that of 1798. [i]] + + +[Variant 6: + +1820. + + And on these barren rocks, with juniper, + And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o'er. 1798.] + + +[Variant 7: + +1800. + + ... downward [ii] ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 8: This line was added by S. T. C. in the edition of 1800.] + + +[Variant 9: + +1827. + + ... and man himself, ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 10: + +1836. + + With mournful joy, to think ... 1798.] + + + + * * * * * + + +FOOTNOTES TO THE TEXT + + +[Footnote A: Yet commanding, 1798-1805.] + + +[Footnote B: The Ferry on Windermere.--Ed.] + + + + * * * * * + + +SUB-FOOTNOTES TO THE VARIANTS + + +[Sub-Footnote i: The final retention of the reading of 1798 was probably +due to a remark of Charles Lamb's, in 1815, in which he objected to the +loss of the "admirable line" in the first edition, "a line quite alive," +he called it. Future generations may doubt whether the reading of 1798, +or that of 1815, is the better.--Ed.] + + +[Sub-Footnote ii: An emendation by S. T. C.--Ed.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +THE BORDERERS + + +A TRAGEDY + + +Composed 1795-6.--Published 1842 + + + Readers already acquainted with my Poems will recognise, in the + following composition, some eight or ten lines, [A] which I have not + scrupled to retain in the places where they originally stood. It is + proper however to add, that they would not have been used elsewhere, + if I had foreseen the time when I might be induced to publish this + Tragedy. + + February 28, 1842. [B] + + + This Dramatic Piece, as noted in its title-page, was composed in + 1795-6. It lay nearly from that time till within the last two or three + months unregarded among my papers, without being mentioned even to my + most intimate friends. Having, however, impressions upon my mind which + made me unwilling to destroy the MS., I determined to undertake the + responsibility of publishing it during my own life, rather than impose + upon my successors the task of deciding its fate. Accordingly it has + been revised with some care; but, as it was at first written, and is + now published, without any view to its exhibition upon the stage, not + the slightest alteration has been made in the conduct of the story, or + the composition of the characters; above all, in respect to the two + leading Persons of the Drama, I felt no inducement to make any change. + The study of human nature suggests this awful truth, that, as in the + trials to which life subjects us, sin and crime are apt to start from + their very opposite qualities, so there are no limits to the hardening + of the heart, and the perversion of the understanding to which they + may carry their slaves. During my long residence in France, while the + Revolution was rapidly advancing to its extreme of wickedness, I had + frequent opportunities of being an eye-witness of this process, and it + was while that knowledge was fresh upon my memory, that the Tragedy of + 'The Borderers' was composed. [C] + + + * * * * * + + + [Of this dramatic work I have little to say in addition to the short + printed note which will be found attached to it. It was composed at + Racedown, in Dorset, during the latter part of the year 1795, and in + the following year. Had it been the work of a later period of life, it + would have been different in some respects from what it is now. The + plot would have been something more complex, and a greater variety of + characters introduced to relieve the mind from the pressure of + incidents so mournful. The manners also would have been more attended + to. My care was almost exclusively given to the passions and the + characters, and the position in which the persons in the drama stood + relatively to each other, that the reader (for I had then no thought + of the stage) might be moved, and to a degree instructed, by lights + penetrating somewhat into the depths of our nature. In this endeavour, + I cannot think, upon a very late review, that I have failed. As to the + scene and period of action, little more was required for my purpose + than the absence of established law and government, so that the agents + might be at liberty to act on their own impulses. Nevertheless, I do + remember, that having a wish to colour the manners in some degree from + local history more than my knowledge enabled me to do, I read + Redpath's 'History of the Borders', but found there nothing to my + purpose. I once made an observation to Sir W. Scott, in which he + concurred, that it was difficult to conceive how so dull a book could + be written on such a subject. Much about the same time, but little + after, Coleridge was employed in writing his tragedy of 'Remorse'; and + it happened that soon after, through one of the Mr. Poole's, Mr. + Knight, the actor, heard that we had been engaged in writing plays, + and upon his suggestion, mine was curtailed, and I believe Coleridge's + also, was offered to Mr. Harris, manager of Covent Garden. For myself, + I had no hope, nor even a wish (though a successful play would in the + then state of my finances have been a most welcome piece of good + fortune), that he should accept my performance; so that I incurred no + disappointment when the piece was _judiciously_ returned as not + calculated for the stage. In this judgment I entirely concurred: and + had it been otherwise, it was so natural for me to shrink from public + notice, that any hope I might have had of success would not have + reconciled me altogether to such an exhibition. Mr. C.'s play was, as + is well known, brought forward several years after, through the + kindness of Mr. Sheridan. In conclusion, I may observe, that while I + was composing this play, I wrote a short essay, illustrative of that + constitution and those tendencies of human nature which make the + apparently 'motiveless' actions of bad men intelligible to careful + observers. This was partly done with reference to the character of + Oswald, and his persevering endeavour to lead the man he disliked into + so heinous a crime; but still more to preserve in my distinct + remembrance, what I had observed of transitions in character, and the + reflections I had been led to make, during the time I was a witness of + the changes through which the French Revolution passed.--I. F.] + + +'The Borderers' was first published in the 1842 edition of +"Poems, chiefly of Early and Late Years." In 1845, it was +placed in the class of "Poems written in Youth."--Ed. + + +DRAMATIS PERSONÆ + + +MARMADUKE. \ +OSWALD. | +WALLACE. |- Of the Band of +LACY. | Borderers. +LENNOX. | +HERBERT. / + +WILFRED, Servant to MARMADUKE. +Host. +Forester. +ELDRED, a Peasant. +Peasant, Pilgrims, etc. + +IDONEA. +Female Beggar. +ELEANOR, Wife to ELDRED. + + + + +SCENE--Borders of England and Scotland + +TIME--The Reign of Henry III. + + + + +ACT I + +SCENE--Road in a Wood + +WALLACE and LACY + + + +LACY The Troop will be impatient; let us hie + Back to our post, and strip the Scottish Foray + Of their rich Spoil, ere they recross the Border. + ---Pity that our young Chief will have no part + In this good service. + + +WALLACE Rather let us grieve + That, in the undertaking which has caused + His absence, he hath sought, whate'er his aim, + Companionship with One of crooked ways, + From whose perverted soul can come no good + To our confiding, open-hearted, Leader. + + +LACY True; and, remembering how the Band have proved + That Oswald finds small favour in our sight, + Well may we wonder he has gained such power + Over our much-loved Captain. + + +WALLACE I have heard + Of some dark deed to which in early life + His passion drove him--then a Voyager + Upon the midland Sea. You knew his bearing + In Palestine? + + +LACY Where he despised alike + Mohammedan and Christian. But enough; + Let us begone--the Band may else be foiled. + + +[Exeunt.] + +[Enter MARMADUKE and WILFRED] + + +WILFRED Be cautious, my dear Master! + + +MARMADUKE I perceive + That fear is like a cloak which old men huddle + About their love, as if to keep it warm. + + +WILFRED Nay, but I grieve that we should part. This Stranger, + For such he is-- + + +MARMADUKE Your busy fancies, Wilfred, + Might tempt me to a smile; but what of him? + + +WILFRED You know that you have saved his life. + + +MARMADUKE I know it. + + +WILFRED And that he hates you!--Pardon me, perhaps + That word was hasty. + + +MARMADUKE Fy! no more of it. + + +WILFRED Dear Master! gratitude's a heavy burden + To a proud Soul.--Nobody loves this Oswald-- + Yourself, you do not love him. + + +MARMADUKE I do more, + I honour him. Strong feelings to his heart + Are natural; and from no one can be learnt + More of man's thoughts and ways than his experience + Has given him power to teach: and then for courage + And enterprise--what perils hath he shunned? + What obstacles hath he failed to overcome? + Answer these questions, from our common knowledge, + And be at rest. + + +WILFRED Oh, Sir! + + +MARMADUKE Peace, my good Wilfred; + Repair to Liddesdale, and tell the Band + I shall be with them in two days, at farthest. + + +WILFRED May He whose eye is over all protect you! + + +[Exit.] + +[Enter OSWALD (a bunch of plants in his hand)] + + +OSWALD This wood is rich in plants and curious simples. + + +MARMADUKE (looking at them) + The wild rose, and the poppy, and the nightshade: + Which is your favorite, Oswald? + + +OSWALD That which, while it is + Strong to destroy, is also strong to heal-- + [Looking forward.] + Not yet in sight!--We'll saunter here awhile; + They cannot mount the hill, by us unseen. + + +MARMADUKE (a letter in his hand) + It is no common thing when one like you + Performs these delicate services, and therefore + I feel myself much bounden to you, Oswald; + 'Tis a strange letter this!--You saw her write it? + + +OSWALD And saw the tears with which she blotted it. + + +MARMADUKE And nothing less would satisfy him? + + +OSWALD No less; + For that another in his Child's affection + Should hold a place, as if 'twere robbery, + He seemed to quarrel with the very thought. + Besides, I know not what strange prejudice + Is rooted in his mind; this Band of ours, + Which you've collected for the noblest ends, + Along the confines of the Esk and Tweed + To guard the Innocent--he calls us "Outlaws"; + And, for yourself, in plain terms he asserts + This garb was taken up that indolence + Might want no cover, and rapacity + Be better fed. + + +MARMADUKE Ne'er may I own the heart + That cannot feel for one, helpless as he is. + + +OSWALD Thou know'st me for a Man not easily moved, + Yet was I grievously provoked to think + Of what I witnessed. + + +MARMADUKE This day will suffice + To end her wrongs. + + +OSWALD But if the blind Man's tale + Should _yet_ be true? + + +MARMADUKE Would it were possible! + Did not the Soldier tell thee that himself, + And others who survived the wreck, beheld + The Baron Herbert perish in the waves + Upon the coast of Cyprus? + + +OSWALD Yes, even so, + And I had heard the like before: in sooth + The tale of this his quondam Barony + Is cunningly devised; and, on the back + Of his forlorn appearance, could not fail + To make the proud and vain his tributaries, + And stir the pulse of lazy charity. + The seignories of Herbert are in Devon; + We, neighbours of the Esk and Tweed; 'tis much + The Arch-Impostor-- + + +MARMADUKE Treat him gently, Oswald: + Though I have never seen his face, methinks, + There cannot come a day when I shall cease + To love him. I remember, when a Boy + Of scarcely seven years' growth, beneath the Elm + That casts its shade over our village school, + 'Twas my delight to sit and hear Idonea + Repeat her Father's terrible adventures, + Till all the band of play-mates wept together; + And that was the beginning of my love. + And, through all converse of our later years, + An image of this old Man still was present, + When I had been most happy. Pardon me + If this be idly spoken. + + +OSWALD See, they come, + Two Travellers! + + +MARMADUKE (points) The woman [1] is Idonea. + + +OSWALD And leading Herbert. + + +MARMADUKE We must let them pass-- + This thicket will conceal us. + + +[They step aside.] + +[Enter IDONEA, leading HERBERT blind.] + + +IDONEA Dear Father, you sigh deeply; ever since + We left the willow shade by the brook-side, + Your natural breathing has been troubled. + + +HERBERT Nay, + You are too fearful; yet must I confess, + Our march of yesterday had better suited + A firmer step than mine. + + +IDONEA That dismal Moor-- + In spite of all the larks that cheered our path, + I never can forgive it: but how steadily + _You_ paced along, when the bewildering moonlight + Mocked me with many a strange fantastic shape!-- + I thought the Convent never would appear; + It seemed to move away from us: and yet, + That you are thus the fault is mine; for the air + Was soft and warm, no dew lay on the grass, + And midway on the waste ere night had fallen + I spied a Covert walled and roofed with sods-- + A miniature; belike some Shepherd-boy, + Who might have found a nothing-doing hour + Heavier than work, raised it: within that hut + We might have made a kindly bed of heath, + And thankfully there rested side by side + Wrapped in our cloaks, and, with recruited strength, + Have hailed the morning sun. But cheerily, Father,-- + That staff of yours, I could almost have heart + To fling't away from you: you make no use + Of me, or of my strength;--come, let me feel + That you do press upon me. There--indeed + You are quite exhausted. Let us rest awhile + On this green bank. + + +[He sits down.] + + +HERBERT (after some time) + Idonea, you are silent, + And I divine the cause. + + +IDONEA Do not reproach me: + I pondered patiently your wish and will + When I gave way to your request; and now, + When I behold the ruins of that face, + Those eyeballs dark--dark beyond hope of light, + And think that they were blasted for my sake, + The name of Marmaduke is blown away: + Father, I would not change that sacred feeling + For all this world can give. + + +HERBERT Nay, be composed: + Few minutes gone a faintness overspread + My frame, and I bethought me of two things + I ne'er had heart to separate--my grave, + And thee, my Child! + + +IDONEA Believe me, honoured Sire! + 'Tis weariness that breeds these gloomy fancies, + And you mistake the cause: you hear the woods + Resound with music, could you see the sun, + And look upon the pleasant face of Nature-- + + +HERBERT I comprehend thee--I should be as cheerful + As if we two were twins; two songsters bred + In the same nest, my spring-time one with thine. + My fancies, fancies if they be, are such + As come, dear Child! from a far deeper source + Than bodily weariness. While here we sit + I feel my strength returning.--The bequest + Of thy kind Patroness, which to receive + We have thus far adventured, will suffice + To save thee from the extreme of penury; + But when thy Father must lie down and die, + How wilt thou stand alone? + + +IDONEA Is he not strong? + Is he not valiant? + + +HERBERT Am I then so soon + Forgotten? have my warnings passed so quickly + Out of thy mind? My dear, my only, Child; + Thou wouldst be leaning on a broken reed-- + This Marmaduke-- + + +IDONEA O could you hear his voice: + Alas! you do not know him. He is one + (I wot not what ill tongue has wronged him with you) + All gentleness and love. His face bespeaks + A deep and simple meekness: and that Soul, + Which with the motion of a virtuous act + Flashes a look of terror upon guilt, + Is, after conflict, quiet as the ocean, + By a miraculous finger, stilled at once. + + +HERBERT Unhappy Woman! + + +IDONEA Nay, it was my duty + Thus much to speak; but think not I forget-- + Dear Father! how _could_ I forget and live-- + You and the story of that doleful night + When, Antioch blazing to her topmost towers, + You rushed into the murderous flames, returned + Blind as the grave, but, as you oft have told me, + Clasping your infant Daughter to your heart. + + +HERBERT Thy Mother too!--scarce had I gained the door, + I caught her voice; she threw herself upon me, + I felt thy infant brother in her arms; + She saw my blasted face--a tide of soldiers + That instant rushed between us, and I heard + Her last death-shriek, distinct among a thousand. + + +IDONEA Nay, Father, stop not; let me hear it all. + + +HERBERT Dear Daughter! precious relic of that time-- + For my old age, it doth remain with thee + To make it what thou wilt. Thou hast been told, + That when, on our return from Palestine, + I found how my domains had been usurped, + I took thee in my arms, and we began + Our wanderings together. Providence + At length conducted us to Rossland,--there, + Our melancholy story moved a Stranger + To take thee to her home--and for myself, + Soon after, the good Abbot of St. Cuthbert's + Supplied my helplessness with food and raiment, + And, as thou know'st, gave me that humble Cot + Where now we dwell.--For many years I bore + Thy absence, till old age and fresh infirmities + Exacted thy return, and our reunion. + I did not think that, during that long absence, + My Child, forgetful of the name of Herbert, + Had given her love to a wild Freebooter, + Who here, upon the borders of the Tweed, + Doth prey alike on two distracted Countries, + Traitor to both. + + +IDONEA Oh, could you hear his voice! + I will not call on Heaven to vouch for me, + But let this kiss speak what is in my heart. + + +[Enter a Peasant] + + +PEASANT Good morrow, Strangers! If you want a Guide, + Let me have leave to serve you! + + +IDONEA My Companion + Hath need of rest; the sight of Hut or Hostel + Would be most welcome. + + +PEASANT Yon white hawthorn gained, + You will look down into a dell, and there + Will see an ash from which a sign-board hangs; + The house is hidden by the shade. Old Man, + You seem worn out with travel--shall I support you? + + +HERBERT I thank you; but, a resting-place so near, + 'Twere wrong to trouble you. + + +PEASANT God speed you both. + + +[Exit Peasant.] + + +HERBERT Idonea, we must part. Be not alarmed-- + 'Tis but for a few days--a thought has struck me. + + +IDONEA That I should leave you at this house, and thence + Proceed alone. It shall be so; for strength + Would fail you ere our journey's end be reached. + + +[Exit HERBERT supported by IDONEA.] + +[Re-enter MARMADUKE and OSWALD] + + +MARMADUKE This instant will we stop him-- + + +OSWALD Be not hasty, + For, sometimes, in despite of my conviction, + He tempted me to think the Story true; + 'Tis plain he loves the Maid, and what he said + That savoured of aversion to thy name + Appeared the genuine colour of his soul-- + Anxiety lest mischief should befal her + After his death. + + +MARMADUKE + I have been much deceived. + + +OSWALD But sure he loves the Maiden, and never love + Could find delight to nurse itself so strangely, + Thus to torment her with _inventions!_--death-- + There must be truth in this. + + +MARMADUKE Truth in his story! + He must have felt it then, known what it was, + And in such wise to rack her gentle heart + Had been a tenfold cruelty. + + +OSWALD Strange pleasures + Do we poor mortals cater for ourselves! + To see him thus provoke her tenderness + With tales of weakness and infirmity! + I'd wager on his life for twenty years. + + +MARMADUKE We will not waste an hour in such a cause. + + +OSWALD Why, this is noble! shake her off at once. + + +MARMADUKE Her virtues are his instruments.--A Man + Who has so practised on the world's cold sense, + May well deceive his Child--what! leave her thus, + A prey to a deceiver?--no--no--no-- + 'Tis but a word and then-- + + +OSWALD Something is here + More than we see, or whence this strong aversion? + Marmaduke! I suspect unworthy tales + Have reached his ear--you have had enemies. + + +MARMADUKE Enemies!--of his own coinage. + + +OSWALD That may be, + But wherefore slight protection such as you + Have power to yield? perhaps he looks elsewhere.-- + I am perplexed. + + +MARMADUKE What hast thou heard or seen? + + +OSWALD No--no--the thing stands clear of mystery; + (As you have said) he coins himself the slander + With which he taints her ear;--for a plain reason; + He dreads the presence of a virtuous man + Like you; he knows your eye would search his heart, + Your justice stamp upon his evil deeds + The punishment they merit. All is plain: + It cannot be-- + + +MARMADUKE + What cannot be? + + +OSWALD Yet that a Father + Should in his love admit no rivalship, + And torture thus the heart of his own Child-- + + +MARMADUKE Nay, you abuse my friendship! + + +OSWALD Heaven forbid!-- + There was a circumstance, trifling indeed-- + It struck me at the time--yet I believe + I never should have thought of it again + But for the scene which we by chance have witnessed. + + +MARMADUKE What is your meaning? + + +OSWALD Two days gone I saw, + Though at a distance and he was disguised, + Hovering round Herbert's door, a man whose figure + Resembled much that cold voluptuary, + The villain, Clifford. He hates you, and he knows + Where he can stab you deepest. + + +MARMADUKE Clifford never + Would stoop to skulk about a Cottage door-- + It could not be. + + +OSWALD And yet I now remember, + That, when your praise was warm upon my tongue, + And the blind Man was told how you had rescued + A maiden from the ruffian violence + Of this same Clifford, he became impatient + And would not hear me. + + +MARMADUKE No--it cannot be-- + I dare not trust myself with such a thought-- + Yet whence this strange aversion? You are a man + Not used to rash conjectures-- + + +OSWALD If you deem it + A thing worth further notice, we must act + With caution, sift the matter artfully. + + +[Exeunt MARMADUKE and OSWALD.] + + +SCENE--The door of the Hostel + +HERBERT, IDONEA, and Host + + +HERBERT (seated) + As I am dear to you, remember, Child! + This last request. + + +IDONEA You know me, Sire; farewell! + + +HERBERT And are you going then? Come, come, Idonea, + We must not part,--I have measured many a league + When these old limbs had need of rest,--and now + I will not play the sluggard. + + +IDONEA Nay, sit down. + [Turning to Host. + Good Host, such tendance as you would expect + From your own Children, if yourself were sick, + Let this old Man find at your hands; poor Leader, + [_Looking at the dog_. + We soon shall meet again. If thou neglect + This charge of thine, then ill befall thee!--Look, + The little fool is loth to stay behind. + Sir Host! by all the love you bear to courtesy, + Take care of him, and feed the truant well. + + +HOST Fear not, I will obey you;--but One so young, + And One so fair, it goes against my heart + That you should travel unattended, Lady!-- + I have a palfrey and a groom: the lad + Shall squire you, (would it not be better, Sir?) + And for less fee than I would let him run + For any lady I have seen this twelvemonth. + + +IDONEA You know, Sir, I have been too long your guard + Not to have learnt to laugh at little fears. + Why, if a wolf should leap from out a thicket, + A look of mine would send him scouring back, + Unless I differ from the thing I am + When you are by my side. + + +HERBERT Idonea, wolves + Are not the enemies that move my fears. + + +IDONEA No more, I pray, of this. Three days at farthest + Will bring me back--protect him, Saints--farewell! + + +[Exit IDONEA.] + + +HOST 'Tis never drought with us--St. Cuthbert and his Pilgrims, + Thanks to them, are to us a stream of comfort: + Pity the Maiden did not wait awhile; + She could not, Sir, have failed of company. + + +HERBERT Now she is gone, I fain would call her back. + + +HOST (calling) Holla! + + +HERBERT No, no, the business must be done.-- + What means this riotous noise? + +HOST The villagers + Are flocking in--a wedding festival-- + That's all--God save you, Sir. + + +[Enter OSWALD] + + +OSWALD Ha! as I live, + The Baron Herbert. + + +HOST Mercy, the Baron Herbert! + + +OSWALD So far into your journey! on my life, + You are a lusty Traveller. But how fare you? + + +HERBERT Well as the wreck I am permits. And you, Sir? + + +OSWALD I do not see Idonea. + + +HERBERT Dutiful Girl, + She is gone before, to spare my weariness. + But what has brought you hither? + + +OSWALD A slight affair, + That will be soon despatched. + + +HERBERT Did Marmaduke + Receive that letter? + + +OSWALD Be at peace.--The tie + Is broken, you will hear no more of _him_. + + +HERBERT This is true comfort, thanks a thousand times!-- + That noise!--would I had gone with her as far + As the Lord Clifford's Castle: I have heard + That, in his milder moods, he has expressed + Compassion for me. His influence is great + With Henry, our good King;--the Baron might + Have heard my suit, and urged my plea at Court. + No matter--he's a dangerous Man.--That noise!-- + 'Tis too disorderly for sleep or rest. + Idonea would have fears for me,--the Convent + Will give me quiet lodging. You have a boy, good Host, + And he must lead me back. + + +OSWALD You are most lucky; + I have been waiting in the wood hard by + For a companion--here he comes; our journey + [Enter MARMADUKE] + Lies on your way; accept us as your Guides. + + +HERBERT Alas! I creep so slowly. + + +OSWALD Never fear; + We'll not complain of that. + + +HERBERT My limbs are stiff + And need repose. Could you but wait an hour? + + +OSWALD Most willingly!--Come, let me lead you in, + And, while you take your rest, think not of us; + We'll stroll into the wood; lean on my arm. + + +[Conducts HERBERT into the house. Exit MARMADUKE.] + +[Enter Villagers] + + +OSWALD (to himself, coming out of the Hostel) + I have prepared a most apt Instrument-- + The Vagrant must, no doubt, be loitering somewhere + About this ground; she hath a tongue well skilled, + By mingling natural matter of her own + With all the daring fictions I have taught her, + To win belief, such as my plot requires. + + +[Exit OSWALD.] + +[Enter more Villagers, a Musician among them] + + +HOST (to them) + Into the court, my Friend, and perch yourself + Aloft upon the elm-tree. Pretty Maids, + Garlands and flowers, and cakes and merry thoughts, + Are here, to send the sun into the west + More speedily than you belike would wish. + + +SCENE changes to the Wood adjoining the Hostel-- + +[MARMADUKE and OSWALD entering] + + +MARMADUKE I would fain hope that we deceive ourselves: + When first I saw him sitting there, alone, + It struck upon my heart I know not how. + + +OSWALD To-day will clear up all.--You marked a Cottage, + That ragged Dwelling, close beneath a rock + By the brook-side: it is the abode of One, + A Maiden innocent till ensnared by Clifford, + Who soon grew weary of her; but, alas! + What she had seen and suffered turned her brain. + Cast off by her Betrayer, she dwells alone, + Nor moves her hands to any needful work: + She eats her food which every day the peasants + Bring to her hut; and so the Wretch has lived + Ten years; and no one ever heard her voice; + But every night at the first stroke of twelve + She quits her house, and, in the neighbouring Churchyard + Upon the self-same spot, in rain or storm, + She paces out the hour 'twixt twelve and one-- + She paces round and round an Infant's grave, + And in the Churchyard sod her feet have worn + A hollow ring; they say it is knee-deep-- + Ah! [1] what is here? + + +[A female Beggar rises up, rubbing her eyes as if in sleep--a Child in +her arms.] + + +BEGGAR O Gentlemen, I thank you; + I've had the saddest dream that ever troubled + The heart of living creature.--My poor Babe + Was crying, as I thought, crying for bread + When I had none to give him; whereupon, + I put a slip of foxglove in his hand, + Which pleased him so, that he was hushed at once: + When, into one of those same spotted bells + A bee came darting, which the Child with joy + Imprisoned there, and held it to his ear, + And suddenly grew black, as he would die. + + +MARMADUKE We have no time for this, my babbling Gossip; + Here's what will comfort you. + [Gives her money.] + + +BEGGAR The Saints reward you + For this good deed!--Well, Sirs, this passed away; + And afterwards I fancied, a strange dog, + Trotting alone along the beaten road, + Came to my child as by my side he slept + And, fondling, licked his face, then on a sudden + Snapped fierce to make a morsel of his head: + But here he is, + [kissing the Child] + it must have been a dream. + + +OSWALD When next inclined to sleep, take my advice, + And put your head, good Woman, under cover. + + +BEGGAR Oh, Sir, you would not talk thus, if you knew + What life is this of ours, how sleep will master + The weary-worn.--You gentlefolk have got + Warm chambers to your wish. I'd rather be + A stone than what I am.--But two nights gone, + The darkness overtook me--wind and rain + Beat hard upon my head--and yet I saw + A glow-worm, through the covert of the furze, + Shine calmly as if nothing ailed the sky: + At which I half accused the God in Heaven.-- + You must forgive me. + + +OSWALD Ay, and if you think + The Fairies are to blame, and you should chide + Your favourite saint--no matter--this good day + Has made amends. + + +BEGGAR Thanks to you both; but, Oh Sir! + How would you like to travel on whole hours + As I have done, my eyes upon the ground, + Expecting still, I knew not how, to find + A piece of money glittering through the dust. + + +MARMADUKE This woman is a prater. Pray, good Lady! + Do you tell fortunes? + + +BEGGAR Oh Sir, you are like the rest. + This Little-one--it cuts me to the heart-- + Well! they might turn a beggar from their doors, + But there are Mothers who can see the Babe + Here at my breast, and ask me where I bought it: + This they can do, and look upon my face-- + But you, Sir, should be kinder. + + +MARMADUKE Come hither, Fathers, + And learn what nature is from this poor Wretch! + + +BEGGAR Ay, Sir, there's nobody that feels for us. + Why now--but yesterday I overtook + A blind old Greybeard and accosted him, + I' th' name of all the Saints, and by the Mass + He should have used me better!--Charity! + If you can melt a rock, he is your man; + But I'll be even with him--here again + Have I been waiting for him. + + +OSWALD Well, but softly, + Who is it that hath wronged you? + + +BEGGAR Mark you me; + I'll point him out;--a Maiden is his guide, + Lovely as Spring's first rose; a little dog, + Tied by a woollen cord, moves on before + With look as sad as he were dumb; the cur, + I owe him no ill will, but in good sooth + He does his Master credit. + + +MARMADUKE As I live, + 'Tis Herbert and no other! + + +BEGGAR 'Tis a feast to see him, + Lank as a ghost and tall, his shoulders bent, + And long beard white with age--yet evermore, + As if he were the only Saint on earth, + He turns his face to heaven. + + +OSWALD But why so violent + Against this venerable Man? + + +BEGGAR I'll tell you: + He has the very hardest heart on earth; + I had as lief turn to the Friar's school + And knock for entrance, in mid holiday. + + +MARMADUKE But to your story. + + +BEGGAR I was saying, Sir-- + Well!--he has often spurned me like a toad, + But yesterday was worse than all;--at last + I overtook him, Sirs, my Babe and I, + And begged a little aid for charity: + But he was snappish as a cottage cur. + Well then, says I--I'll out with it; at which + I cast a look upon the Girl, and felt + As if my heart would burst; and so I left him. + + +OSWALD I think, good Woman, you are the very person + Whom, but some few days past, I saw in Eskdale, + At Herbert's door. + + +BEGGAR Ay; and if truth were known + I have good business there. + + +OSWALD I met you at the threshold, + And he seemed angry. + + +BEGGAR Angry! well he might; + And long as I can stir I'll dog him.--Yesterday, + To serve me so, and knowing that he owes + The best of all he has to me and mine. + But 'tis all over now.--That good old Lady + Has left a power of riches; and I say it, + If there's a lawyer in the land, the knave + Shall give me half. + + +OSWALD What's this?--I fear, good Woman, + You have been insolent. + + +BEGGAR And there's the Baron, + I spied him skulking in his peasant's dress. + + +OSWALD How say you? in disguise?-- + + +MARMADUKE But what's your business + With Herbert or his Daughter? + + +BEGGAR Daughter! truly-- + But how's the day?--I fear, my little Boy, + We've overslept ourselves.--Sirs, have you seen him? + [Offers to go.] + + +MARMADUKE I must have more of this;--you shall not stir + An inch, till I am answered. Know you aught + That doth concern this Herbert? + + +BEGGAR You are provoked, + And will misuse me, Sir! + + +MARMADUKE No trifling, Woman!-- + + +OSWALD You are as safe as in a sanctuary; + Speak. + + +MARMADUKE Speak! + + +BEGGAR He is a most hard-hearted Man. + + +MARMADUKE Your life is at my mercy. + + +BEGGAR Do not harm me, + And I will tell you all!--You know not, Sir, + What strong temptations press upon the Poor. + + +OSWALD Speak out. + + +BEGGAR O Sir, I've been a wicked Woman. + + +OSWALD Nay, but speak out! + + +BEGGAR He flattered me, and said + What harvest it would bring us both; and so, + I parted with the Child. + + +MARMADUKE Parted with whom? [3] + + +BEGGAR Idonea, as he calls her; but the Girl + Is mine. + + +MARMADUKE Yours, Woman! are you Herbert's wife? + + +BEGGAR Wife, Sir! his wife--not I; my husband, Sir, + Was of Kirkoswald--many a snowy winter + We've weathered out together. My poor Gilfred! + He has been two years in his grave. + + +MARMADUKE Enough. + + +OSWALD We've solved the riddle--Miscreant! + + +MARMADUKE Do you, + Good Dame, repair to Liddesdale and wait + For my return; be sure you shall have justice. + + +OSWALD A lucky woman!--go, you have done good service. + [Aside.] + + +MARMADUKE (to himself) + Eternal praises on the power that saved her!-- + + +OSWALD (gives her money) + Here's for your little boy--and when you christen him + I'll be his Godfather. + +BEGGAR O Sir, you are merry with me. + In grange or farm this Hundred scarcely owns + A dog that does not know me.--These good Folks, + For love of God, I must not pass their doors; + But I'll be back with my best speed: for you-- + God bless and thank you both, my gentle Masters. + + + [Exit Beggar.] + + +MARMADUKE (to himself) + The cruel Viper!--Poor devoted Maid, + Now I _do_ love thee. + + +OSWALD I am thunderstruck. + + +MARMADUKE Where is she--holla! + [Calling to the Beggar, who returns; he looks at her stedfastly.] + You are Idonea's Mother?-- + Nay, be not terrified--it does me good + To look upon you. + + +OSWALD (interrupting) + In a peasant's dress + You saw, who was it? + + +BEGGAR Nay, I dare not speak; + He is a man, if it should come to his ears + I never shall be heard of more. + +OSWALD Lord Clifford? + + +BEGGAR What can I do? believe me, gentle Sirs, + I love her, though I dare not call her daughter. + + +OSWALD Lord Clifford--did you see him talk with Herbert? + + +BEGGAR Yes, to my sorrow--under the great oak + At Herbert's door--and when he stood beside + The blind Man--at the silent Girl he looked + With such a look--it makes me tremble, Sir, + To think of it. + + +OSWALD Enough! you may depart. + + +MARMADUKE (to himself) + Father!--to God himself we cannot give + A holier name; and, under such a mask, + To lead a Spirit, spotless as the blessed, + To that abhorrèd den of brutish vice!-- + Oswald, the firm foundation of my life + Is going from under me; these strange discoveries-- + Looked at from every point of fear or hope, + Duty, or love--involve, I feel, my ruin. + + + + +ACT II + +SCENE--A Chamber in the Hostel--OSWALD alone, rising from a Table on +which he had been writing. + + +OSWALD They chose _him_ for their Chief!--what covert part + He, in the preference, modest Youth, might take, + I neither know nor care. The insult bred + More of contempt than hatred; both are flown; + That either e'er existed is my shame: + 'Twas a dull spark--a most unnatural fire + That died the moment the air breathed upon it. + --These fools of feeling are mere birds of winter + That haunt some barren island of the north, + Where, if a famishing man stretch forth his hand, + They think it is to feed them. I have left him + To solitary meditation;--now + For a few swelling phrases, and a flash + Of truth, enough to dazzle and to blind, + And he is mine for ever--here he comes. + + +[Enter MARMADUKE.] + + +MARMADUKE These ten years she has moved her lips all day + And never speaks! + + +OSWALD Who is it? + + +MARMADUKE I have seen her. + + +OSWALD Oh! the poor tenant of that ragged homestead, + Her whom the Monster, Clifford, drove to madness. + + +MARMADUKE I met a peasant near the spot; he told me, + These ten years she had sate all day alone + Within those empty walls. + + +OSWALD I too have seen her; + Chancing to pass this way some six months gone, + At midnight, I betook me to the Churchyard: + The moon shone clear, the air was still, so still + The trees were silent as the graves beneath them. + Long did I watch, and saw her pacing round + Upon the self-same spot, still round and round, + Her lips for ever moving. + + +MARMADUKE At her door + Rooted I stood; for, looking at the woman, + I thought I saw the skeleton of Idonea. + + +OSWALD But the pretended Father-- + + +MARMADUKE Earthly law + Measures not crimes like his. + + +OSWALD _We_ rank not, happily, + With those who take the spirit of their rule + From that soft class of devotees who feel + Reverence for life so deeply, that they spare + The verminous brood, and cherish what they spare + While feeding on their bodies. Would that Idonea + Were present, to the end that we might hear + What she can urge in his defence; she loves him. + + +MARMADUKE Yes, loves him; 'tis a truth that multiplies + His guilt a thousand-fold. + + +OSWALD 'Tis most perplexing: + What must be done? + + +MARMADUKE We will conduct her hither; + These walls shall witness it--from first to last + He shall reveal himself. + + +OSWALD Happy are we, + Who live in these disputed tracts, that own + No law but what each man makes for himself; + Here justice has indeed a field of triumph. + + +MARMADUKE Let us begone and bring her hither;--here + The truth shall be laid open, his guilt proved + Before her face. The rest be left to me. + +OSWALD You will be firm: but though we well may trust + The issue to the justice of the cause, + Caution must not be flung aside; remember, + Yours is no common life. Self-stationed here, + Upon these savage confines, we have seen you + Stand like an isthmus 'twixt two stormy seas + That oft have checked their fury at your bidding. + 'Mid the deep holds of Solway's mossy waste, + Your single virtue has transformed a Band + Of fierce barbarians into Ministers + Of peace and order. Aged men with tears + Have blessed their steps, the fatherless retire + For shelter to their banners. But it is, + As you must needs have deeply felt, it is + In darkness and in tempest that we seek + The majesty of Him who rules the world. + Benevolence, that has not heart to use + The wholesome ministry of pain and evil, + Becomes at last weak and contemptible. + Your generous qualities have won due praise, + But vigorous Spirits look for something more + Than Youth's spontaneous products; and to-day + You will not disappoint them; and hereafter-- + + +MARMADUKE You are wasting words; hear me then, once for all: + You are a Man--and therefore, if compassion, + Which to our kind is natural as life, + Be known unto you, you will love this Woman, + Even as I do; but I should loathe the light, + If I could think one weak or partial feeling-- + + +OSWALD You will forgive me-- + + +MARMADUKE If I ever knew + My heart, could penetrate its inmost core, + 'Tis at this moment.--Oswald, I have loved + To be the friend and father of the oppressed, + A comforter of sorrow;--there is something + Which looks like a transition in my soul, + And yet it is not.--Let us lead him hither. + + +OSWALD Stoop for a moment; 'tis an act of justice; + And where's the triumph if the delegate + Must fall in the execution of his office? + The deed is done--if you will have it so-- + Here where we stand--that tribe of vulgar wretches + (You saw them gathering for the festival) + Rush in--the villains seize us-- + + +MARMADUKE Seize! + + +OSWALD Yes, they-- + Men who are little given to sift and weigh-- + Would wreak on us the passion of the moment. + + +MARMADUKE The cloud will soon disperse--farewell--but stay, + Thou wilt relate the story. + + +OSWALD Am I neither + To bear a part in this Man's punishment, + Nor be its witness? + + +MARMADUKE I had many hopes + That were most dear to me, and some will bear + To be transferred to thee. + + +OSWALD When I'm dishonoured! + + +MARMADUKE I would preserve thee. How may this be done? + + +OSWALD By showing that you look beyond the instant. + A few leagues hence we shall have open ground, + And nowhere upon earth is place so fit + To look upon the deed. Before we enter + The barren Moor, hangs from a beetling rock + The shattered Castle in which Clifford oft + Has held infernal orgies--with the gloom, + And very superstition of the place, + Seasoning his wickedness. The Debauchee + Would there perhaps have gathered the first fruits + Of this mock Father's guilt. + + +[Enter Host conducting HERBERT.] + + +HOST The Baron Herbert + Attends your pleasure. + + +OSWALD (to Host) + We are ready-- + (to HERBERT) Sir! + I hope you are refreshed.--I have just written + A notice for your Daughter, that she may know + What is become of you.--You'll sit down and sign it; + 'Twill glad her heart to see her father's signature. + [Gives the letter he had written.] + + +HERBERT Thanks for your care. + + + [Sits down and writes. Exit Host.] + + +OSWALD (aside to MARMADUKE) + Perhaps it would be useful + That you too should subscribe your name. +[MARMADUKE overlooks HERBERT--then writes--examines the letter eagerly.] + + +MARMADUKE I cannot leave this paper. + + + [He puts it up, agitated.] + + +OSWALD (aside) + Dastard! Come. + + + [MARMADUKE goes towards HERBERT and supports him--MARMADUKE + tremblingly beckons OSWALD to take his place.] + + +MARMADUKE (as he quits HERBERT) + There is a palsy in his limbs--he shakes. + + + [Exeunt OSWALD and HERBERT--MARMADUKE following.] + + +SCENE changes to a Wood--a Group of Pilgrims, and IDONEA with them. + + +FIRST PILGRIM A grove of darker and more lofty shade + I never saw. + + +SECOND PILGRIM The music of the birds + Drops deadened from a roof so thick with leaves. + + +OLD PILGRIM This news! It made my heart leap up with joy. + + +IDONEA I scarcely can believe it. + + +OLD PILGRIM Myself, I heard + The Sheriff read, in open Court, a letter + Which purported it was the royal pleasure + The Baron Herbert, who, as was supposed, + Had taken refuge in this neighbourhood, + Should be forthwith restored. The hearing, Lady, + Filled my dim eyes with tears.--When I returned + From Palestine, and brought with me a heart, + Though rich in heavenly, poor in earthly, comfort, + I met your Father, then a wandering Outcast: + He had a Guide, a Shepherd's boy; but grieved + He was that One so young should pass his youth + In such sad service; and he parted with him. + We joined our tales of wretchedness together, + And begged our daily bread from door to door. + I talk familiarly to you, sweet Lady! + For once you loved me. + + +IDONEA You shall back with me + And see your Friend again. The good old Man + Will be rejoiced to greet you. + + +OLD PILGRIM It seems but yesterday + That a fierce storm o'ertook us, worn with travel, + In a deep wood remote from any town. + A cave that opened to the road presented + A friendly shelter, and we entered in. + + +IDONEA And I was with you? + + +OLD PILGRIM If indeed 'twas you-- + But you were then a tottering Little-one-- + We sate us down. The sky grew dark and darker: + I struck my flint, and built up a small fire + With rotten boughs and leaves, such as the winds + Of many autumns in the cave had piled. + Meanwhile the storm fell heavy on the woods; + Our little fire sent forth a cheering warmth + And we were comforted, and talked of comfort; + But 'twas an angry night, and o'er our heads + The thunder rolled in peals that would have made + A sleeping man uneasy in his bed. + O Lady, you have need to love your Father. + His voice--methinks I hear it now, his voice + When, after a broad flash that filled the cave, + He said to me, that he had seen his Child, + A face (no cherub's face more beautiful) + Revealed by lustre brought with it from heaven; + And it was you, dear Lady! + + +IDONEA God be praised, + That I have been his comforter till now! + And will be so through every change of fortune + And every sacrifice his peace requires.-- + Let us be gone with speed, that he may hear + These joyful tidings from no lips but mine. + + + [Exeunt IDONEA and Pilgrims.] + + + + +SCENE--The Area of a half-ruined Castle--on one side the entrance to a +dungeon--OSWALD and MARMADUKE pacing backwards and forwards. + + + +MARMADUKE 'Tis a wild night. + + +OSWALD I'd give my cloak and bonnet + For sight of a warm fire. + + +MARMADUKE The wind blows keen; + My hands are numb. + + +OSWALD Ha! ha! 'tis nipping cold. + [Blowing his fingers.] + I long for news of our brave Comrades; Lacy + Would drive those Scottish Rovers to their dens + If once they blew a horn this side the Tweed. + + +MARMADUKE I think I see a second range of Towers; + This castle has another Area--come, + Let us examine it. + + +OSWALD 'Tis a bitter night; + I hope Idonea is well housed. That horseman, + Who at full speed swept by us where the wood + Roared in the tempest, was within an ace + Of sending to his grave our precious Charge: + That would have been a vile mischance. + + +MARMADUKE It would. + + +OSWALD Justice had been most cruelly defrauded. + + +MARMADUKE Most cruelly. + + +OSWALD As up the steep we clomb, + I saw a distant fire in the north-east; + I took it for the blaze of Cheviot Beacon: + With proper speed our quarters may be gained + To-morrow evening. + + [He looks restlessly towards the mouth of the dungeon.] + + +MARMADUKE When, upon the plank, + I had led him 'cross [4] the torrent, his voice blessed me: + You could not hear, for the foam beat the rocks + With deafening noise,--the benediction fell + Back on himself; but changed into a curse. + + +OSWALD As well indeed it might. + + +MARMADUKE And this you deem + The fittest place? + + +OSWALD (aside) + He is growing pitiful. + + +MARMADUKE (listening) + What an odd moaning that is!-- + +OSWALD. Mighty odd + The wind should pipe a little, while we stand + Cooling our heels in this way!--I'll begin + And count the stars. + + +MARMADUKE (still listening) + That dog of his, you are sure, + Could not come after us--he _must_ have perished; + The torrent would have dashed an oak to splinters. + You said you did not like his looks--that he + Would trouble us; if he were here again, + I swear the sight of him would quail me more + Than twenty armies. + + +OSWALD How? + + +MARMADUKE The old blind Man, + When you had told him the mischance, was troubled + Even to the shedding of some natural tears + Into the torrent over which he hung, + Listening in vain. + + +OSWALD He has a tender heart! + + + [OSWALD offers to go down into the dungeon.] + + +MARMADUKE How now, what mean you? + + +OSWALD Truly, I was going + To waken our stray Baron. Were there not + A farm or dwelling-house within five leagues, + We should deserve to wear a cap and bells, + Three good round years, for playing the fool here + In such a night as this. + + +MARMADUKE Stop, stop. + + +OSWALD Perhaps, + You'd better like we should descend together, + And lie down by his side--what say you to it? + Three of us--we should keep each other warm: + I'll answer for it that our four-legged friend + Shall not disturb us; further I'll not engage; + Come, come, for manhood's sake! + + +MARMADUKE These drowsy shiverings, + This mortal stupor which is creeping over me, + What do they mean? were this my single body + Opposed to armies, not a nerve would tremble: + Why do I tremble now?--Is not the depth + Of this Man's crimes beyond the reach of thought? + And yet, in plumbing the abyss for judgment, + Something I strike upon which turns my mind + Back on herself, I think, again--my breast + Concentres all the terrors of the Universe: + I look at him and tremble like a child. + + +OSWALD Is it possible? + + +MARMADUKE One thing you noticed not: + Just as we left the glen a clap of thunder + Burst on the mountains with hell-rousing force. + This is a time, said he, when guilt may shudder; + But there's a Providence for them who walk + In helplessness, when innocence is with them. + At this audacious blasphemy, I thought + The spirit of vengeance seemed to ride the air. + + +OSWALD Why are you not the man you were that moment? + + + [He draws MARMADUKE to the dungeon.] + + +MARMADUKE You say he was asleep,--look at this arm, + And tell me if 'tis fit for such a work. + Oswald, Oswald! + [Leans upon OSWALD.] + + +OSWALD This is some sudden seizure! + + +MARMADUKE A most strange faintness,--will you hunt me out + A draught of water? + + +OSWALD Nay, to see you thus + Moves me beyond my bearing.--I will try + To gain the torrent's brink. + + +[Exit OSWALD.] + + +MARMADUKE (after a pause) + It seems an age + Since that Man left me.--No, I am not lost. + + +HERBERT (at the mouth of the dungeon) + Give me your hand; where are you, Friends? and tell me + How goes the night. + + +MARMADUKE 'Tis hard to measure time, + In such a weary night, and such a place. + + +HERBERT I do not hear the voice of my friend Oswald. + +MARMADUKE A minute past, he went to fetch a draught + Of water from the torrent. 'Tis, you'll say, + A cheerless beverage. + + +HERBERT How good it was in you + To stay behind!--Hearing at first no answer, + I was alarmed. + + +MARMADUKE No wonder; this is a place + That well may put some fears into _your_ heart. + + +HERBERT Why so? a roofless rock had been a comfort, + Storm-beaten and bewildered as we were; + And in a night like this, to lend your cloaks + To make a bed for me!--My Girl will weep + When she is told of it. + +MARMADUKE This Daughter of yours + Is very dear to you. + + +HERBERT Oh! but you are young; + Over your head twice twenty years must roll, + With all their natural weight of sorrow and pain, + Ere can be known to you how much a Father + May love his Child. + +MARMADUKE + Thank you, old Man, for this! [Aside.] + + +HERBERT Fallen am I, and worn out, a useless Man; + Kindly have you protected me to-night, + And no return have I to make but prayers; + May you in age be blest with such a daughter!-- + When from the Holy Land I had returned + Sightless, and from my heritage was driven, + A wretched Outcast--but this strain of thought + Would lead me to talk fondly. + + +MARMADUKE Do not fear; + Your words are precious to my ears; go on. + + +HERBERT You will forgive me, but my heart runs over. + When my old Leader slipped into the flood + And perished, what a piercing outcry you + Sent after him. I have loved you ever since. + You start--where are we? + + +MARMADUKE Oh, there is no danger; + The cold blast struck me. + + +HERBERT + 'Twas a foolish question. + + +MARMADUKE But when you were an Outcast?--Heaven is just; + Your piety would not miss its due reward; + The little Orphan then would be your succour, + And do good service, though she knew it not. + + +HERBERT I turned me from the dwellings of my Fathers, + Where none but those who trampled on my rights + Seemed to remember me. To the wide world + I bore her, in my arms; her looks won pity; + She was my Raven in the wilderness, + And brought me food. Have I not cause to love her? + +MARMADUKE Yes. + + +HERBERT More than ever Parent loved a Child? + + +MARMADUKE Yes, yes. + + +HERBERT I will not murmur, merciful God! + I will not murmur; blasted as I have been, + Thou hast left me ears to hear my Daughter's voice, + And arms to fold her to my heart. Submissively + Thee I adore, and find my rest in faith. + + +[Enter OSWALD.] + + +OSWALD Herbert!--confusion! (aside). + Here it is, my Friend, + [Presents the Horn.] + A charming beverage for you to carouse, + This bitter night. + + +HERBERT Ha! Oswald! ten bright crosses + I would have given, not many minutes gone, + To have heard your voice. + + +OSWALD Your couch, I fear, good Baron, + Has been but comfortless; and yet that place, + When the tempestuous wind first drove us hither, + Felt warm as a wren's nest. You'd better turn + And under covert rest till break of day, + Or till the storm abate. + (To MARMADUKE aside.) He has restored you. + No doubt you have been nobly entertained? + But soft!--how came he forth? The Night-mare Conscience + Has driven him out of harbour? + + +MARMADUKE I believe + You have guessed right. + + +HERBERT The trees renew their murmur: + Come, let us house together. + + + [OSWALD conducts him to the dungeon.] + + +OSWALD (returns) + Had I not + Esteemed you worthy to conduct the affair + To its most fit conclusion, do you think + I would so long have struggled with my Nature, + And smothered all that's man in me?--away!-- + [Looking towards the dungeon.] + This man's the property of him who best + Can feel his crimes. I have resigned a privilege; + It now becomes my duty to resume it. + + +MARMADUKE Touch not a finger-- + + +OSWALD What then must be done? + + +MARMADUKE Which way soe'er I turn, I am perplexed. + + +OSWALD Now, on my life, I grieve for you. The misery + Of doubt is insupportable. Pity, the facts + Did not admit of stronger evidence; + Twelve honest men, plain men, would set us right; + Their verdict would abolish these weak scruples. + + +MARMADUKE Weak! I am weak--there does my torment lie, + Feeding itself. + + +OSWALD Verily, when he said + How his old heart would leap to hear her steps, + You thought his voice the echo of Idonea's. + + +MARMADUKE And never heard a sound so terrible. + + +OSWALD Perchance you think so now? + + +MARMADUKE I cannot do it: + Twice did I spring to grasp his withered throat, + When such a sudden weakness fell upon me, + I could have dropped asleep upon his breast. + + +OSWALD Justice--is there not thunder in the word? + Shall it be law to stab the petty robber + Who aims but at our purse; and shall this Parricide-- + Worse is he far, far worse (if foul dishonour + Be worse than death) to that confiding Creature + Whom he to more than filial love and duty + Hath falsely trained--shall he fulfil his purpose? + But you are fallen. + + +MARMADUKE Fallen should I be indeed-- + Murder--perhaps asleep, blind, old, alone, + Betrayed, in darkness! Here to strike the blow-- + Away! away!-- + +[Flings away his sword.] + + +OSWALD Nay, I have done with you: + We'll lead him to the Convent. He shall live, + And she shall love him. With unquestioned title + He shall be seated in his Barony, + And we too chant the praise of his good deeds. + I now perceive we do mistake our masters, + And most despise the men who best can teach us: + Henceforth it shall be said that bad men only + Are brave: Clifford is brave; and that old Man + Is brave. + [Taking MARMADUKE'S sword and giving it to him.] + To Clifford's arms he would have led + His Victim--haply to this desolate house. + + +MARMADUKE (advancing to the dungeon) + It must be ended!-- + + +OSWALD Softly; do not rouse him; + He will deny it to the last. He lies + Within the Vault, a spear's length to the left. + [MARMADUKE descends to the dungeon.] + (Alone.) The Villains rose in mutiny to destroy me; + I could have quelled the Cowards, but this Stripling + Must needs step in, and save my life. The look + With which he gave the boon--I see it now! + The same that tempted me to loathe the gift.-- + For this old venerable Grey-beard--faith + 'Tis his own fault if he hath got a face + Which doth play tricks with them that look on it: + 'Twas this that put it in my thoughts--that countenance-- + His staff--his figure--Murder!--what, of whom? + We kill a worn-out horse, and who but women + Sigh at the deed? Hew down a withered tree, + And none look grave but dotards. He may live + To thank me for this service. Rainbow arches, + Highways of dreaming passion, have too long, + Young as he is, diverted wish and hope + From the unpretending ground we mortals tread;-- + Then shatter the delusion, break it up + And set him free. What follows? I have learned + That things will work to ends the slaves o' the world + Do never dream of. I _have_ been what he-- + This Boy--when he comes forth with bloody hands-- + Might envy, and am now,--but he shall know + What I am now-- + [Goes and listens at the dungeon.] + Praying or parleying?--tut! + Is he not eyeless? He has been half-dead + These fifteen years-- + + [Enter female Beggar with two or three of her Companions.] + + (Turning abruptly.) Ha! speak--what Thing art thou? + (Recognises her.) Heavens! my good friend! [To her.] + + +BEGGAR Forgive me, gracious Sir!-- + + +OSWALD (to her companions) + Begone, ye Slaves, or I will raise a whirlwind + And send ye dancing to the clouds, like leaves. + [They retire affrighted.] + + +BEGGAR Indeed we meant no harm; we lodge sometimes + In this deserted Castle--_I repent me._ + + + [OSWALD goes to the dungeon--listens--returns to the Beggar.] + + +OSWALD Woman, thou hast a helpless Infant--keep + Thy secret for its sake, or verily + That wretched life of thine shall be the forfeit. + + +BEGGAR I _do_ repent me, Sir; I fear the curse + Of that blind Man. 'Twas not your money, Sir,-- + + +OSWALD Begone! + + +BEGGAR (going) + There is some wicked deed in hand: + [Aside.] + Would I could find the old Man and his Daughter. + + + [Exit Beggar.] + + +[MARMADUKE re-enters from the dungeon] + + +OSWALD It is all over then;--your foolish fears + Are hushed to sleep, by your own act and deed, + Made quiet as he is. + + +MARMADUKE Why came you down? + And when I felt your hand upon my arm + And spake to you, why did you give no answer? + Feared you to waken him? he must have been + In a deep sleep. I whispered to him thrice. + There are the strangest echoes in that place! + + +OSWALD Tut! let them gabble till the day of doom. + + +MARMADUKE Scarcely, by groping, had I reached the Spot, + When round my wrist I felt a cord drawn tight, + As if the blind Man's dog were pulling at it. + + +OSWALD But after that? + + +MARMADUKE The features of Idonea + Lurked in his face-- + +OSWALD Psha! Never to these eyes + Will retribution show itself again + With aspect so inviting. Why forbid me + To share your triumph? + + +MARMADUKE Yes, her very look, + Smiling in sleep-- + + +OSWALD A pretty feat of Fancy! + + +MARMADUKE Though but a glimpse, it sent me to my prayers. + + +OSWALD Is he alive? + + +MARMADUKE What mean you? who alive? + + +OSWALD Herbert! since you will have it, Baron Herbert; + He who will gain his Seignory when Idonea + Hath become Clifford's harlot--is _he_ living? + + +MARMADUKE The old Man in that dungeon _is_ alive. + + +OSWALD Henceforth, then, will I never in camp or field + Obey you more. Your weakness, to the Band, + Shall be proclaimed: brave Men, they all shall hear it. + You a protector of humanity! + Avenger you of outraged innocence! + + +MARMADUKE 'Twas dark--dark as the grave; yet did I see, + Saw him--his face turned toward me; and I tell thee + Idonea's filial countenance was there + To baffle me--it put me to my prayers. + Upwards I cast my eyes, and, through a crevice, + Beheld a star twinkling above my head, + And, by the living God, I could not do it. + [Sinks exhausted.] + + +OSWALD (to himself) + Now may I perish if this turn do more + Than make me change my course. + (To MARMADUKE.) Dear Marmaduke, + My words were rashly spoken; I recal them: + I feel my error; shedding human blood + Is a most serious thing. + + +MARMADUKE Not I alone, + Thou too art deep in guilt. + + +OSWALD We have indeed + Been most presumptuous. There _is_ guilt in this, + Else could so strong a mind have ever known + These trepidations? Plain it is that Heaven + Has marked out this foul Wretch as one whose crimes + Must never come before a mortal judgment-seat, + Or be chastised by mortal instruments. + + +MARMADUKE + A thought that's worth a thousand worlds! + + [Goes towards the dungeon.] + + +OSWALD I grieve + That, in my zeal, I have caused you so much pain. + + +MARMADUKE Think not of that! 'tis over--we are safe. + + +OSWALD (as if to himself, yet speaking aloud) + The truth is hideous, but how stifle it? + [Turning to MARMADUKE.] + Give me your sword--nay, here are stones and fragments, + The least of which would beat out a man's brains; + Or you might drive your head against that wall. + No! this is not the place to hear the tale: + It should be told you pinioned in your bed, + Or on some vast and solitary plain + Blown to you from a trumpet. + + +MARMADUKE Why talk thus? + Whate'er the monster brooding in your breast + I care not: fear I have none, and cannot fear-- + [The sound of a horn is heard.] + That horn again--'Tis some one of our Troop; + What do they here? Listen! + + +OSWALD What! dogged like thieves! + + +[Enter WALLACE and LACY, etc.] + + +LACY You are found at last, thanks to the vagrant Troop + For not misleading us. + + +OSWALD (looking at WALLACE) + That subtle Greybeard-- + I'd rather see my father's ghost. + + +LACY (to MARMADUKE) + My Captain, + We come by order of the Band. Belike + You have not heard that Henry has at last + Dissolved the Barons' League, and sent abroad + His Sheriffs with fit force to reinstate + The genuine owners of such Lands and Baronies + As, in these long commotions, have been seized. + His Power is this way tending. It befits us + To stand upon our guard, and with our swords + Defend the innocent. + + +MARMADUKE Lacy! we look + But at the surfaces of things; we hear + Of towns in flames, fields ravaged, young and old + Driven out in troops to want and nakedness; + Then grasp our swords and rush upon a cure + That flatters us, because it asks not thought: + The deeper malady is better hid; + The world is poisoned at the heart. + + +LACY What mean you? + + +WALLACE (whose eye has been fixed suspiciously upon OSWALD) + Ay, what is it you mean? + + +MARMADUKE Hark'ee, my Friends;-- + [Appearing gay.] + Were there a Man who, being weak and helpless + And most forlorn, should bribe a Mother, pressed + By penury, to yield him up her Daughter, + A little Infant, and instruct the Babe, + Prattling upon his knee, to call him Father-- + + +LACY Why, if his heart be tender, that offence + I could forgive him. + + +MARMADUKE (going on) + And should he make the Child + An instrument of falsehood, should he teach her + To stretch her arms, and dim the gladsome light + Of infant playfulness with piteous looks + Of misery that was not-- + +LACY + Troth, 'tis hard-- + But in a world like ours-- + + +MARMADUKE (changing his tone) + This self-same Man-- + Even while he printed kisses on the cheek + Of this poor Babe, and taught its innocent tongue + To lisp the name of Father--could he look + To the unnatural harvest of that time + When he should give her up, a Woman grown, + To him who bid the highest in the market + Of foul pollution-- + + +LACY The whole visible world + Contains not such a Monster! + + +MARMADUKE For this purpose + Should he resolve to taint her Soul by means + Which bathe the limbs in sweat to think of them; + Should he, by tales which would draw tears from iron, + Work on her nature, and so turn compassion + And gratitude to ministers of vice, + And make the spotless spirit of filial love + Prime mover in a plot to damn his Victim + Both soul and body-- + + +WALLACE 'Tis too horrible; + Oswald, what say you to it? + + +LACY Hew him down, + And fling him to the ravens. + + +MARMADUKE But his aspect + It is so meek, his countenance so venerable. + + +WALLACE (with an appearance of mistrust) + But how, what say you, Oswald? + + +LACY (at the same moment) + Stab him, were it + Before the Altar. + + +MARMADUKE What, if he were sick, + Tottering upon the very verge of life, + And old, and blind-- + + +LACY Blind, say you? + + +OSWALD (coming forward) + Are we Men, + Or own we baby Spirits? Genuine courage + Is not an accidental quality, + A thing dependent for its casual birth + On opposition and impediment. + Wisdom, if Justice speak the word, beats down + The giant's strength; and, at the voice of Justice, + Spares not the worm. The giant and the worm-- + She weighs them in one scale. The wiles of woman, + And craft of age, seducing reason, first + Made weakness a protection, and obscured + The moral shapes of things. His tender cries + And helpless innocence--do they protect + The infant lamb? and shall the infirmities, + Which have enabled this enormous Culprit + To perpetrate his crimes, serve as a Sanctuary + To cover him from punishment? Shame!--Justice, + Admitting no resistance, bends alike + The feeble and the strong. She needs not here + Her bonds and chains, which make the mighty feeble. + --We recognise in this old Man a victim + Prepared already for the sacrifice. + + +LACY By heaven, his words are reason! + + +OSWALD Yes, my Friends, + His countenance is meek and venerable; + And, by the Mass, to see him at his prayers!-- + I am of flesh and blood, and may I perish + When my heart does not ache to think of it!-- + Poor Victim! not a virtue under heaven + But what was made an engine to ensnare thee; + But yet I trust, Idonea, thou art safe. + + +LACY Idonea! + + +WALLACE How! What? your Idonea? + [To MARMADUKE.] + + +MARMADUKE _Mine;_ + But now no longer mine. You know Lord Clifford; + He is the Man to whom the Maiden--pure + As beautiful, and gentle and benign, + And in her ample heart loving even me-- + Was to be yielded up. + + +LACY Now, by the head + Of my own child, this Man must die; my hand, + A worthier wanting, shall itself entwine + In his grey hairs!-- + + +MARMADUKE (to LACY) + I love the Father in thee. + You know me, Friends; I have a heart to feel, + And I have felt, more than perhaps becomes me + Or duty sanctions. + + +LACY We will have ample justice. + Who are we, Friends? Do we not live on ground + Where Souls are self-defended, free to grow + Like mountain oaks rocked by the stormy wind? + Mark the Almighty Wisdom, which decreed + This monstrous crime to be laid open--_here,_ + Where Reason has an eye that she can use, + And Men alone are Umpires. To the Camp + He shall be led, and there, the Country round + All gathered to the spot, in open day + Shall Nature be avenged. + + +OSWALD 'Tis nobly thought; + His death will be a monument for ages. + + +MARMADUKE (to LACY) + I thank you for that hint. He shall be brought + Before the Camp, and would that best and wisest + Of every country might be present. There, + His crime shall be proclaimed; and for the rest + It shall be done as Wisdom shall decide: + Meanwhile, do you two hasten back and see + That all is well prepared. + + +WALLACE We will obey you. + (Aside.) But softly! we must look a little nearer. + + +MARMADUKE Tell where you found us. At some future time + I will explain the cause. + + +[Exeunt.] + + + + +ACT III + + +SCENE--The door of the Hostel, a group of Pilgrims as before; IDONEA and +the Host among them + + +HOST Lady, you'll find your Father at the Convent + As I have told you: He left us yesterday + With two Companions; one of them, as seemed, + His most familiar Friend. + (Going.) There was a letter + Of which I heard them speak, but that I fancy + Has been forgotten. + + +IDONEA (to Host) + Farewell! + + +HOST + Gentle pilgrims, + St. Cuthbert speed you on your holy errand. + + +[Exeunt IDONEA and Pilgrims.] + + +[SCENE--A desolate Moor] + + +[OSWALD (alone)] + + +OSWALD Carry him to the Camp! Yes, to the Camp. + Oh, Wisdom! a most wise resolve! and then, + That half a word should blow it to the winds! + This last device must end my work.--Methinks + It were a pleasant pastime to construct + A scale and table of belief--as thus-- + Two columns, one for passion, one for proof; + Each rises as the other falls: and first, + Passion a unit and _against_ us--proof-- + Nay, we must travel in another path, + Or we're stuck fast for ever;--passion, then, + Shall be a unit _for_ us; proof--no, passion! + We'll not insult thy majesty by time, + Person, and place--the where, the when, the how, + And all particulars that dull brains require + To constitute the spiritless shape of Fact, + They bow to, calling the idol, Demonstration. + A whipping to the Moralists who preach + That misery is a sacred thing: for me, + I know no cheaper engine to degrade a man, + Nor any half so sure. This Stripling's mind + Is shaken till the dregs float on the surface; + And, in the storm and anguish of the heart, + He talks of a transition in his Soul, + And dreams that he is happy. We dissect + The senseless body, and why not the mind?-- + These are strange sights--the mind of man, upturned, + Is in all natures a strange spectacle; + In some a hideous one--hem! shall I stop? + No.--Thoughts and feelings will sink deep, but then + They have no substance. Pass but a few minutes, + And something shall be done which Memory + May touch, whene'er her Vassals are at work. + + +[Enter MARMADUKE, from behind] + + +OSWALD (turning to meet him) + But listen, for my peace-- + + +MARMADUKE + Why, I _believe_ you. + + +OSWALD But hear the proofs-- + + +MARMADUKE Ay, prove that when two peas + Lie snugly in a pod, the pod must then + Be larger than the peas--prove this--'twere matter + Worthy the hearing. Fool was I to dream + It ever could be otherwise! + + +OSWALD Last night + When I returned with water from the brook, + I overheard the Villains--every word + Like red-hot iron burnt into my heart. + Said one, "It is agreed on. The blind Man + Shall feign a sudden illness, and the Girl, + Who on her journey must proceed alone, + Under pretence of violence, be seized. + She is," continued the detested Slave, + "She is right willing--strange if she were not!-- + They say, Lord Clifford is a savage man; + But, faith, to see him in his silken tunic, + Fitting his low voice to the minstrel's harp, + There's witchery in't. I never knew a maid + That could withstand it. True," continued he, + "When we arranged the affair, she wept a little + (Not the less welcome to my Lord for that) + And said, 'My Father he will have it so.'" + + +MARMADUKE I am your hearer. + +OSWALD This I caught, and more + That may not be retold to any ear. + The obstinate bolt of a small iron door + Detained them near the gateway of the Castle. + By a dim lantern's light I saw that wreaths + Of flowers were in their hands, as if designed + For festive decoration; and they said, + With brutal laughter and most foul allusion, + That they should share the banquet with their Lord + And his new Favorite. + + +MARMADUKE + Misery!-- + +OSWALD I knew + How you would be disturbed by this dire news, + And therefore chose this solitary Moor, + Here to impart the tale, of which, last night, + I strove to ease my mind, when our two Comrades, + Commissioned by the Band, burst in upon us. + + +MARMADUKE Last night, when moved to lift the avenging steel, + I did believe all things were shadows--yea, + Living or dead all things were bodiless, + Or but the mutual mockeries of body, + Till that same star summoned me back again. + Now I could laugh till my ribs ached. Fool! + To let a creed, built in the heart of things, + Dissolve before a twinkling atom!--Oswald, + I could fetch lessons out of wiser schools + Than you have entered, were it worth the pains. + Young as I am, I might go forth a teacher, + And you should see how deeply I could reason + Of love in all its shapes, beginnings, ends; + Of moral qualities in their diverse aspects; + Of actions, and their laws and tendencies. + + +OSWALD You take it as it merits-- + + +MARMADUKE One a King, + General or Cham, Sultan or Emperor, + Strews twenty acres of good meadow-ground + With carcases, in lineament and shape + And substance, nothing differing from his own, + But that they cannot stand up of themselves; + Another sits i' th' sun, and by the hour + Floats kingcups in the brook--a Hero one + We call, and scorn the other as Time's spendthrift; + But have they not a world of common ground + To occupy--both fools, or wise alike, + Each in his way? + + +OSWALD Troth, I begin to think so. + + +MARMADUKE Now for the corner-stone of my philosophy: + I would not give a denier for the man + Who, on such provocation as this earth + Yields, could not chuck his babe beneath the chin, + And send it with a fillip to its grave. + + +OSWALD Nay, you leave me behind. + + +MARMADUKE That such a One, + So pious in demeanour! in his look + So saintly and so pure!--Hark'ee, my Friend, + I'll plant myself before Lord Clifford's Castle, + A surly mastiff kennels at the gate, + And he shall howl and I will laugh, a medley + Most tunable. + +OSWALD In faith, a pleasant scheme; + But take your sword along with you, for that + Might in such neighbourhood find seemly use.-- + But first, how wash our hands of this old Man? + + +MARMADUKE Oh yes, that mole, that viper in the path; + Plague on my memory, him I had forgotten. + + +OSWALD You know we left him sitting--see him yonder. + + +MARMADUKE Ha! ha!-- + + +OSWALD As 'twill be but a moment's work, + I will stroll on; you follow when 'tis done. + + +[Exeunt.] + + +SCENE changes to another part of the Moor at a short distance--HERBERT +is discovered seated on a stone + + +HERBERT A sound of laughter, too!--'tis well--I feared, + The Stranger had some pitiable sorrow + Pressing upon his solitary heart. + Hush!--'tis the feeble and earth-loving wind + That creeps along the bells of the crisp heather. + Alas! 'tis cold--I shiver in the sunshine-- + What can this mean? There is a psalm that speaks + Of God's parental mercies--with Idonea + I used to sing it.--Listen!--what foot is there? + + +[Enter MARMADUKE] + + +MARMADUKE (aside--looking at HERBERT) + And I have loved this Man! and _she_ hath loved him! + And I loved her, and she loves the Lord Clifford! + And there it ends;--if this be not enough + To make mankind merry for evermore, + Then plain it is as day, that eyes were made + For a wise purpose--verily to weep with! + [Looking round.] + A pretty prospect this, a masterpiece + Of Nature, finished with most curious skill! +(To HERBERT.) Good Baron, have you ever practised tillage? + Pray tell me what this land is worth by the acre? + + +HERBERT How glad I am to hear your voice! I know not + Wherein I have offended you;--last night + I found in you the kindest of Protectors; + This morning, when I spoke of weariness, + You from my shoulder took my scrip and threw it + About your own; but for these two hours past + Once only have you spoken, when the lark + Whirred from among the fern beneath our feet, + And I, no coward in my better days, + Was almost terrified. + + +MARMADUKE That's excellent!-- + So, you bethought you of the many ways + In which a man may come to his end, whose crimes + Have roused all Nature up against him--pshaw!-- + + +HERBERT For mercy's sake, is nobody in sight? + No traveller, peasant, herdsman? + + +MARMADUKE Not a soul: + Here is a tree, raggèd, and bent, and bare, + That turns its goat's-beard flakes of pea-green moss + From the stern breathing of the rough sea-wind; + This have we, but no other company: + Commend me to the place. If a man should die + And leave his body here, it were all one + As he were twenty fathoms underground. + + +HERBERT Where is our common Friend? + + +MARMADUKE A ghost, methinks-- + The Spirit of a murdered man, for instance-- + Might have fine room to ramble about here, + A grand domain to squeak and gibber in. + + +HERBERT Lost Man! if thou have any close-pent guilt + Pressing upon thy heart, and this the hour + Of visitation-- + + +MARMADUKE A bold word from _you_! + + +HERBERT Restore him, Heaven! + + +MARMADUKE The desperate Wretch!--A Flower, + Fairest of all flowers, was she once, but now + They have snapped her from the stem--Poh! let her lie + Besoiled with mire, and let the houseless snail + Feed on her leaves. You knew her well--ay, there, + Old Man! you were a very Lynx, you knew + The worm was in her-- + + +HERBERT Mercy! Sir, what mean you? + + +MARMADUKE You have a Daughter! + + +HERBERT Oh that she were here!-- + She hath an eye that sinks into all hearts, + And if I have in aught offended you, + Soon would her gentle voice make peace between us. + + +MARMADUKE (aside) + I do believe he weeps--I could weep too-- + There is a vein of her voice that runs through his: + Even such a Man my fancy bodied forth + From the first moment that I loved the Maid; + And for his sake I loved her more: these tears-- + I did not think that aught was left in me + Of what I have been--yes, I thank thee, Heaven! + One happy thought has passed across my mind. + --It may not be--I am cut off from man; + No more shall I be man--no more shall I + Have human feelings!-- + (To HERBERT) --Now, for a little more + About your Daughter! + + +HERBERT Troops of armed men, + Met in the roads, would bless us; little children, + Rushing along in the full tide of play, + Stood silent as we passed them! I have heard + The boisterous carman, in the miry road, + Check his loud whip and hail us with mild voice, + And speak with milder voice to his poor beasts. + + +MARMADUKE And whither were you going? + + +HERBERT Learn, young Man,-- + To fear the virtuous, and reverence misery, + Whether too much for patience, or, like mine, + Softened till it becomes a gift of mercy. + + +MARMADUKE Now, this is as it should be! + + +HERBERT I am weak!-- + My Daughter does not know how weak I am; + And, as thou see'st, under the arch of heaven + Here do I stand, alone, to helplessness, + By the good God, our common Father, doomed!-- + But I had once a spirit and an arm-- + + +MARMADUKE Now, for a word about your Barony: + I fancy when you left the Holy Land, + And came to--what's your title--eh? your claims + Were undisputed! + +HERBERT Like a mendicant, + Whom no one comes to meet, I stood alone;-- + I murmured--but, remembering Him who feeds + The pelican and ostrich of the desert, + From my own threshold I looked up to Heaven + And did not want glimmerings of quiet hope. + So, from the court I passed, and down the brook, + Led by its murmur, to the ancient oak + I came; and when I felt its cooling shade, + I sate me down, and cannot but believe-- + While in my lap I held my little Babe + And clasped her to my heart, my heart that ached + More with delight than grief--I heard a voice + Such as by Cherith on Elijah called; + It said, "I will be with thee." A little boy, + A shepherd-lad, ere yet my trance was gone, + Hailed us as if he had been sent from heaven, + And said, with tears, that he would be our guide: + I had a better guide--that innocent Babe-- + Her, who hath saved me, to this hour, from harm, + From cold, from hunger, penury, and death; + To whom I owe the best of all the good + I have, or wish for, upon earth--and more + And higher far than lies within earth's bounds: + Therefore I bless her: when I think of Man, + I bless her with sad spirit,--when of God, + I bless her in the fulness of my joy! + + +MARMADUKE The name of daughter in his mouth, he prays! + With nerves so steady, that the very flies + Sit unmolested on his staff.--Innocent!-- + If he were innocent--then he would tremble + And be disturbed, as I am. + (Turning aside.) I have read + In Story, what men now alive have witnessed, + How, when the People's mind was racked with doubt, + Appeal was made to the great Judge: the Accused + With naked feet walked over burning ploughshares. + Here is a Man by Nature's hand prepared + For a like trial, but more merciful. + Why else have I been led to this bleak Waste? + Bare is it, without house or track, and destitute + Of obvious shelter, as a shipless sea. + Here will I leave him--here--All-seeing God! + Such as _he_ is, and sore perplexed as I am, + I will commit him to this final _Ordeal!_-- + He heard a voice--a shepherd-lad came to him + And was his guide; if once, why not again, + And in this desert? If never--then the whole + Of what he says, and looks, and does, and is, + Makes up one damning falsehood. Leave him here + To cold and hunger!--Pain is of the heart, + And what are a few throes of bodily suffering + If they can waken one pang of remorse? + [Goes up to HERBERT.] + Old Man! my wrath is as a flame burnt out, + It cannot be rekindled. Thou art here + Led by my hand to save thee from perdition: + Thou wilt have time to breathe and think-- + + +HERBERT Oh, Mercy! + + +MARMADUKE I know the need that all men have of mercy, + And therefore leave thee to a righteous judgment. + + +HERBERT My Child, my blessèd Child! + +MARMADUKE No more of that; + Thou wilt have many guides if thou art innocent; + Yea, from the utmost corners of the earth, + That Woman will come o'er this Waste to save thee. + [He pauses and looks at HERBERT'S staff.] + Ha! what is here? and carved by her own hand! + [Reads upon the staff.] + "I am eyes to the blind, saith the Lord. + He that puts his trust in me shall not fail!" + Yes, be it so;--repent and be forgiven-- + God and that staff are now thy only guides. + [He leaves HERBERT on the Moor.] + + + + +SCENE--An eminence, a Beacon on the summit + +LACY, WALLACE, LENNOX, etc. etc. + + +SEVERAL OF THE BAND (confusedly) But patience! + + +ONE OF THE BAND Curses on that Traitor, Oswald!-- + Our Captain made a prey to foul device!-- + + +LENNOX (to WALLACE) + His tool, the wandering Beggar, made last night + A plain confession, such as leaves no doubt, + Knowing what otherwise we know too well, + That she revealed the truth. Stand by me now; + For rather would I have a nest of vipers + Between my breast-plate and my skin, than make + Oswald my special enemy, if you + Deny me your support. + + +LACY We have been fooled-- + But for the motive? + + +WALLACE Natures such as his + Spin motives out of their own bowels, Lacy! + I learn'd this when I was a Confessor. + I know him well; there needs no other motive + Than that most strange incontinence in crime + Which haunts this Oswald. Power is life to him + And breath and being; where he cannot govern, + He will destroy. + + +LACY To have been trapped like moles!-- + Yes, you are right, we need not hunt for motives: + There is no crime from which this man would shrink; + He recks not human law; and I have noticed + That often when the name of God is uttered, + A sudden blankness overspreads his face. + + +LENNOX Yet, reasoner as he is, his pride has built + Some uncouth superstition of its own. + + +WALLACE I have seen traces of it. + + +LENNOX Once he headed + A band of Pirates in the Norway seas; + And when the King of Denmark summoned him + To the oath of fealty, I well remember, + 'Twas a strange answer that he made; he said, + "I hold of Spirits, and the Sun in heaven." + + +LACY + He is no madman. + +WALLACE + A most subtle doctor + Were that man, who could draw the line that parts + Pride and her daughter, Cruelty, from Madness, + That should be scourged, not pitied. Restless Minds, + Such Minds as find amid their fellow-men + No heart that loves them, none that they can love, + Will turn perforce and seek for sympathy + In dim relation to imagined Beings. + + +ONE OF THE BAND + What if he mean to offer up our Captain + An expiation and a sacrifice + To those infernal fiends! + + +WALLACE Now, if the event + Should be as Lennox has foretold, then swear, + My Friends, his heart shall have as many wounds + As there are daggers here. + + +LACY What need of swearing! + + +ONE OF THE BAND Let us away! + + +ANOTHER Away! + + +A THIRD Hark! how the horns + Of those Scotch Rovers echo through the vale. + + +LACY Stay you behind; and when the sun is down, + Light up this beacon. + +ONE OF THE BAND You shall be obeyed. + + + [They go out together.] + + + +SCENE--The Wood on the edge of the Moor. + +MARMADUKE (alone) + + +MARMADUKE Deep, deep and vast, vast beyond human thought, + Yet calm.--I could believe, that there was here + The only quiet heart on earth. In terror, + Remembered terror, there is peace and rest. + + +[Enter OSWALD] + + +OSWALD Ha! my dear Captain. + + + +MARMADUKE A later meeting, Oswald, + Would have been better timed. + + +OSWALD Alone, I see; + You have done your duty. I had hopes, which now + I feel that you will justify. + + +MARMADUKE I had fears, + From which I have freed myself--but 'tis my wish + To be alone, and therefore we must part. + + +OSWALD Nay, then--I am mistaken. There's a weakness + About you still; you talk of solitude-- + I am your friend. + + +MARMADUKE What need of this assurance + At any time? and why given now? + + +OSWALD Because + You are now in truth my Master; you have taught me + What there is not another living man + Had strength to teach;--and therefore gratitude + Is bold, and would relieve itself by praise. + + +MARMADUKE Wherefore press this on me? + +OSWALD Because I feel + That you have shown, and by a signal instance, + How they who would be just must seek the rule + By diving for it into their own bosoms. + To-day you have thrown off a tyranny + That lives but in the torpid acquiescence + Of our emasculated souls, the tyranny + Of the world's masters, with the musty rules + By which they uphold their craft from age to age: + You have obeyed the only law that sense + Submits to recognise; the immediate law, + From the clear light of circumstances, flashed + Upon an independent Intellect. + Henceforth new prospects open on your path; + Your faculties should grow with the demand; + I still will be your friend, will cleave to you + Through good and evil, obloquy and scorn, + Oft as they dare to follow on your steps. + + +MARMADUKE I would be left alone. + + +OSWALD (exultingly) + I know your motives! + I am not of the world's presumptuous judges, + Who damn where they can neither see nor feel, + With a hard-hearted ignorance; your struggles + I witness'd, and now hail your victory. + + +MARMADUKE Spare me awhile that greeting. + + +OSWALD It may be, + That some there are, squeamish half-thinking cowards, + Who will turn pale upon you, call you murderer, + And you will walk in solitude among them. + A mighty evil for a strong-built mind!-- + Join twenty tapers of unequal height + And light them joined, and you will see the less + How 'twill burn down the taller; and they all + Shall prey upon the tallest. Solitude!-- + The Eagle lives in Solitude! + + +MARMADUKE Even so, + The Sparrow so on the house-top, and I, + The weakest of God's creatures, stand resolved + To abide the issue of my act, alone. + + +OSWALD _Now_ would you? and for ever?--My young Friend, + As time advances either we become + The prey or masters of our own past deeds. + Fellowship we _must_ have, willing or no; + And if good Angels fail, slack in their duty, + Substitutes, turn our faces where we may, + Are still forthcoming; some which, though they bear + Ill names, can render no ill services, + In recompense for what themselves required. + So meet extremes in this mysterious world, + And opposites thus melt into each other. + + +MARMADUKE Time, since Man first drew breath, has never moved + With such a weight upon his wings as now; + But they will soon be lightened. + + +OSWALD Ay, look up-- + Cast round you your mind's eye, and you will learn + Fortitude is the child of Enterprise: + Great actions move our admiration, chiefly + Because they carry in themselves an earnest + That we can suffer greatly. + + +MARMADUKE Very true. + + +OSWALD Action is transitory--a step, a blow, + The motion of a muscle--this way or that-- + 'Tis done, and in the after-vacancy + We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed: + Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, + And shares the nature of infinity. + + +MARMADUKE Truth--and I feel it. + + +OSWALD What! if you had bid + Eternal farewell to unmingled joy + And the light dancing of the thoughtless heart; + It is the toy of fools, and little fit + For such a world as this. The wise abjure + All thoughts whose idle composition lives + In the entire forgetfulness of pain. + --I see I have disturbed you. + + +MARMADUKE By no means. + + +OSWALD Compassion!--pity!--pride can do without them; + And what if you should never know them more!-- + He is a puny soul who, feeling pain, + Finds ease because another feels it too. + If e'er I open out this heart of mine + It shall be for a nobler end--to teach + And not to purchase puling sympathy. + --Nay, you are pale. + + +MARMADUKE + It may be so. + + +OSWALD Remorse-- + It cannot live with thought; think on, think on, + And it will die. What! in this universe, + Where the least things control the greatest, where + The faintest breath that breathes can move a world; + What! feel remorse, where, if a cat had sneezed, + A leaf had fallen, the thing had never been + Whose very shadow gnaws us to the vitals. + + +MARMADUKE Now, whither are you wandering? That a man + So used to suit his language to the time, + Should thus so widely differ from himself-- + It is most strange. + + +OSWALD Murder!--what's in the word!-- + I have no cases by me ready made + To fit all deeds. Carry him to the Camp!-- + A shallow project;--you of late have seen + More deeply, taught us that the institutes + Of Nature, by a cunning usurpation + Banished from human intercourse, exist + Only in our relations to the brutes + That make the fields their dwelling. If a snake + Crawl from beneath our feet we do not ask + A license to destroy him: our good governors + Hedge in the life of every pest and plague + That bears the shape of man; and for what purpose, + But to protect themselves from extirpation?-- + This flimsy barrier you have overleaped. + + +MARMADUKE My Office is fulfilled--the Man is now + Delivered to the Judge of all things. + + +OSWALD + Dead! + +MARMADUKE I have borne my burthen to its destined end. + + +OSWALD This instant we'll return to our Companions-- + Oh how I long to see their faces again! + + +[Enter IDONEA with Pilgrims who continue their journey.] + + +IDONEA (after some time) + What, Marmaduke! now thou art mine for ever. + And Oswald, too! + (To MARMADUKE.) On will we to my Father + With the glad tidings which this day hath brought; + We'll go together, and, such proof received + Of his own rights restored, his gratitude + To God above will make him feel for ours. + + +OSWALD I interrupt you? + + +IDONEA Think not so. + + +MARMADUKE Idonea, + That I should ever live to see this moment! + + +IDONEA Forgive me.--Oswald knows it all--he knows, + Each word of that unhappy letter fell + As a blood drop from my heart. + + +OSWALD 'Twas even so. + + +MARMADUKE I have much to say, but for whose ear?--not thine. + + +IDONEA Ill can I bear that look--Plead for me, Oswald! + You are my Father's Friend. + (To MARMADUKE.) Alas, you know not, + And never _can_ you know, how much he loved me. + Twice had he been to me a father, twice + Had given me breath, and was I not to be + His daughter, once his daughter? could I withstand + His pleading face, and feel his clasping arms, + And hear his prayer that I would not forsake him + In his old age-- + [Hides her face.] + + +MARMADUKE Patience--Heaven grant me patience!-- + She weeps, she weeps--_my_ brain shall burn for hours + Ere _I_ can shed a tear. + + +IDONEA I was a woman; + And, balancing the hopes that are the dearest + To womankind with duty to my Father, + I yielded up those precious hopes, which nought + On earth could else have wrested from me;--if erring, + Oh let me be forgiven! + + +MARMADUKE I _do_ forgive thee. + + +IDONEA But take me to your arms--this breast, alas! + It throbs, and you have a heart that does not feel it. + + +MARMADUKE (exultingly) + She is innocent. [He embraces her.] + + +OSWALD (aside) + Were I a Moralist, + I should make wondrous revolution here; + It were a quaint experiment to show + The beauty of truth-- [Addressing them.] + I see I interrupt you; + I shall have business with you, Marmaduke; + Follow me to the Hostel. + + [Exit OSWALD.] + + +IDONEA Marmaduke, + This is a happy day. My Father soon + Shall sun himself before his native doors; + The lame, the hungry, will be welcome there. + No more shall he complain of wasted strength, + Of thoughts that fail, and a decaying heart; + His good works will be balm and life to him. + + +MARMADUKE This is most strange!--I know not what it was, + But there was something which most plainly said, + That thou wert innocent. + + +IDONEA How innocent!-- + Oh heavens! you've been deceived. + + +MARMADUKE Thou art a Woman + To bring perdition on the universe. + + +IDONEA Already I've been punished to the height + Of my offence. + [Smiling affectionately.] + I see you love me still, + The labours of my hand are still your joy; + Bethink you of the hour when on your shoulder + I hung this belt. + [Pointing to the belt on which was suspended HERBERT'S scrip.] + + +MARMADUKE Mercy of Heaven! [Sinks.] + + +IDONEA What ails you? [Distractedly.] + + +MARMADUKE The scrip that held his food, and I forgot + To give it back again! + + +IDONEA What mean your words? + + +MARMADUKE I know not what I said--all may be well. + + +IDONEA That smile hath life in it! + + +MARMADUKE This road is perilous; + I will attend you to a Hut that stands + Near the wood's edge--rest there to-night, I pray you: + For me, I have business, as you heard, with Oswald, + But will return to you by break of day. + + +[Exeunt.] + + + + +ACT IV + +SCENE--A desolate prospect--a ridge of rocks--a Chapel on the summit of +one--Moon behind the rocks--night stormy--irregular sound of a +bell--HERBERT enters exhausted. + + +HERBERT That Chapel-bell in mercy seemed to guide me, + But now it mocks my steps; its fitful stroke + Can scarcely be the work of human hands. + Hear me, ye Men, upon the cliffs, if such + There be who pray nightly before the Altar. + Oh that I had but strength to reach the place! + My Child--my Child--dark--dark--I faint--this wind-- + These stifling blasts--God help me! + + +[Enter ELDRED.] + + +ELDRED Better this bare rock, + Though it were tottering over a man's head, + Than a tight case of dungeon walls for shelter + From such rough dealing. + [A moaning voice is heard.] + Ha! what sound is that? + Trees creaking in the wind (but none are here) + Send forth such noises--and that weary bell! + Surely some evil Spirit abroad to-night + Is ringing it--'twould stop a Saint in prayer, + And that--what is it? never was sound so like + A human groan. Ha! what is here? Poor Man-- + Murdered! alas! speak--speak, I am your friend: + No answer--hush--lost wretch, he lifts his hand + And lays it to his heart-- + (Kneels to him.) I pray you speak! + What has befallen you? + + +HERBERT (feebly) + A stranger has done this, + And in the arms of a stranger I must die. + +ELDRED Nay, think not so: come, let me raise you up: + [Raises him.] + This is a dismal place--well--that is well-- + I was too fearful--take me for your guide + And your support--my hut is not far off. + [Draws him gently off the stage.] + + + +SCENE--A room in the Hostel--MARMADUKE and OSWALD + + +MARMADUKE But for Idonea!--I have cause to think + That she is innocent. + + +OSWALD Leave that thought awhile, + As one of those beliefs which in their hearts + Lovers lock up as pearls, though oft no better + Than feathers clinging to their points of passion. + This day's event has laid on me the duty + Of opening out my story; you must hear it, + And without further preface.--In my youth, + Except for that abatement which is paid + By envy as a tribute to desert, + I was the pleasure of all hearts, the darling + Of every tongue--as you are now. You've heard + That I embarked for Syria. On our voyage + Was hatched among the crew a foul Conspiracy + Against my honour, in the which our Captain + Was, I believed, prime Agent. The wind fell; + We lay becalmed week after week, until + The water of the vessel was exhausted; + I felt a double fever in my veins, + Yet rage suppressed itself;--to a deep stillness + Did my pride tame my pride;--for many days, + On a dead sea under a burning sky, + I brooded o'er my injuries, deserted + By man and nature;--if a breeze had blown, + It might have found its way into my heart, + And I had been--no matter--do you mark me? + + +MARMADUKE Quick--to the point--if any untold crime + Doth haunt your memory. + + +OSWALD Patience, hear me further!-- + One day in silence did we drift at noon + By a bare rock, narrow, and white, and bare; + No food was there, no drink, no grass, no shade, + No tree, nor jutting eminence, nor form + Inanimate large as the body of man, + Nor any living thing whose lot of life + Might stretch beyond the measure of one moon. + To dig for water on the spot, the Captain + Landed with a small troop, myself being one: + There I reproached him with his treachery. + Imperious at all times, his temper rose; + He struck me; and that instant had I killed him, + And put an end to his insolence, but my Comrades + Rushed in between us: then did I insist + (All hated him, and I was stung to madness) + That we should leave him there, alive!--we did so. + + +MARMADUKE And he was famished? + + +OSWALD Naked was the spot; + Methinks I see it now--how in the sun + Its stony surface glittered like a shield; + And in that miserable place we left him, + Alone but for a swarm of minute creatures + Not one of which could help him while alive, + Or mourn him dead. + + +MARMADUKE A man by men cast off, + Left without burial! nay, not dead nor dying, + But standing, walking, stretching forth his arms, + In all things like ourselves, but in the agony + With which he called for mercy; and--even so-- + He was forsaken? + + +OSWALD There is a power in sounds: + The cries he uttered might have stopped the boat + That bore us through the water-- + + +MARMADUKE You returned + Upon that dismal hearing--did you not? + + +OSWALD Some scoffed at him with hellish mockery, + And laughed so loud it seemed that the smooth sea + Did from some distant region echo us. + + +MARMADUKE We all are of one blood, our veins are filled + At the same poisonous fountain! + + +OSWALD 'Twas an island + Only by sufferance of the winds and waves, + Which with their foam could cover it at will. + I know not how he perished; but the calm, + The same dead calm, continued many days. + + +MARMADUKE + But his own crime had brought on him this doom, + His wickedness prepared it; these expedients + Are terrible, yet ours is not the fault. + + +OSWALD The man was famished, and was innocent! + + +MARMADUKE Impossible! + + +OSWALD The man had never wronged me. + + +MARMADUKE Banish the thought, crush it, and be at peace. + His guilt was marked--these things could never be + Were there not eyes that see, and for good ends, + Where ours are baffled. + + +OSWALD I had been deceived. + + +MARMADUKE And from that hour the miserable man + No more was heard of? + + +OSWALD I had been betrayed. + + +MARMADUKE And he found no deliverance! + + +OSWALD The Crew + Gave me a hearty welcome; they had laid + The plot to rid themselves, at any cost, + Of a tyrannic Master whom they loathed. + So we pursued our voyage: when we landed, + The tale was spread abroad; my power at once + Shrunk from me; plans and schemes, and lofty hopes-- + All vanished. I gave way--do you attend? + + +MARMADUKE The Crew deceived you? + + +OSWALD Nay, command yourself. + + +MARMADUKE It is a dismal night--how the wind howls! + + +OSWALD I hid my head within a Convent, there + Lay passive as a dormouse in mid winter. + That was no life for me--I was o'erthrown + But not destroyed. + + +MARMADUKE The proofs--you ought to have seen + The guilt--have touched it--felt it at your heart-- + As I have done. + + +OSWALD A fresh tide of Crusaders + Drove by the place of my retreat: three nights + Did constant meditation dry my blood; + Three sleepless nights I passed in sounding on, + Through words and things, a dim and perilous way; + And, wheresoe'er I turned me, I beheld + A slavery compared to which the dungeon + And clanking chains are perfect liberty. + You understand me--I was comforted; + I saw that every possible shape of action + Might lead to good--I saw it and burst forth + Thirsting for some of those exploits that fill + The earth for sure redemption of lost peace. + [Marking MARMADUKE'S countenance.] + Nay, you have had the worst. Ferocity + Subsided in a moment, like a wind + That drops down dead out of a sky it vexed. + And yet I had within me evermore + A salient spring of energy; I mounted + From action up to action with a mind + That never rested--without meat or drink + Have I lived many days--my sleep was bound + To purposes of reason--not a dream + But had a continuity and substance + That waking life had never power to give. + + +MARMADUKE O wretched Human-kind!--Until the mystery + Of all this world is solved, well may we envy + The worm, that, underneath a stone whose weight + Would crush the lion's paw with mortal anguish, + Doth lodge, and feed, and coil, and sleep, in safety. + Fell not the wrath of Heaven upon those traitors? + + +OSWALD Give not to them a thought. From Palestine + We marched to Syria: oft I left the Camp, + When all that multitude of hearts was still, + And followed on, through woods of gloomy cedar, + Into deep chasms troubled by roaring streams; + Or from the top of Lebanon surveyed + The moonlight desert, and the moonlight sea: + In these my lonely wanderings I perceived + What mighty objects do impress their forms + To elevate our intellectual being; + And felt, if aught on earth deserves a curse, + 'Tis that worst principle of ill which dooms + A thing so great to perish self-consumed. + --So much for my remorse! + + +MARMADUKE Unhappy Man! + + +OSWALD When from these forms I turned to contemplate + The World's opinions and her usages, + I seemed a Being who had passed alone + Into a region of futurity, + Whose natural element was freedom-- + + +MARMADUKE Stop-- + I may not, cannot, follow thee. + + +OSWALD You must. + I had been nourished by the sickly food + Of popular applause. I now perceived + That we are praised, only as men in us + Do recognise some image of themselves, + An abject counterpart of what they are, + Or the empty thing that they would wish to be. + I felt that merit has no surer test + Than obloquy; that, if we wish to serve + The world in substance, not deceive by show, + We must become obnoxious to its hate, + Or fear disguised in simulated scorn. + + +MARMADUKE I pity, can forgive, you; but those wretches-- + That monstrous perfidy! + + +OSWALD Keep down your wrath. + False Shame discarded, spurious Fame despised, + Twin sisters both of Ignorance, I found + Life stretched before me smooth as some broad way + Cleared for a monarch's progress. Priests might spin + Their veil, but not for me--'twas in fit place + Among its kindred cobwebs. I had been, + And in that dream had left my native land, + One of Love's simple bondsmen--the soft chain + Was off for ever; and the men, from whom + This liberation came, you would destroy: + Join me in thanks for their blind services. + + +MARMADUKE 'Tis a strange aching that, when we would curse + And cannot.--You have betrayed me--I have done-- + I am content--I know that he is guiltless-- + That both are guiltless, without spot or stain, + Mutually consecrated. Poor old Man! + And I had heart for this, because thou lovedst + Her who from very infancy had been + Light to thy path, warmth to thy blood!--Together + [Turning to OSWALD.] + We propped his steps, he leaned upon us both. + + +OSWALD Ay, we are coupled by a chain of adamant; + Let us be fellow-labourers, then, to enlarge + Man's intellectual empire. We subsist + In slavery; all is slavery; we receive + Laws, but we ask not whence those laws have come; + We need an inward sting to goad us on. + + +MARMADUKE Have you betrayed me? Speak to that. + + +OSWALD The mask, + Which for a season I have stooped to wear, + Must be cast off.--Know then that I was urged, + (For other impulse let it pass) was driven, + To seek for sympathy, because I saw + In you a mirror of my youthful self; + I would have made us equal once again, + But that was a vain hope. You have struck home, + With a few drops of blood cut short the business; + Therein for ever you must yield to me. + But what is done will save you from the blank + Of living without knowledge that you live: + Now you are suffering--for the future day, + 'Tis his who will command it.--Think of my story-- + Herbert is _innocent_. + + +MARMADUKE (in a faint voice, and doubtingly) + You do but echo + My own wild words? + + +OSWALD Young Man, the seed must lie + Hid in the earth, or there can be no harvest; + 'Tis Nature's law. What I have done in darkness + I will avow before the face of day. + Herbert _is_ innocent. + + +MARMADUKE What fiend could prompt + This action? Innocent!--oh, breaking heart!-- + Alive or dead, I'll find him. + + [Exit.] + + +OSWALD + Alive--perdition! + + [Exit.] + + + + +SCENE--The inside of a poor Cottage + +ELEANOR and IDONEA seated + + +IDONEA The storm beats hard--Mercy for poor or rich, + Whose heads are shelterless in such a night! + + +A VOICE WITHOUT + Holla! to bed, good Folks, within! + + +ELEANOR O save us! + + +IDONEA What can this mean? + + +ELEANOR Alas, for my poor husband!-- + We'll have a counting of our flocks to-morrow; + The wolf keeps festival these stormy nights: + Be calm, sweet Lady, they are wassailers + [The voices die away in the distance.] + Returning from their Feast--my heart beats so-- + A noise at midnight does _so_ frighten me. + + +IDONEA Hush! [Listening.] + + +ELEANOR They are gone. On such a night, my husband, + Dragged from his bed, was cast into a dungeon, + Where, hid from me, he counted many years, + A criminal in no one's eyes but theirs-- + Not even in theirs--whose brutal violence + So dealt with him. + + +IDONEA I have a noble Friend + First among youths of knightly breeding, One + Who lives but to protect the weak or injured. + There again! + [Listening.] + + +ELEANOR 'Tis my husband's foot. Good Eldred + Has a kind heart; but his imprisonment + Has made him fearful, and he'll never be + The man he was. + + +IDONEA I will retire;--good night! + [She goes within.] + + +[Enter ELDRED (hides a bundle)] + + +ELDRED Not yet in bed, Eleanor!--there are stains in that frock + which must be washed out. + + +ELEANOR What has befallen you? + + +ELDRED I am belated, and you must know the cause-- + (speaking low) + that is the blood of an unhappy Man. + + +ELEANOR Oh! we are undone for ever. + + +ELDRED Heaven forbid that I should lift my hand against any man. + Eleanor, I have shed tears to-night, and it comforts + me to think of it. + + +ELEANOR Where, where is he? + + +ELDRED I have done him no harm, but----it will be forgiven me; it + would not have been so once. + + +ELEANOR You have not _buried_ anything? You are no richer than + when you left me? + + +ELDRED Be at peace; I am innocent. + + +ELEANOR Then God be thanked-- + + [A short pause; she falls upon his neck.] + + +ELDRED Tonight I met with an old Man lying stretched upon the + ground--a sad spectacle: I raised him up with a hope + that we might shelter and restore him. + + +ELEANOR (as if ready to run) + Where is he? You were not able to bring him _all_ the way + with you; let us return, I can help you. + + + [ELDRED shakes his head.] + + +ELDRED He did not seem to wish for life: as I was struggling on, + by the light of the moon I saw the stains of blood upon my + clothes--he waved his hand, as if it were all useless; and + I let him sink again to the ground. + + +ELEANOR Oh that I had been by your side! + + +ELDRED I tell you his hands and his body were cold--how could I + disturb his last moments? he strove to turn from me as + if he wished to settle into sleep. + + +ELEANOR But, for the stains of blood-- + + +ELDRED He must have fallen, I fancy, for his head was cut; but I + think his malady was cold and hunger. + + +ELEANOR Oh, Eldred, I shall never be able to look up at this roof + in storm or fair but I shall tremble. + + +ELDRED Is it not enough that my ill stars have kept me abroad + to-night till this hour? I come home, and this is my + comfort! + + +ELEANOR But did he say nothing which might have set you at ease? + + +ELDRED I thought he grasped my hand while he was muttering + something about his Child--his Daughter-- + (starting as if he heard a noise). + What is that? + + +ELEANOR Eldred, you are a father. + + +ELDRED God knows what was in my heart, and will not curse my son + for my sake. + + +ELEANOR But you prayed by him? you waited the hour of his release? + + +ELDRED The night was wasting fast; I have no friend; I am spited + by the world--his wound terrified me--if I had + brought him along with me, and he had died in my + arms!----I am sure I heard something breathing--and + this chair! + + +ELEANOR Oh, Eldred, you will die alone. You will have nobody to + close your eyes--no hand to grasp your dying hand--I + shall be in my grave. A curse will attend us all. + + +ELDRED Have you forgot your own troubles when I was in the + dungeon? + + +ELEANOR And you left him alive? + + +ELDRED Alive!--the damps of death were upon him--he could not + have survived an hour. + + +ELEANOR In the cold, cold night. + + +ELDRED (in a savage tone) + Ay, and his head was bare; I suppose you would have had me + lend my bonnet to cover it.--You will never rest till I am + brought to a felon's end. + + +ELEANOR Is there nothing to be done? cannot we go to the Convent? + + +ELDRED Ay, and say at once that I murdered him! + + +ELEANOR Eldred, I know that ours is the only house upon the Waste; + let us take heart; this Man may be rich; and could he + be saved by our means, his gratitude may reward us. + + +ELDRED 'Tis all in vain. + + +ELEANOR But let us make the attempt. This old Man may have a wife, + and he may have children--let us return to the spot; + we may restore him, and his eyes may yet open upon + those that love him. + + +ELDRED He will never open them more; even when he spoke to me, he + kept them firmly sealed as if he had been blind. + + +IDONEA (rushing out) + It is, it is, my Father-- + + +ELDRED We are betrayed + (looking at IDONEA). + + +ELEANOR His Daughter!--God have mercy! + (turning to IDONEA) + + +IDONEA (sinking down) + Oh! lift me up and carry me to the place. + You are safe; the whole world shall not harm you. + + +ELEANOR This Lady is his Daughter. + + +ELDRED (moved) + I'll lead you to the spot. + + +IDONEA (springing up) + Alive!--you heard him breathe? quick, quick-- + + +[Exeunt.] + + + +ACT V + + +SCENE--A wood on the edge of the Waste + +Enter OSWALD and a Forester. + + +FORESTER He leaned upon the bridge that spans the glen, + And down into the bottom cast his eye, + That fastened there, as it would check the current. + + +OSWALD He listened too; did you not say he listened? + + +FORESTER As if there came such moaning from the flood + As is heard often after stormy nights. + + +OSWALD But did he utter nothing? + + +FORESTER See him there! + + +[MARMADUKE appearing.] + + +MARMADUKE Buzz, buzz, ye black and winged freebooters; + That is no substance which ye settle on! + + +FORESTER His senses play him false; and see, his arms + Outspread, as if to save himself from falling!-- + Some terrible phantom I believe is now + Passing before him, such as God will not + Permit to visit any but a man + Who has been guilty of some horrid crime. + + +[MARMADUKE disappears.] + + +OSWALD The game is up!-- + + +FORESTER If it be needful, Sir, + I will assist you to lay hands upon him. + + +OSWALD No, no, my Friend, you may pursue your business-- + 'Tis a poor wretch of an unsettled mind, + Who has a trick of straying from his keepers; + We must be gentle. Leave him to my care. + [Exit Forester.] + If his own eyes play false with him, these freaks + Of fancy shall be quickly tamed by mine; + The goal is reached. My Master shall become + A shadow of myself--made by myself. + + +SCENE--The edge of the Moor. + +MARMADUKE and ELDRED enter from opposite sides. + + +MARMADUKE (raising his eyes and perceiving ELDRED) + In any corner of this savage Waste, + Have you, good Peasant, seen a blind old Man? + + +ELDRED I heard-- + + +MARMADUKE You heard him, where? when heard him? + + +ELDRED As you know + The first hours of last night were rough with storm: + I had been out in search of a stray heifer; + Returning late, I heard a moaning sound; + Then, thinking that my fancy had deceived me, + I hurried on, when straight a second moan, + A human voice distinct, struck on my ear. + So guided, distant a few steps, I found + An aged Man, and such as you describe. + + +MARMADUKE You heard!--he called you to him? Of all men + The best and kindest!--but where is he? guide me, + That I may see him. + + +ELDRED On a ridge of rocks + A lonesome Chapel stands, deserted now: + The bell is left, which no one dares remove; + And, when the stormy wind blows o'er the peak, + It rings, as if a human hand were there + To pull the cord. I guess he must have heard it; + And it had led him towards the precipice, + To climb up to the spot whence the sound came; + But he had failed through weakness. From his hand + His staff had dropped, and close upon the brink + Of a small pool of water he was laid, + As if he had stooped to drink, and so remained + Without the strength to rise. + + +MARMADUKE Well, well, he lives, + And all is safe: what said he? + + +ELDRED But few words: + He only spake to me of a dear Daughter, + Who, so he feared, would never see him more; + And of a Stranger to him, One by whom + He had been sore misused; but he forgave + The wrong and the wrong-doer. You are troubled-- + Perhaps you are his son? + + +MARMADUKE The All-seeing knows, + I did not think he had a living Child.-- + But whither did you carry him? + + +ELDRED He was torn, + His head was bruised, and there was blood about him-- + + +MARMADUKE That was no work of mine. + + +ELDRED Nor was it mine. + + +MARMADUKE But had he strength to walk? I could have borne him + A thousand miles. + + +ELDRED I am in poverty, + And know how busy are the tongues of men; + My heart was willing, Sir, but I am one + Whose good deeds will not stand by their own light; + And, though it smote me more than words can tell, + I left him. + + +MARMADUKE I believe that there are phantoms, + That in the shape of man do cross our path + On evil instigation, to make sport + Of our distress--and thou art one of them! + But things substantial have so pressed on me-- + + +ELDRED My wife and children came into my mind. + + +MARMADUKE Oh Monster! Monster! there are three of us, + And we shall howl together. + [After a pause and in a feeble voice.] + I am deserted + At my worst need, my crimes have in a net + (Pointing to ELDRED) Entangled this poor man.-- + Where was it? where? + [Dragging him along.] + + +ELDRED 'Tis needless; spare your violence. His Daughter-- + + +MARMADUKE Ay, in the word a thousand scorpions lodge: + This old man _had_ a Daughter. + + +ELDRED To the spot + I hurried back with her.--Oh save me, Sir, + From such a journey!--there was a black tree, + A single tree; she thought it was her Father.-- + Oh Sir, I would not see that hour again + For twenty lives. The daylight dawned, and now-- + Nay; hear my tale, 'tis fit that you should hear it-- + As we approached, a solitary crow + Rose from the spot;--the Daughter clapped her hands, + And then I heard a shriek so terrible + [MARMADUKE shrinks back.] + The startled bird quivered upon the wing. + + +MARMADUKE Dead, dead!-- + + +ELDRED (after a pause) + A dismal matter, Sir, for me, + And seems the like for you; if 'tis your wish, + I'll lead you to his Daughter; but 'twere best + That she should be prepared; I'll go before. + + +MARMADUKE There will be need of preparation. + + + [ELDRED goes off.] + + +ELEANOR (enters) + Master! + Your limbs sink under you, shall I support you? + + +MARMADUKE (taking her arm) + Woman, I've lent my body to the service + Which now thou tak'st upon thee. God forbid + That thou shouldst ever meet a like occasion + With such a purpose in thine heart as mine was. + + +ELEANOR Oh, why have I to do with things like these? + + [Exeunt.] + + + +SCENE changes to the door of ELDRED'S cottage--IDONEA seated--enter +ELDRED. + + +ELDRED Your Father, Lady, from a wilful hand + Has met unkindness; so indeed he told me, + And you remember such was my report: + From what has just befallen me I have cause + To fear the very worst. + + +IDONEA My Father is dead; + Why dost thou come to me with words like these? + + +ELDRED A wicked Man should answer for his crimes. + + +IDONEA Thou seest me what I am. + + +ELDRED It was most heinous, + And doth call out for vengeance. + + +IDONEA Do not add, + I prith'ee, to the harm thou'st done already. + + +ELDRED Hereafter you will thank me for this service. + Hard by, a Man I met, who, from plain proofs + Of interfering Heaven, I have no doubt, + Laid hands upon your Father. Fit it were + You should prepare to meet him. + + +IDONEA I have nothing + To do with others; help me to my Father-- + [She turns and sees MARMADUKE leaning on ELEANOR--throws herself + upon his neck, and after some time,] + In joy I met thee, but a few hours past; + And thus we meet again; one human stay + Is left me still in thee. Nay, shake not so. + + +MARMADUKE In such a wilderness--to see no thing, + No, not the pitying moon! + + +IDONEA And perish so. + + +MARMADUKE Without a dog to moan for him. + + +IDONEA Think not of it, + But enter there and see him how he sleeps, + Tranquil as he had died in his own bed. + + +MARMADUKE Tranquil--why not? + + +IDONEA Oh, peace! + + +MARMADUKE He is at peace; + His body is at rest: there was a plot, + A hideous plot, against the soul of man: + It took effect--and yet I baffled it, + In _some_ degree. + + +IDONEA Between us stood, I thought, + A cup of consolation, filled from Heaven + For both our needs; must I, and in thy presence, + Alone partake of it?--Beloved Marmaduke! + + +MARMADUKE Give me a reason why the wisest thing + That the earth owns shall never choose to die, + But some one must be near to count his groans. + The wounded deer retires to solitude, + And dies in solitude: all things but man, + All die in solitude. + [Moving towards the cottage door.] + Mysterious God, + If she had never lived I had not done it!-- + + +IDONEA Alas! the thought of such a cruel death + Has overwhelmed him.--I must follow. + + +ELDRED Lady! + You will do well; (she goes) unjust suspicion may + Cleave to this Stranger: if, upon his entering, + The dead Man heave a groan, or from his side + Uplift his hand--that would be evidence. + + +ELEANOR Shame! Eldred, shame! + + +MARMADUKE (both returning) + The dead have but one face. + (To himself.) + And such a Man--so meek and unoffending-- + Helpless and harmless as a babe: a Man, + By obvious signal to the world's protection, + Solemnly dedicated--to decoy him!-- + + +IDONEA Oh, had you seen him living!-- + + +MARMADUKE I (so filled + With horror is this world) am unto thee + The thing most precious, that it now contains: + Therefore through me alone must be revealed + By whom thy Parent was destroyed, Idonea! + I have the proofs!-- + + +IDONEA O miserable Father! + Thou didst command me to bless all mankind; + Nor to this moment, have I ever wished + Evil to any living thing; but hear me, + Hear me, ye Heavens!-- + (kneeling) --may vengeance haunt the fiend + For this most cruel murder: let him live + And move in terror of the elements; + The thunder send him on his knees to prayer + In the open streets, and let him think he sees, + If e'er he entereth the house of God, + The roof, self-moved, unsettling o'er his head; + And let him, when he would lie down at night, + Point to his wife the blood-drops on his pillow! + + +MARMADUKE My voice was silent, but my heart hath joined thee. + + +IDONEA (leaning on MARMADUKE) + Left to the mercy of that savage Man! + How could he call upon his Child!--O Friend! + [Turns to MARMADUKE.] + My faithful true and only Comforter. + + +MARMADUKE Ay, come to me and weep. (He kisses her.) + (To ELDRED.) Yes, Varlet, look, + The devils at such sights do clap their hands. + [ELDRED retires alarmed.] + + +IDONEA Thy vest is torn, thy cheek is deadly pale; + Hast thou pursued the monster? + + +MARMADUKE I have found him.-- + Oh! would that thou hadst perished in the flames! + + +IDONEA Here art thou, then can I be desolate?-- + + +MARMADUKE There was a time, when this protecting hand + Availed against the mighty; never more + Shall blessings wait upon a deed of mine. + + +IDONEA Wild words for me to hear, for me, an orphan, + Committed to thy guardianship by Heaven; + And, if thou hast forgiven me, let me hope, + In this deep sorrow, trust, that I am thine + For closer care;--here, is no malady. + [Taking his arm.] + + +MARMADUKE There, _is_ a malady-- + (Striking his heart and forehead.) And here, and here, + A mortal malady.--I am accurst: + All nature curses me, and in my heart + _Thy_ curse is fixed; the truth must be laid bare. + It must be told, and borne. I am the man, + (Abused, betrayed, but how it matters not) + Presumptuous above all that ever breathed, + Who, casting as I thought a guilty Person + Upon Heaven's righteous judgment, did become + An instrument of Fiends. Through me, through me, + Thy Father perished. + + +IDONEA Perished--by what mischance? + + +MARMADUKE Belovèd!--if I dared, so would I call thee-- + Conflict must cease, and, in thy frozen heart, + The extremes of suffering meet in absolute peace. + [He gives her a letter.] + + +IDONEA (reads) + "Be not surprised if you hear that some signal judgment + has befallen the man who calls himself your father; he is + now with me, as his signature will shew: abstain from + conjecture till you see me. + "HERBERT. + "MARMADUKE." + The writing Oswald's; the signature my Father's: + (Looks steadily at the paper.) + And here is yours,--or do my eyes deceive me? + You have then seen my Father? + + +MARMADUKE He has leaned + Upon this arm. + + +IDONEA You led him towards the Convent? + + +MARMADUKE That Convent was Stone-Arthur Castle. Thither + We were his guides. I on that night resolved + That he should wait thy coming till the day + Of resurrection. + + +IDONEA Miserable Woman, + Too quickly moved, too easily giving way, + I put denial on thy suit, and hence, + With the disastrous issue of last night, + Thy perturbation, and these frantic words. + Be calm, I pray thee! + + +MARMADUKE Oswald-- + + +IDONEA Name him not. + + +[Enter Female Beggar.] + + +BEGGAR And he is dead!--that Moor--how shall I cross it? + By night, by day, never shall I be able + To travel half a mile alone.--Good Lady! + Forgive me!--Saints forgive me. Had I thought + It would have come to this!-- + + +IDONEA What brings you hither? speak! + + +BEGGAR (pointing to MARMADUKE) + This innocent Gentleman. Sweet heavens! I told him + Such tales of your dead Father!--God is my judge, + I thought there was no harm: but that bad Man, + He bribed me with his gold, and looked so fierce. + Mercy! I said I know not what--oh pity me-- + I said, sweet Lady, you were not his Daughter-- + Pity me, I am haunted;--thrice this day + My conscience made me wish to be struck blind; + And then I would have prayed, and had no voice. + + +IDONEA (to MARMADUKE) + Was it my Father?--no, no, no, for he + Was meek and patient, feeble, old and blind, + Helpless, and loved me dearer than his life + --But hear me. For _one_ question, I have a heart + That will sustain me. Did you murder him? + + +MARMADUKE No, not by stroke of arm. But learn the process: + Proof after proof was pressed upon me; guilt + Made evident, as seemed, by blacker guilt, + Whose impious folds enwrapped even thee; and truth + And innocence, embodied in his looks, + His words and tones and gestures, did but serve + With me to aggravate his crimes, and heaped + Ruin upon the cause for which they pleaded. + Then pity crossed the path of my resolve: + Confounded, I looked up to Heaven, and cast, + Idonea! thy blind Father, on the Ordeal + Of the bleak Waste--left him--and so he died!-- + +[IDONEA sinks senseless; Beggar, ELEANOR, etc., crowd round, and bear +her off.] + + Why may we speak these things, and do no more; + Why should a thrust of the arm have such a power, + And words that tell these things be heard in vain? + _She_ is not dead. Why!--if I loved this Woman, + I would take care she never woke again; + But she WILL wake, and she will weep for me, + And say, no blame was mine--and so, poor fool, + Will waste her curses on another name. + + +[He walks about distractedly.] + +[Enter OSWALD.] + + +OSWALD (to himself) + Strong to o'erturn, strong also to build up. + [To MARMADUKE.] + The starts and sallies of our last encounter + Were natural enough; but that, I trust, + Is all gone by. You have cast off the chains + That fettered your nobility of mind-- + Delivered heart and head! + Let us to Palestine; + This is a paltry field for enterprise. + +MARMADUKE Ay, what shall we encounter next? This issue-- + 'Twas nothing more than darkness deepening darkness, + And weakness crowned with the impotence of death!-- + Your pupil is, you see, an apt proficient. + (ironically) + Start not!--Here is another face hard by; + Come, let us take a peep at both together, + And, with a voice at which the dead will quake, + Resound the praise of your morality-- + Of this too much. + [Drawing OSWALD towards the Cottage--stops short at the door.] + Men are there, millions, Oswald, + Who with bare hands would have plucked out thy heart + And flung it to the dogs: but I am raised + Above, or sunk below, all further sense + Of provocation. Leave me, with the weight + Of that old Man's forgiveness on thy heart, + Pressing as heavily as it doth on mine. + Coward I have been; know, there lies not now + Within the compass of a mortal thought, + A deed that I would shrink from;--but to endure, + That is my destiny. May it be thine: + Thy office, thy ambition, be henceforth + To feed remorse, to welcome every sting + Of penitential anguish, yea with tears. + When seas and continents shall lie between us-- + The wider space the better--we may find + In such a course fit links of sympathy, + An incommunicable rivalship + Maintained, for peaceful ends beyond our view. + [Confused voices--several of the Band enter--rush upon OSWALD and + seize him.] + + +ONE OF THEM I would have dogged him to the jaws of hell-- + + +OSWALD Ha! is it so!--That vagrant Hag!--this comes + Of having left a thing like her alive! [Aside.] + + +SEVERAL VOICES + Despatch him! + + +OSWALD If I pass beneath a rock + And shout, and, with the echo of my voice, + Bring down a heap of rubbish, and it crush me, + I die without dishonour. Famished, starved, + A Fool and Coward blended to my wish! + [Smiles scornfully and exultingly at MARMADUKE.] + + +WALLACE 'Tis done! (Stabs him.) + + +ANOTHER OF THE BAND + The ruthless traitor! + + +MARMADUKE A rash deed!-- + With that reproof I do resign a station + Of which I have been proud. + + + +WILFRED (approaching MARMADUKE) + O my poor Master! + + +MARMADUKE Discerning Monitor, my faithful Wilfred, + Why art thou here? + [Turning to WALLACE.] + Wallace, upon these Borders, + Many there be whose eyes will not want cause + To weep that I am gone. Brothers in arms! + Raise on that dreary Waste a monument + That may record my story: nor let words-- + Few must they be, and delicate in their touch + As light itself--be there withheld from Her + Who, through most wicked arts, was made an orphan + By One who would have died a thousand times, + To shield her from a moment's harm. To you, + Wallace and Wilfred, I commend the Lady, + By lowly nature reared, as if to make her + In all things worthier of that noble birth, + Whose long-suspended rights are now on the eve + Of restoration: with your tenderest care + Watch over her, I pray--sustain her-- + + +SEVERAL OF THE BAND (eagerly) + Captain! + + +MARMADUKE No more of that; in silence hear my doom: + A hermitage has furnished fit relief + To some offenders; other penitents, + Less patient in their wretchedness, have fallen, + Like the old Roman, on their own sword's point. + They had their choice: a wanderer _must I_ go, + The Spectre of that innocent Man, my guide. + No human ear shall ever hear me speak; + No human dwelling ever give me food, + Or sleep, or rest: but, over waste and wild, + In search of nothing, that this earth can give, + But expiation, will I wander on-- + A Man by pain and thought compelled to live, + Yet loathing life--till anger is appeased + In Heaven, and Mercy gives me leave to die. + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +In June 1797 Coleridge wrote to his friend Cottle: + + "W. has written a tragedy himself. I speak with heart-felt sincerity, + and, I think, unblinded judgment, when I tell you that I feel myself a + little man by his side, and yet I do not think myself a less man than + I formerly thought myself. His drama is absolutely wonderful. You know + I do not commonly speak in such abrupt and unmingled phrases, and + therefore will the more readily believe me. There are in the piece + those profound touches of the human heart which I find three or four + times in the 'Robbers' of Schiller, and often in Shakspeare; but in W. + there are no inequalities." + + +On August 6, 1800, Charles Lamb wrote to Coleridge: + + "I would pay five-and-forty thousand carriages to read W.'s tragedy, + of which I have heard so much and seen so little." Shortly afterwards, + August 26, he wrote to Coleridge: "I have a sort of a recollection + that somebody, I think _you_, promised me a sight of Wordsworth's + tragedy. I shall be very glad of it just now, for I have got Manning + with me, and should like to read it _with him_. But this, I confess, + is a refinement. Under any circumstances, alone, in Cold-Bath Prison, + or in the desert island, just when Prospero and his crew had set off, + with Caliban in a cage, to Milan, it would be a treat to me to read + that play. Manning has read it, so has Lloyd, and all Lloyd's family; + but I could not get him to betray his trust by giving me a sight of + it. Lloyd is sadly deficient in some of those virtuous vices."--Ed. + + + + * * * * * + + VARIANTS ON THE TEXT + + + [Variant 1: + +1845. + + ... female ... 1842.] + + +[Variant 2: + +1845. + + Ha! ... 1842.] + + +[Variant 3: + +1849. + + With whom you parted? 1842.] + + +[Variant 4: + +1845. + + ... o'er ... 1842.] + + + * * * * * + +FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT + + +[Footnote A: He doubtless refers to the lines (Act iii. l. 405) "Action +is transitory--a step, a blow," etc., which followed the Dedication of +'The White Doe of Rylstone' in the edition of 1836.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote B: Note prefixed to the edition of 1842.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote C: Note appended to the edition of 1842.--Ed.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN + + +Composed 1797.--Published 1800. + + + [Written 1801 or 1802. This arose out of my observations of the + affecting music of these birds, hanging in this way in the London + streets during the freshness and stillness of the spring morning.--I. + F.] + +Placed by Wordsworth among his "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed. + +The preceding Fenwick note to this poem is manifestly inaccurate as to +date, since the poem is printed in the "Lyrical Ballads" of 1800. In the +edition of 1836 the date of composition is given as 1797, and this date +is followed by Mr. Carter, the editor of 1857. Miss Wordsworth's Journal +gives no date; and, as the Fenwick note is certainly incorrect--and the +poem must have been written before the edition of 1800 came out--it +seems best to trust to the date sanctioned by Wordsworth himself in +1836, and followed by his literary executor in 1857. I think it probable +that the poem was written during the short visit which Wordsworth and +his sister paid to their brother Richard in London in 1797, when he +tried to get his tragedy, 'The Borderers', brought on the stage. The +title of the poem from 1800 to 1805 was 'Poor Susan'.--Ed. + + + * * * * * + +THE POEM + + + At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, + Hangs a Thrush [1] that sings loud, it has sung for three years: + Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard + In the silence of morning the song of the Bird. + + 'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees 5 + A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; + Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, + And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. + + Green pastures she views [A] in the midst of the dale, + Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; 10 + And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, + The one only [2] dwelling on earth that she loves. + + She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, + The mist and the river, the hill and the shade: + The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, 15 + And the colours have all passed away from her eyes! [3] + + + + * * * * * + +VARIANTS ON THE TEXT + + +[Variant 1: + +1820. + + There's a Thrush ... 1800.] + + + +[Variant 2: + +1802. + + The only one ... 1800.] + + +[Variant 3: The following stanza, in the edition of 1800, was omitted in +subsequent ones: + + Poor Outcast! return--to receive thee once more + The house of thy Father will open its door, + And thou once again, in thy plain russet gown, + May'st hear the thrush sing from a tree of its own. [i]] + + + + * * * * * + +FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT + + +[Footnote A: Wordsworth originally wrote "sees." S.T.C. suggested +"views."--Ed.] + + + * * * * * + +SUB-FOOTNOTE ON VARIANT 3 + +[Sub-Footnote i: + + "Susan stood for the representative of poor '_Rus in urbe_.' There was + quite enough to stamp the moral of the thing never to be forgotten; + 'bright volumes of vapour,' etc. The last verse of Susan was to be got + rid of, at all events. It threw a kind of dubiety upon Susan's moral + conduct. Susan is a servant maid. I see her trundling her mop, and + contemplating the whirling phenomenon through blurred optics; but to + term her 'a poor outcast' seems as much as to say that poor Susan was + no better than she should be, which I trust was not what you meant to + express." + +Charles Lamb to Wordsworth. See 'The Letters of Charles Lamb', edited by +Alfred Ainger, vol. i., p. 287.--Ed.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +1798 + +A NIGHT PIECE + + +Composed 1798.--Published 1815. + + + [Composed on the road between Nether Stowey and Alfoxden, extempore. I + distinctly recollect the very moment when I was struck, as + described,--'He looks up, the clouds are split,' etc.--I. F.] + + +Classed by Wordsworth among his "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed. + + + * * * * * + + + --The sky is overcast + With a continuous cloud of texture close, + Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, + Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, + A dull, contracted circle, yielding light 5 + So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls, + Chequering the ground--from rock, plant, tree, or tower. + At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam + Startles the pensive traveller while [1] he treads + His lonesome path, with unobserving eye 10 + Bent earthwards; he looks up--the clouds are split + Asunder,--and above his head he sees + The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. + There, in a black-blue vault she sails along, + Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small 15 + And sharp, and bright, [A] along the dark abyss + Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away, + Yet vanish not!--the wind is in the tree, + But they are silent;--still they roll along + Immeasurably distant; and the vault, 20 + Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, + Still deepens its unfathomable depth. + At length the Vision closes; and the mind, + Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, + Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, 25 + Is left to muse upon the solemn scene. + + + + * * * * * + +VARIANT ON THE TEXT + +[Variant 1: + +1827 + + ... as ... 1815.] + + + * * * * * + +FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT + +[Footnote A: The indebtedness of the Poet to his Sister is nowhere more +conspicuous than in this Poem. In Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal +the following occurs, under date 25th January 1798: + + "Went to Poole's after tea. The sky spread over with one continuous + cloud, whitened by the light of the moon, which, though her dim shape + was seen, did not throw forth so strong a light as to chequer the + earth with shadows. At once the clouds seemed to cleave asunder, and + lift her in the centre of a black-blue vault. She sailed along, + followed by multitudes of stars, small, and bright, and sharp; their + brightness seemed concentrated." + +Ed.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +WE ARE SEVEN + + +Composed 1798.--Published 1798. + + + [Written at Alfoxden in the spring of 1798, under circumstances + somewhat remarkable. The little girl who is the heroine, I met within + the area of Goodrich Castle in the year 1793. Having left the Isle of + Wight, and crost Salisbury Plain, as mentioned in the preface to + 'Guilt and Sorrow', I proceeded by Bristol up the Wye, and so on to N. + Wales to the Vale of Clwydd, where I spent my summer under the roof of + the father of my friend, Robert Jones. + + In reference to this poem, I will here mention one of the most + remarkable facts in my own poetic history, and that of Mr. Coleridge. + In the spring of the year 1798, he, my sister, and myself, started + from Alfoxden pretty late in the afternoon, with a view to visit + Linton and the Valley of Stones near it; and as our united funds were + very small, we agreed to defray the expense of the tour by writing a + poem, to be sent to the 'New Monthly Magazine', set up by Philips, the + bookseller, and edited by Dr. Aikin. Accordingly we set off, and + proceeded along the Quantock Hills, towards Watchet; and in the course + of this walk was planned the poem of 'The Ancient Mariner', founded on + a dream, as Mr. Coleridge said, of his friend Mr. Cruikshank. Much the + greatest part of the story was Mr. Coleridge's invention; but certain + parts I myself suggested: for example, some crime was to be committed + which should bring upon the Old Navigator, as Coleridge afterwards + delighted to call him, the spectral persecution, as a consequence of + that crime, and his own wanderings. I had been reading in Shelvocke's + 'Voyages', a day or two before, that, while doubling Cape Horn, they + frequently saw albatrosses in that latitude, the largest sort of + sea-fowl, some extending their wings twelve or thirteen feet. + 'Suppose,' said I, 'you represent him as having killed one of these + birds on entering the South Sea, and that the tutelary spirits of + these regions take upon them to avenge the crime.' The incident was + thought fit for the purpose, and adopted accordingly. I also suggested + the navigation of the ship by the dead men, but do not recollect that + I had anything more to do with the scheme of the poem. The gloss with + which it was subsequently accompanied was not thought of by either of + us at the time; at least not a hint of it was given to me, and I have + no doubt it was a gratuitous after-thought. We began the composition + together, on that to me memorable evening: I furnished two or three + lines at the beginning of the poem, in particular-- + + And listen'd like a three years' child; + The Mariner had his will. + + These trifling contributions, all but one (which Mr. C. has with + unnecessary scrupulosity recorded), slipt out of his mind, as well + they might. As we endeavoured to proceed conjointly (I speak of the + same evening), our respective manners proved so widely different, that + it would have been quite presumptuous in me to do anything but + separate from an undertaking upon which I could only have been a clog. + We returned after a few days from a delightful tour, of which I have + many pleasant, and some of them droll enough, recollections. We + returned by Dulverton to Alfoxden. 'The Ancient Mariner' grew and grew + till it became too important for our first object, which was limited + to our expectation of five pounds; and we began to talk of a volume + which was to consist, as Mr. Coleridge has told the world, of Poems + chiefly on natural subjects taken from common life, but looked at, as + much as might be, through an imaginative medium. Accordingly I wrote + 'The Idiot Boy', 'Her eyes are wild', etc., 'We are Seven', 'The + Thorn', and some others. To return to 'We are Seven', the piece that + called forth this note, I composed it while walking in the grove at + Alfoxden. My friends will not deem it too trifling to relate, that + while walking to and fro I composed the last stanza first, having + begun with the last line. When it was all but finished, I came in and + recited it to Mr. Coleridge and my sister, and said, "A prefatory + stanza must be added, and I should sit down to our little tea-meal + with greater pleasure if my task was finished." I mentioned in + substance what I wished to be expressed, and Coleridge immediately + threw off the stanza, thus; + + A little child, dear brother Jem, + + I objected to the rhyme, 'dear brother Jem,' as being ludicrous; but + we all enjoyed the joke of hitching in our friend James Tobin's name, + who was familiarly called Jem. He was the brother of the dramatist; + and this reminds me of an anecdote which it may be worth while here to + notice. The said Jem got a sight of the "Lyrical Ballads" as it was + going through the press at Bristol, during which time I was residing + in that city. One evening he came to me with a grave face, and said, + "Wordsworth, I have seen the volume that Coleridge and you are about + to publish. There is one poem in it which I earnestly entreat you will + cancel, for, if published, it will make you everlastingly ridiculous." + I answered, that I felt much obliged by the interest he took in my + good name as a writer, and begged to know what was the unfortunate + piece he alluded to. He said, 'It is called 'We are Seven'.' 'Nay,' + said I, 'that shall take its chance, however'; and he left me in + despair. I have only to add, that in the spring [A] of 1841, I + revisited Goodrich Castle, not having seen that part of the Wye since + I met the little girl there in 1793. It would have given me greater + pleasure to have found in the neighbouring hamlet traces of one who + had interested me so much, but that was impossible, as unfortunately I + did not even know her name. The ruin, from its position and features, + is a most impressive object. I could not but deeply regret that its + solemnity was impaired by a fantastic new Castle set up on a + projection of the same ridge, as if to show how far modern art can go + in surpassing all that could be done by antiquity and nature with + their united graces, remembrances, and associations. I could have + almost wished for power, so much the contrast vexed me, to blow away + Sir----Meyrick's impertinent structure and all the fopperies it + contains.--I. F.] + + + * * * * * + +The "structure" referred to is Goodrich Court, built in 1828 by Sir +Samuel Rush Meyrick--a collector of ancient armour, and a great +authority on the subject--mainly to receive his extensive private +collection. The armour has been removed from Goodrich to the South +Kensington Museum. 'We are Seven' was placed by Wordsworth among his +"Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."--Ed. + + + * * * * * + +THE POEM + + + --A simple Child, [1] + That lightly draws its breath, + And feels its life in every limb, + What should it know of death? [B] + + I met a little cottage Girl: 5 + She was eight years old, she said; + Her hair was thick with many a curl + That clustered round her head. + + She had a rustic, woodland air, + And she was wildly clad: 10 + Her eyes were fair, and very fair; + --Her beauty made me glad. + + "Sisters and brothers, little Maid, + How many may you be?" + "How many? Seven in all," she said, 15 + And wondering looked at me. + + "And where are they? I pray you tell." + She answered, "Seven are we; + And two of us at Conway dwell, + And two are gone to sea. 20 + + "Two of us in the church-yard lie, + My sister and my brother; + And, in the church-yard cottage, I + Dwell near them with my mother." + + "You say that two at Conway dwell, 25 + And two are gone to sea, + Yet ye [2] are seven! I pray you tell, + Sweet Maid, how this may be." + + Then did the little Maid reply, + "Seven boys and girls are we; 30 + Two of us in the church-yard lie, + Beneath the church-yard tree." + + "You run about, my little Maid, + Your limbs they are alive; + If two are in the church-yard laid, 35 + Then ye are only five." + + "Their graves are green, they may be seen," + The little Maid replied, + "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, + And they are side by side. 40 + + "My stockings there I often knit, + My kerchief there I hem; + And there upon the ground I sit, + And sing a song to them. [3] + + "And often after sun-set, Sir, 45 + When it is light and fair, + I take my little porringer, + And eat my supper there. + + "The first that died was sister Jane; [4] + In bed she moaning lay, 50 + Till God released her of her pain; + And then she went away. + + "So in the church-yard she was laid; + And, when the grass was dry, [5] + Together round her grave we played, 55 + My brother John and I. + + "And when the ground was white with snow, + And I could run and slide, + My brother John was forced to go, + And he lies by her side." 60 + + "How many are you, then," said I, + "If they two are in heaven?" + Quick was the little Maid's reply, [6] + "O Master! we are seven." + + "But they are dead; those two are dead! 65 + Their spirits are in heaven!" + 'Twas throwing words away; for still + The little Maid would have her will, + And said, "Nay, we are seven!" + + + + * * * * * + + +VARIANTS ON THE TEXT + + +[Variant 1: + +1815. + + A simple child, dear brother Jim, 1798.] + + +[Variant 2: + +1815. + + ... you ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 3: + +1836. + + I sit and sing to them. 1798.] + + +[Variant 4: + +1836. + + ... little Jane; 1798.] + + +[Variant 5: + +1827. + + And all the summer dry, 1798.] + + +[Variant 6: + +1836. + + The little Maiden did reply, 1798.] + + + * * * * * + + +FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT + + +[Footnote A: It was in June, after leaving Alfoxden finally.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote B: The whole of this stanza was written by Coleridge. In a MS. +copy of the poem, transcribed by him, after 1806, Wordsworth gave it the +title 'We are Seven, or Death', but afterwards restored the original +title.--Ed.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS + + +Composed 1798.--Published 1798. + + + 'Retine vim istam, falsa enim dicam, si coges.' + + EUSEBIUS. [A] + + + * * * * * + + [This was suggested in front of Alfoxden. The boy was a son of my + friend, Basil Montagu, who had been two or three years under our care. + The name of Kilve is from a village on the Bristol Channel, about a + mile from Alfoxden; and the name of Liswyn Farm was taken from a + beautiful spot on the Wye, where Mr. Coleridge, my sister, and I had + been visiting the famous John Thelwall, who had taken refuge from + politics, after a trial for high treason, with a view to bring up his + family by the profits of agriculture, which proved as unfortunate a + speculation as that he had fled from. Coleridge and he had both been + public lecturers; Coleridge mingling, with his politics, Theology, + from which the other elocutionist abstained, unless it was for the + sake of a sneer. This quondam community of public employment induced + Thelwall to visit Coleridge at Nether Stowey, where he fell in my way. + He really was a man of extraordinary talent, an affectionate husband, + and a good father. Though brought up in the city, on a tailor's board, + he was truly sensible of the beauty of natural objects. I remember + once, when Coleridge, he, and I were seated together upon the turf, on + the brink of a stream in the most beautiful part of the most beautiful + glen of Alfoxden, Coleridge exclaimed, 'This is a place to reconcile + one to all the jarrings and conflicts of the wide world.' 'Nay,' said + Thelwall, 'to make one forget them altogether.' The visit of this man + to Coleridge was, as I believe Coleridge has related, the occasion of + a spy being sent by Government to watch our proceedings; which were, I + can say with truth, such as the world at large would have thought + ludicrously harmless.--I. F.] + + + * * * * * + +In the editions 1798 to 1843 the title of this poem is 'Anecdote for +Fathers, showing how the practice [1] of lying may be taught'. It was +placed among the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."--Ed. + + + * * * * * + +THE POEM + + + I have a boy of five years old; + His face is fair and fresh to see; + His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, + And dearly he loves me. + + One morn we strolled on our dry walk, 5 + Our quiet home [2] all full in view, + And held such intermitted talk + As we are wont to do. + + My thoughts on former pleasures ran; + I thought of Kilve's delightful shore, 10 + Our [3] pleasant home when spring began, + A long, long year before. + + A day it was when I could bear + Some fond regrets to entertain; [4] + With so much happiness to spare, 15 + I could not feel a pain. + + The green earth echoed to the feet + Of lambs that bounded through the glade, + From shade to sunshine, and as fleet + From sunshine back to shade.[5] 20 + + Birds warbled round me--and each trace + Of inward sadness had its charm; + Kilve, thought I, was a favoured place,[6] + And so is Liswyn farm. + + My boy beside me tripped, so slim 25 + And graceful in his rustic dress! + And, as we talked, I questioned him, [7] + In very idleness. + + "Now tell me, had you rather be," + I said, and took him by the arm, 30 + "On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea, + Or here at Liswyn farm?" [8] + + In careless mood he looked at me, + While still I held him by the arm, + And said, "At Kilve I'd rather be 35 + Than here at Liswyn farm." + + "Now, little Edward, say why so: + My little Edward, tell me why."-- + "I cannot tell, I do not know."-- + "Why, this is strange," said I; 40 + + "For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm: [9] + There surely must some reason be + Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm + For Kilve by the green sea." + + At this, my boy hung down his head, 45 + He blushed with shame, nor made reply; [10] + And three times to the child I said, [11] + "Why, Edward, tell me why?" + + His head he raised--there was in sight, + It caught his eye, he saw it plain-- 50 + Upon the house-top, glittering bright, + A broad and gilded vane. + + Then did the boy his tongue unlock, + And eased his mind with this reply: [12] + "At Kilve there was no weather-cock; 55 + And that's the reason why." + + O dearest, dearest boy! my heart + For better lore would seldom yearn, + Could I but teach the hundredth part + Of what from thee I learn. [B] 60 + + + * * * * * + +VARIANTS ON THE TEXT + +[Variant 1: + +1800. + + the art ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 2: + +1802. + + ... house ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 3: + +1802. + + My ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 4: + +1827. + + To think, and think, and think again; 1798.] + + +[Variant 5: + +1827. + + The young lambs ran a pretty race; + The morning sun shone bright and warm; + "Kilve," said I, "was a pleasant place, + And so is Liswyn farm." 1798.] + + +[Variant 6: + +1836. + + ...--every trace + Of inward sadness had its charm; + "Kilve," said I, ... 1827. + +This verse was introduced in 1827.] + + +[Variant 7: 1836. + + My boy was by my side, so slim + And graceful in his rustic dress! + And oftentimes I talked to him, 1798. + +This was stanza v. from 1798 to 1820. + + And, as we talked, I questioned him, 1827.] + + +[Variant 8: + +1827. + + "My little boy, which like you more," + I said and took him by the arm-- + "Our home by Kilve's delightful shore, + Or here at Liswyn farm?" + + "And tell me, had you rather be," + I said and held him by the arm, + "At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea, + Or here at Liswyn farm?" 1798. + +These two stanzas were compressed into one in 1827.] + + +[Variant 9: + +1836. + + For, here are woods and green-hills warm; 1798.] + + +[Variant 10: + +1800. + + At this, my boy, so fair and slim, + Hung down his head, nor made reply; 1798.] + + +[Variant 11: + +1845. + + And five times did I say to him, 1798. + + And five times to the child I said, 1800.] + + +[Variant 12: + +1836. + + And thus to me he made reply; 1798.] + + + * * * * * + +FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT + +[Footnote A: See Appendix IV.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote B: Mr. Ernest H. Coleridge writes to me of this poem: + + "The Fenwick note is most puzzling. + + 1. If Coleridge went to visit Thelwall, with Wordsworth and Dorothy in + July 1798, this is the only record; but I suppose that he did. + + 2. How could the poem have been suggested in front of Alfoxden? The + visit to Liswyn took place after the Wordsworths had left Alfoxden + never to return. If little Montagu ever did compare Kilve and Liswyn + Farm, he must have done so after he left Alfoxden. The scene is laid + at Liswyn, and if the poem was written at Alfoxden, before the party + visited Liswyn, the supposed reply was invented to a supposed question + which might be put to the child when he got to Liswyn. How unlike + Wordsworth. + + 3. Thelwall came to Alfoxden at the commencement of Wordsworth's + tenancy; and the visit to Wales took place when the tenancy was over, + July 3-10." + +Ed.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +"A WHIRL-BLAST FROM BEHIND THE HILL" + + +Composed March 18, 1798.--Published 1800. + + + [Observed in the holly-grove at Alfoxden, where these verses were + written in the spring of 1799. [A] I had the pleasure of again seeing, + with dear friends, this grove in unimpaired beauty forty-one years + after. [B]--I. F.] + +Classed among the "Poems of the Fancy."--Ed. + + + * * * * * + +THE POEM + + + A whirl-blast from behind the hill + Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound; + Then--all at once the air was still, + And showers of hailstones pattered round. + Where leafless oaks towered high above, 5 + I sat within an undergrove + Of tallest hollies, tall and green; + A fairer bower was never seen. + From year to year the spacious floor + With withered leaves is covered o'er, 10 + [1] And all the year the bower is green. [C] + But see! where'er the hailstones drop + The withered leaves all skip and hop; + There's not a breeze--no breath of air-- + Yet here, and there, and every where 15 + Along the floor, beneath the shade + By those embowering hollies made, + The leaves in myriads jump and spring, + As if with pipes and music rare + Some Robin Good-fellow were there, 20 + And all those leaves, in festive glee, + Were dancing to the minstrelsy. [2] [3] [D] + + + * * * * * + +VARIANTS ON THE TEXT + +[Variant 1: + +1820. + + You could not lay a hair between: + +Inserted in the editions 1800-1815.] + + +[Variant 2: + +1815. + + And all those leaves, that jump and spring, + Were each a joyous, living thing. 1800.] + + +[Variant 3: The following additional lines occur in the editions 1800 to +1805: + + Oh! grant me Heaven a heart at ease + That I may never cease to find, + Even in appearances like these + Enough to nourish and to stir my mind!] + + + * * * * * + +FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT + +[Footnote A: Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal gives the date 1798, and in +the spring of 1799 the Wordsworths were not at Alfoxden but in +Germany.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote B: The friends were Mrs. Wordsworth, Miss Fenwick, Edward and +Dora Quillinan, and William Wordsworth (the poet's son). The date was +May 13, 1841.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote C: Compare a letter from Wordsworth to Sir George Beaumont, +written in November 1806, and one to Lady Beaumont in December +1806.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote D: + + "March 18, 1708. The Coleridges left us. A cold windy morning. Walked + with them half-way. On our return, sheltered under the hollies during + a hail shower. The withered leaves danced with the hailstones. William + wrote a description of the storm" + +(Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal).--Ed.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +THE THORN + + +Composed March 19, 1798.--Published 1798. + + +In the editions of 1800-1805, Wordsworth added the following note to +this poem: + + "This Poem ought to have been preceded by an introductory Poem, which + I have been prevented from writing by never having felt myself in a + mood when it was probable that I should write it well.--The character + which I have here introduced speaking is sufficiently common. The + Reader will perhaps have a general notion of it, if he has ever known + a man, a Captain of a small trading vessel for example, who being past + the middle age of life, had retired upon an annuity or small + independent income to some village or country town of which he was not + a native, or in which he had not been accustomed to live. Such men + having little to do become credulous and talkative from indolence; and + from the same cause, and other predisposing causes by which it is + probable that such men may have been affected, they are prone to + superstition. On which account it appeared to me proper to select a + character like this to exhibit some of the general laws by which + superstition acts upon the mind. Superstitious men are almost always + men of slow faculties and deep feelings; their minds are not loose but + adhesive; they have a reasonable share of imagination, by which word I + mean the faculty which produces impressive effects out of simple + elements; but they are utterly destitute of fancy, the power by which + pleasure and surprise are excited by sudden varieties of situation and + by accumulated imagery. + + "It was my wish in this poem to shew the manner in which such men + cleave to the same ideas; and to follow the turns of passion, always + different, yet not palpably different, by which their conversation is + swayed. I had two objects to attain; first, to represent a picture + which should not be unimpressive yet consistent with the character + that should describe it, secondly, while I adhered to the style in + which such persons describe, to take care that words, which in their + minds are impregnated with passion, should likewise convey passion to + Readers who are not accustomed to sympathize with men feeling in that + manner or using such language. It seemed to me that this might be done + by calling in the assistance of Lyrical and rapid Metre. It was + necessary that the Poem, to be natural, should in reality move slowly; + yet I hoped, that, by the aid of the metre, to those who should at all + enter into the spirit of the Poem, it would appear to move quickly. + The Reader will have the kindness to excuse this note as I am sensible + that an introductory Poem is necessary to give this Poem its full + effect. + + "Upon this occasion I will request permission to add a few words + closely connected with 'The Thorn' and many other Poems in these + Volumes. There is a numerous class of readers who imagine that the + same words cannot be repeated without tautology; this is a great + error: virtual tautology is much oftener produced by using different + words when the meaning is exactly the same. Words, a Poet's words more + particularly, ought to be weighed in the balance of feeling and not + measured by the space which they occupy upon paper. For the Reader + cannot be too often reminded that Poetry is passion: it is the history + or science of feelings: now every man must know that an attempt is + rarely made to communicate impassioned feelings without something of + an accompanying consciousness of the inadequateness of our own powers, + or the deficiencies of language. During such efforts there will be a + craving in the mind, and as long as it is unsatisfied the Speaker will + cling to the same words, or words of the same character. There are + also various other reasons why repetition and apparent tautology are + frequently beauties of the highest kind. Among the chief of these + reasons is the interest which the mind attaches to words, not only as + symbols of the passion, but as 'things', active and efficient, which + are of themselves part of the passion. And further, from a spirit of + fondness, exultation, and gratitude, the mind luxuriates in the + repetition of words which appear successfully to communicate its + feelings. The truth of these remarks might be shown by innumerable + passages from the Bible and from the impassioned poetry of every + nation. + + Awake, awake, Deborah! awake, awake, utter a song: Arise Barak, and + lead captivity captive, thou Son of Abinoam. + + At her feet he bowed, he fell, he lay down: at her feet he bowed, he + fell: where he bowed there he fell down dead. + + Why is his Chariot so long in coming? why tarry the Wheels of his + Chariot? + + (Judges, chap. v. verses 12th, 27th, and part of 28th.) + + See also the whole of that tumultuous and wonderful Poem." + + "The poem of 'The Thorn', as the reader will soon discover, is not + supposed to be spoken in the author's own person: the character of the + loquacious narrator will sufficiently shew itself in the course of the + story." + +W. W. Advertisement to "Lyrical Ballads," 1798. + + + * * * * * + + [Alfoxden, 1798. Arose out of my observing, on the ridge of Quantock + Hill, on a stormy day, a thorn, which I had often past in calm and + bright weather, without noticing it. I said to myself, "Cannot I by + some invention do as much to make this Thorn permanently as an + impressive object as the storm has made it to my eyes at this moment?" + I began the poem accordingly, and composed it with great rapidity. Sir + George Beaumont painted a picture from it, which Wilkie thought his + best. He gave it me: though when he saw it several times at Rydal + Mount afterwards, he said, 'I could make a better, and would like to + paint the same subject over again.' The sky in this picture is nobly + done, but it reminds one too much of Wilson. The only fault, however, + of any consequence is the female figure, which is too old and decrepit + for one likely to frequent an eminence on such a call.--I. F.] + + + * * * * * + +'The Thorn' was always placed among the "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed. + + + + * * * * * + +THE POEM + + +I "There is a Thorn--it looks so old, + In truth, you'd find it hard to say + How it could ever have been young, + It looks so old and grey. + Not higher than a two years' child 5 + It stands erect, this aged Thorn; + No leaves it has, no prickly [1] points; + It is a mass of knotted joints, + A wretched thing forlorn. + It stands erect, and like a stone 10 + With lichens is it overgrown. [2] + + +II "Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown, + With lichens to the very top, + And hung with heavy tufts of moss, + A melancholy crop: 15 + Up from the earth these mosses creep, + And this poor Thorn they clasp it round + So close, you'd say that they are [3] bent + With plain and manifest intent + To drag it to the ground; 20 + And all have [4] joined in one endeavour + To bury this poor Thorn for ever. + + +III "High on a mountain's highest ridge, + Where oft the stormy winter gale + Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds 25 + It sweeps from vale to vale; + Not five yards from the mountain path, + This Thorn you on your left espy; + And to the left, three yards beyond, + You see a little muddy pond 30 + Of water--never dry + Though but of compass small, and bare + To thirsty suns and parching air. [5] [A] + + +IV "And, close beside this aged Thorn, + There is a fresh and lovely sight, 35 + A beauteous heap, a hill of moss, + Just half a foot in height. + All lovely colours there you see, + All colours that were ever seen; + And mossy network too is there, 40 + As if by hand of lady fair + The work had woven been; + And cups, the darlings of the eye, + So deep is their vermilion dye. + + +V "Ah me! what lovely tints are there 45 + Of olive green and scarlet bright, + In spikes, in branches, and in stars, + Green, red, and pearly white! + This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss, + Which close beside the Thorn you see, 50 + So fresh in all its beauteous dyes, + Is like an infant's grave in size, + As like as like can be: + But never, never any where, + An infant's grave was half so fair. 55 + + +VI "Now would you see this aged Thorn, + This pond, and beauteous hill of moss, + You must take care and choose your time + The mountain when to cross. + For oft there sits between the heap 60 + So like [6] an infant's grave in size, + And that same pond of which I spoke, + A Woman in a scarlet cloak, + And to herself she cries, + 'Oh misery! oh misery! 65 + Oh woe is me! oh misery!' + + +VII "At all times of the day and night + This wretched Woman thither goes; + And she is known to every star, + And every wind that blows; 70 + And there, beside the Thorn, she sits + When the blue daylight's in the skies, + And when the whirlwind's on the hill, + Or frosty air is keen and still + And to herself she cries, 75 + 'Oh misery! oh misery! + Oh woe is me! oh misery!'" + + +VIII "Now wherefore, thus, by day and night, + In rain, in tempest, and in snow, + Thus to the dreary mountain-top 80 + Does this poor Woman go? + And why sits she beside the Thorn + When the blue daylight's in the sky, + Or when the whirlwind's on the hill, + Or frosty air is keen and still, 85 + And wherefore does she cry?-- + O wherefore? wherefore? tell me why + Does she repeat that doleful cry?" + + +IX "I cannot tell; I wish I could; + For the true reason no one knows: 90 + But would you [7] gladly view the spot, + The spot to which she goes; + The hillock like [8] an infant's grave, + The pond--and Thorn, so old and grey; + Pass by her door--'tis seldom shut-- 95 + And, if you see her in her hut-- + Then to the spot away! + I never heard of such as dare + Approach the spot when she is there." + + +X "But wherefore to the mountain-top 100 + Can this unhappy Woman go, + Whatever star is in the skies, + Whatever wind may blow?" [9] + "Full twenty years are past and gone [10] + Since she (her name is Martha Ray) 105 + Gave with a maiden's true good-will + Her company to Stephen Hill; + And she was blithe and gay, + While friends and kindred all approved + Of him whom tenderly she loved. [11] 110 + + +XI "And they had fixed the wedding day, + The morning that must wed them both; + But Stephen to another Maid + Had sworn another oath; + And, with this other Maid, to church 115 + Unthinking Stephen went-- + Poor Martha! on that woeful day + A pang of pitiless dismay + Into her soul was sent; + A fire was kindled in her breast, 121 + Which might not burn itself to rest. [12] + + +XII "They say, full six months after this, + While yet the summer leaves were green, + She to the mountain-top would go, 125 + And there was often seen. + What could she seek?--or wish to hide? + Her state to any eye was plain; [13] + She was with child, and she was mad; + Yet often was she [14] sober sad 130 + From her exceeding pain. + O guilty Father--would that death + Had saved him from that breach of faith! [15] + + +XIII "Sad case for such a brain to hold + Communion with a stirring child! 135 + Sad case, as you may think, for one + Who had a brain so wild! + Last Christmas-eve we talked of this, + And grey-haired Wilfred of the glen + Held that the unborn infant wrought [16] 140 + About its mother's heart, and brought + Her senses back again: + And, when at last her time drew near, + Her looks were calm, her senses clear. + + +XIV "More know I not, I wish I did, 145 + And it should all be told to you; [17] + For what became of this poor child + No mortal ever knew; [18] + Nay--if a child to her was born + No earthly tongue could ever tell; [19] 150 + And if 'twas born alive or dead, + Far less could this with proof be said; [20] + But some remember well, + That Martha Ray about this time + Would up the mountain often climb. 155 + + +XV "And all that winter, when at night + The wind blew from the mountain-peak, + 'Twas worth your while, though in the dark, + The churchyard path to seek: + For many a time and oft were heard 160 + Cries coming from the mountain head: + Some plainly living voices were; + And others, I've heard many swear, + Were voices of the dead: + I cannot think, whate'er they say, 165 + They had to do with Martha Ray. + + +XVI "But that she goes to this old Thorn, + The Thorn which I described [21] to you, + And there sits in a scarlet cloak, + I will be sworn is true. 170 + For one day with my telescope, + To view the ocean wide and bright, + When to this country first I came, + Ere I had heard of Martha's name, + I climbed the mountain's height:-- 175 + A storm came on, and I could see + No object higher than my knee. + + +XVII "'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain: + No screen, no fence could I discover; + And then the wind! in sooth, [22] it was 180 + A wind full ten times over. + I looked around, I thought I saw + A jutting crag,--and off I ran, + Head-foremost, through the driving rain, + The shelter of the crag to gain; 185 + And, as I am a man, + Instead of jutting crag, I found + A Woman seated on the ground. + + +XVIII "I did not speak--I saw her face; + Her face!--it was [23] enough for me: 190 + I turned about and heard her cry, + 'Oh misery! oh misery!' + And there she sits, until the moon + Through half the clear blue sky will go; + And, when the little breezes make 195 + The waters of the pond to shake, + As all the country know, + She shudders, and you hear her cry, + 'Oh misery! oh misery!'" + + +XIX "But what's the Thorn? and what the pond? 200 + And what the hill of moss to her? + And what the creeping breeze that comes [24] + The little pond to stir?" + "I cannot tell; but some will say + She hanged her baby on the tree; 205 + Some say she drowned it in the pond, + Which is a little step beyond: + But all and each agree, + The little Babe was buried there, + Beneath that hill of moss so fair. 210 + + +XX "I've heard, the moss is spotted red [25] + With drops of that poor infant's blood; + But kill a new-born infant thus, + I do not think she could! + Some say, if to the pond you go, 215 + And fix on it a steady view, + The shadow of a babe you trace, + A baby and a baby's face, + And that it looks at you; + Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain 220 + The baby looks at you again. + + +XXI "And some had sworn an oath that she + Should be to public justice brought; + And for the little infant's bones + With spades they would have sought. 225 + But instantly the hill of moss [26] + Before their eyes began to stir! + And, for full fifty yards around, + The grass--it shook upon the ground! + Yet [27] all do still aver 230 + The little Babe lies [28] buried there, + Beneath that hill of moss so fair. + + +XXII "I cannot tell how this may be + But plain it is the Thorn is bound + With heavy tufts of moss that strive 235 + To drag it to the ground; + And this I know, full many a time, + When she was on the mountain high, + By day, and in the silent night, + When all the stars shone clear and bright, 240 + That I have heard her cry, + 'Oh misery! oh misery! + Oh woe is me! oh misery!'" + + + * * * * * + + +Compare 'The Heart of Midlothian' (vol. iii. chap. v. edition of 1818): + + "Are ye sure ye ken the way ye are taking us?" said Jeanie, who began + to imagine that she was getting deeper into the woods, and more remote + from the highroad. + + "Do I ken the road? Wasna I mony a day living here, and what for + shouldna I ken the road? I might hae forgotten, too, for it was afore + my accident; but there are some things ane can never forget, let them + try it as muckle as they like." + + By this time they had gained the deepest part of a patch of woodland. + The trees were a little separated from each other, and at the foot of + one of them, a beautiful poplar, was a hillock of moss, such as the + poet of Grasmere has described in the motto to our chapter. So soon as + she arrived at this spot, Madge Wildfire, joining her hands above her + head, with a loud scream that resembled laughter, flung herself all at + once upon the spot, and remained there lying motionless. + + Jeanie's first idea was to take the opportunity of flight; but her + desire to escape yielded for a moment to apprehension for the poor + insane being, who, she thought, might perish for want of relief. With + an effort, which, in her circumstances, might be termed heroic, she + stooped down, spoke in a soothing tone, and tried to raise up the + forlorn creature. She effected this with difficulty, and as she placed + her against the tree in a sitting posture, she observed with surprise, + that her complexion, usually florid, was now deadly pale, and that her + face was bathed in tears. Notwithstanding her own extreme danger, + Jeanie was affected by the situation of her companion; and the rather + that, through the whole train of her wavering and inconsistent state + of mind and line of conduct, she discerned a general colour of + kindness towards herself, for which she felt gratitude. + + "Let me alane!--let me alane!" said the poor young woman, as her + paroxysm of sorrow began to abate. "Let me alane; it does me good to + weep. I canna shed tears but maybe anes or twice a-year, and I aye + come to wet this turf with them, that the flowers may grow fair, and + the grass may be green." + + "But what is the matter with you?" said Jeanie. "Why do you weep so + bitterly?" + + "There's matter enow," replied the lunatic; "mair than ae puir mind + can bear, I trow. Stay a bit, and I'll tell you a' about it; for I + like ye, Jeanie Deans; a'body spoke weel about ye when we lived in the + Pleasaunts. And I mind aye the drink o' milk ye gae me yon day, when I + had been on Arthur's Seat for four-and-twenty hours, looking for the + ship that somebody was sailing in." + +Ed. + + + * * * * * + +VARIANTS ON THE TEXT + +[Variant 1: + +1836. + + ... thorny ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 2: + +1836. + + ... it is overgrown. 1798.] + + +[Variant 3: + +1836. + + ... were ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 4: + +1836. + + ... had ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 5: + +1820. + + I've measured it from side to side: + 'Tis three feet long [i] and two feet wide. 1798.] + + +[Variant 6: + + +1827. + + That's like ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 7: + +1827. + + But if you'd ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 8: + +1827. + + The heap that's like ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 9: In the editions 1798 to 1815. + + Nay rack your brain--'tis all in vain, + I'll tell you every thing I know; + But to the thorn, and to the pond + Which is a little step beyond, + I wish that you would go: + Perhaps when you are at the place + You something of her tale may trace. + + + XI I'll give you the best help I can: + Before you up the mountain go, + Up to the dreary mountain-top, + I'll tell you all I know.] + + +[Variant 10: + +1845. + + 'Tis now some two and twenty years, 1798. + + 'Tis known, that twenty years are passed 1820.] + + +[Variant 11: + +1820. + + And she was happy, happy still + Whene'er she thought of Stephen Hill. 1798.] + + +[Variant 12: + +1815. + + ... on that woful day + A cruel, cruel fire, they say, + Into her bones was sent: + It dried her body like a cinder, + And almost turn'd her brain to tinder. 1798.] + + +[Variant 13: + +1836. + + 'Tis said, a child was in her womb, + As now to any eye was plain; 1798. + + 'Tis said, her lamentable state + Even to a careless eye was plain; 1820. + + Alas! her lamentable state 1827.] + + +[Variant 14: + +1836. + + ... she was... 1798.] + + +[Variant 15: + +1820. + + Oh me! ten thousand times I'd rather + That he had died, that cruel father! 1798.] + + +[Variant 16: + +1820. + + Last Christmas when we talked of this, + Old Farmer Simpson did maintain, + That in her womb the infant wrought 1798.] + + + +[Variant 17: + +1827. + + No more I know, I wish I did, + And I would tell it all to you; 1798.] + + +[Variant 18: + +1827. + + There's none that ever knew: 1798.] + + +[Variant 19: + +1827. + + And if a child was born or no, + There's no one that could ever tell; 1798.] + + +[Variant 20: + +1827. + + There's no one knows, as I have said, 1798.] + + +[Variant 21: + +1827. + + ... I've described ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 22: + +1845. + + ... in faith, ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 23: + +1798. + + In truth, it was ... 1800. + +The edition of 1815 returns to the text of 1798.] + + +[Variant 24: + +1827. + + ... and what's the pond? + And what's the hill of moss to her? + And what's the ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 25: + +1800. + + I've heard the scarlet moss is red 1798.] + + +[Variant 26: + +1845. + + But then the beauteous hill of moss 1798. + + It might not be--the Hill of moss 1827. + + But then the beauteous Hill of moss 1832. + (Returning to the text of 1798.) + + But then the speckled hill of moss 1836.] + + +[Variant 27: + +1827. + + But ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 28: + +1845. + + ... is buried ... 1798.] + + + * * * * * + + +FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT + +[Footnote A: + + "March 19, 1798. William and Basil and I walked to the hill tops. A + very cold bleak day. William wrote some lines describing a stunted + Thorn" (Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal).--Ed. + + "April 20. Walked in the evening up the hill dividing the coombes. + Came home the Crookham way, by the Thorn, and the little muddy pond" + (Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal).--Ed.] + + + * * * * * + + +SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE VARIANT + +[Sub-Footnote i: Compare in Bürger's 'Pfarrer's Tochter', "drei Spannen +lang," and see Appendix V.--Ed.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL + +A TRUE STORY + + +Composed 1798.--Published 1798. + + + [Written at Alfoxden. The incident from Dr. Darwin's 'Zoönomia'.--I. + F.] + +See Erasmus Darwin's 'Zoönomia', vol. iv. pp. 68-69, ed. 1801. It is the +story of a man named Tullis, narrated by an Italian, Signer L. Storgosi, +in a work called 'Il Narratore Italiano'. + + "I received good information of the truth of the following case, which + was published a few years ago in the newspapers. A young farmer in + Warwickshire, finding his hedges broke, and the sticks carried away + during a frosty season, determined to watch for the thief. He lay many + cold hours under a haystack, and at length an old woman, like a witch + in a play, approached, and began to pull up the hedge; he waited till + she had tied up her bundle of sticks, and was carrying them off, that + he might convict her of the theft, and then springing from his + concealment, he seized his prey with violent threats. After some + altercation, in which her load was left upon the ground, she kneeled + upon her bundle of sticks, and raising her arms to Heaven, beneath the + bright moon then at the full, spoke to the farmer, already shivering + with cold, 'Heaven grant that thou mayest never know again the + blessing to be warm.' He complained of cold all the next day, and wore + an upper coat, and in a few days another, and in a fortnight took to + his bed, always saying nothing made him warm; he covered himself with + many blankets, and had a sieve over his face as he lay; and from this + one insane idea he kept his bed above twenty years for fear of the + cold air, till at length he died." + +In the "Advertisement" to the first edition of "Lyrical Ballads," +Wordsworth says, "The tale of 'Goody Blake and Harry Gill' is founded on +a well-authenticated fact which happened in Warwickshire." + +The following curious letter appeared in the 'Ipswich Magazine' of April +1799: + + "IPSWICH, April 2, 1799. + + "To the Editors of the 'Ipswich Magazine'. + + "GENTLEMEN--The scarcity of Coal at this time, and the piercing cold + of the weather, cannot fail to be some apology for the depredations + daily committed on the hedges in the neighbourhood. If ever it be + permitted, it ought in the present season. Should there be any Farmer + more rigorous than the rest, let him attend to the poetical story + inserted in page 118 of this Magazine, and tremble at the fate of + Farmer Gill, who was about to prosecute a poor old woman for a similar + offence. The thing is a fact, and told by one of the first physicians + of the present day, as having happened in the south of England, 'and + which has, a short time since', been turned by a _lyric poet_ into + that excellent ballad." + +From 1815 to 1843, this poem was classed among those of "the +Imagination." In 1845 it was transferred to the list of "Miscellaneous +Poems."--Ed. + + + * * * * * + +THE POEM + + + Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter? + What is't that ails young Harry Gill? + That evermore his teeth they chatter, + Chatter, chatter, chatter still! + Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, 5 + Good duffle grey, and flannel fine; + He has a blanket on his back, + And coats enough to smother nine. + + In March, December, and in July, + 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; 10 + The neighbours tell, and tell you truly, + His teeth they chatter, chatter still. + At night, at morning, and at noon, + 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; + Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, 15 + His teeth they chatter, chatter still! + + Young Harry was a lusty drover, + And who so stout of limb as he? + His cheeks were red as ruddy clover; + His voice was like the voice of three. 20 + Old [1] Goody Blake was old and poor; + Ill fed she was, and thinly clad; + And any man who passed her door + Might see how poor a hut she had. + + All day she spun in her poor dwelling: 25 + And then her three hours' work at night, + Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling, + It would not pay for candle-light. + Remote from sheltered village-green, + On a hill's northern side she dwelt, 30 + Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean, + And hoary dews are slow to melt. [2] + + By the same fire to boil their pottage, + Two poor old Dames, as I have known, + Will often live in one small cottage; 35 + But she, poor Woman! housed [3] alone. + 'Twas well enough when summer came, + The long, warm, lightsome summer-day, + Then at her door the _canty_ Dame + Would sit, as any linnet, gay. 40 + + But when the ice our streams did fetter, + Oh then how her old bones would shake; + You would have said, if you had met her, + 'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake. + Her evenings then were dull and dead: 45 + Sad case it was, as you may think, + For very cold to go to bed; + And then for cold not sleep a wink. + + O joy for her! whene'er in winter + The winds at night had made a rout; 50 + And scattered many a lusty splinter + And many a rotten bough about. + Yet never had she, well or sick, + As every man who knew her says, + A pile beforehand, turf [4] or stick, 55 + Enough to warm her for three days. + + Now, when the frost was past enduring, + And made her poor old bones to ache, + Could anything be more alluring + Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? 60 + And, now and then, it must be said, + When her old bones were cold and chill, + She left her fire, or left her bed, + To seek the hedge of Harry Gill. + + Now Harry he had long suspected 65 + This trespass of old Goody Blake; + And vowed that she should be detected-- + That [5] he on her would vengeance take. + And oft from his warm fire he'd go, + And to the fields his road would take; 70 + And there, at night, in frost and snow, + He watched to seize old Goody Blake. + + And once, behind a rick of barley, + Thus looking out did Harry stand: + The moon was full and shining clearly, 75 + And crisp with frost the stubble land. + --He hears a noise--he's all awake-- + Again?--on tip-toe down the hill + He softly creeps--'tis Goody Blake; + She's at the hedge of Harry Gill! 80 + + Right glad was he when he beheld her: + Stick after stick did Goody pull: + He stood behind a bush of elder, + Till she had filled her apron full. + When with her load she turned about, 85 + The by-way [6] back again to take; + He started forward, with a shout, + And sprang upon poor Goody Blake. + + And fiercely by the arm he took her, + And by the arm he held her fast, 90 + And fiercely by the arm he shook her, + And cried, "I've caught you then at last!" + Then Goody, who had nothing said, + Her bundle from her lap let fall; + And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed 95 + To God that is the judge of all. + + She prayed, her withered hand uprearing, + While Harry held her by the arm-- + "God! who art never out of hearing, + O may he never more be warm!" 100 + The cold, cold moon above her head, + Thus on her knees did Goody pray; + Young Harry heard what she had said: + And icy cold he turned away. + + He went complaining all the morrow 105 + That he was cold and very chill: + His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow, + Alas! that day for Harry Gill! + That day he wore a riding-coat, + But not a whit the warmer he: 110 + Another was on Thursday brought, + And ere the Sabbath he had three. + + 'Twas all in vain, a useless matter, + And blankets were about him pinned; + Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, 115 + Like a loose casement in the wind. + And Harry's flesh it fell away; + And all who see him say, 'tis plain + That, live as long as live he may, + He never will be warm again. 120 + + No word to any man he utters, + A-bed or up, to young or old; + But ever to himself he mutters, + "Poor Harry Gill is very cold." + A-bed or up, by night or day; 125 + His teeth they chatter, chatter still. + Now think, ye farmers all, I pray, + Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill! [A] + + + * * * * * + +VARIANTS ON THE TEXT + +[Variant 1: + +1802. + + Auld 1798.] + + +[Variant 2: + +1836 + + --This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire, + Her hut was on a cold hill-side, + And in that country coals are dear, + For they come far by wind and tide. 1798. + + Remote from sheltering village green, + Upon a bleak hill-side, she dwelt, + Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean, + And hoary dews are slow to melt. 1820. + + On a hill's northern side she dwelt. 1827.] + + +[Variant 3. + +1820. + + ... dwelt ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 4. + +1827. + + ... wood ... 1798] + + +[Variant 5. + +1836. + + And ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 6. + +1827. + + The bye-road ... 1798.] + + + * * * * * + + +FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT + +[Footnote A: Compare the many entries about "gathering sticks" in the +Alfoxden woods, in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal.--Ed.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +HER EYES ARE WILD + + +Composed 1798.--Published 1798. + + + [Written at Alfoxden. The subject was reported to me by a lady of + Bristol, who had seen the poor creature.--I. F.] + +From 1798 to 1805 this poem was published under the title of 'The Mad +Mother'. + +In the editions of 1815 and 1820 it was ranked as one of the "Poems +founded on the Affections." In the editions of 1827 and 1832, it was +classed as one of the "Poems of the Imagination." In 1836 and +afterwards, it was replaced among the "Poems founded on the +Affections."--Ed. + + +I Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, + The sun has burnt her coal-black hair; + Her eyebrows have a rusty stain, + And she came far from over the main. + She has a baby on her arm, 5 + Or else she were alone: + And underneath the hay-stack warm, + And on the greenwood stone, + She talked and sung the woods among, + And it was in the English tongue. 10 + + +II "Sweet babe! they say that I am mad + But nay, my heart is far too glad; + And I am happy when I sing + Full many a sad and doleful thing: + Then, lovely baby, do not fear! 15 + I pray thee have no fear of me; + But safe as in a cradle, here + My lovely baby! thou shalt be: + To thee I know too much I owe; + I cannot work thee any woe. 20 + + +III "A fire was once within my brain; + And in my head a dull, dull pain; + And fiendish faces, one, two, three, + Hung at my breast, [1] and pulled at me; + But then there came a sight of joy; 25 + It came at once to do me good; + I waked, and saw my little boy, + My little boy of flesh and blood; + Oh joy for me that sight to see! + For he was here, and only he. 30 + + +IV "Suck, little babe, oh suck again! + It cools my blood; it cools my brain; + Thy lips I feel them, baby! they + Draw from my heart the pain away. + Oh! press me with thy little hand; 35 + It loosens something at my chest; + About that tight and deadly band + I feel thy little fingers prest. + The breeze I see is in the tree: + It comes to cool my babe and me. 40 + + +V "Oh! love me, love me, little boy! + Thou art thy mother's only joy; + And do not dread the waves below, + When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go; + The high crag cannot work me harm, 45 + Nor leaping torrents when they howl; + The babe I carry on my arm, + He saves for me my precious soul; + Then happy lie; for blest am I; + Without me my sweet babe would die. 50 + + +VI "Then do not fear, my boy! for thee + Bold as a lion will I be; [2] + And I will always be thy guide, + Through hollow snows and rivers wide. + I'll build an Indian bower; I know 55 + The leaves that make the softest bed: + And, if from me thou wilt not go, + But still be true till I am dead, + My pretty thing! then thou shall sing + As merry as the birds in spring. 60 + + +VII "Thy father cares not for my breast, + 'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest; + 'Tis all thine own!--and, if its hue + Be changed, that was so fair to view, + 'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove! 65 + My beauty, little child, is flown, + But thou wilt live with me in love; + And what if my poor cheek be brown? + 'Tis well for me, thou canst not see + How pale and wan it else would be. 70 + + +VIII "Dread not their taunts, my little Life; + I am thy father's wedded wife; + And underneath the spreading tree + We two will live in honesty. + If his sweet boy he could forsake, 75 + With me he never would have stayed: + From him no harm my babe can take; + But he, poor man! is wretched made; + And every day we two will pray + For him that's gone and far away. 80 + + +IX "I'll teach my boy the sweetest things: + I'll teach him how the owlet sings. + My little babe! thy lips are still, + And thou hast almost sucked thy fill. + --Where art thou gone, my own dear child? 85 + What wicked looks are those I see? + Alas! alas! that look so wild, + It never, never came from me: + If thou art mad, my pretty lad, + Then I must be for ever sad. 90 + + +X "Oh! smile on me, my little lamb! + For I thy own dear mother am: + My love for thee has well been tried: + I've sought thy father far and wide. + I know the poisons of the shade; 95 + I know the earth-nuts fit for food: + Then, pretty dear, be not afraid: + We'll find thy father in the wood. + Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away! + And there, my babe, we'll live for aye." [A] 100 + + + * * * * * + +VARIANTS ON THE TEXT + +[Variant 1. + +1820. + + ... breasts ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 2. + +1832. + + ... I will be; 1798.] + + + * * * * * + +FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT + +[Footnote A: + + "For myself, I would rather have written 'The Mad Mother' than all the + works of all the Bolingbrokes and Sheridans, those brilliant meteors, + that have been exhaled from the morasses of human depravity since the + loss of Paradise." + +(S. T. C. to W. Godwin, 9th December 1800.) See 'William Godwin: his +Friends and Contemporaries', vol. ii. p. 14.--Ed.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN; + +WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED + + +Composed 1798.--Published 1798. + + + [This old man had been huntsman to the Squires of Alfoxden, which, at + the time we occupied it, belonged to a minor. The old man's cottage + stood upon the Common, a little way from the entrance to Alfoxden + Park. But it had disappeared. Many other changes had taken place in + the adjoining village, which I could not but notice with a regret more + natural than well-considered. Improvements but rarely appear such to + those who, after long intervals of time, revisit places they have had + much pleasure in. It is unnecessary to add, the fact was as mentioned + in the poem; and I have, after an interval of forty-five years, the + image of the old man as fresh before my eyes as if I had seen him + yesterday. The expression when the hounds were out, 'I dearly love + their voice,' was word for word from his own lips.--I. F.] + +This poem was classed among those of "Sentiment and Reflection."--Ed. + + + * * * * * + +THE POEM + + + In the sweet shire of Cardigan, + Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, + An old Man dwells, a little man,-- + 'Tis said [1] he once was tall. + [2] Full five-and-thirty [3] years he lived 5 + A running huntsman merry; + And still the centre of his cheek + Is red as a ripe cherry. [4] + + No man like him the horn could sound, + And hill and valley rang with glee: 10 + When Echo bandied, round and round, + The halloo of Simon Lee. + In those proud days, he little cared + For husbandry or tillage; + To blither tasks did Simon rouse 15 + The sleepers of the village. [5] + + He all the country could outrun, + Could leave both man and horse behind; + And often, ere the chase [6] was done, + He reeled, and was stone blind. 20 + And still there's something in the world + At which his heart rejoices; + For when the chiming hounds are out, + He dearly loves their voices! + + But, oh the heavy change! [A]--bereft 25 + Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see! [7] + Old Simon to the world is left + In liveried poverty. + His Master's dead,--and no one now + Dwells in the Hall of Ivor; 30 + Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; + He is the sole survivor. [8] + + And [9] he is lean and he is sick; + His body, dwindled and awry, + Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; 35 + His legs are thin and dry. + One prop he has, and only one, + His wife, an aged woman, + Lives with him, near the waterfall, + Upon the village Common. [10] 40 + + Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, + Not twenty paces from the door, + A scrap of land they have, but they + Are poorest of the poor. + This scrap of land he from the heath 45 + Enclosed when he was stronger; + But what to them avails the land + Which he can till no longer? [11] + + Oft, working by her Husband's side, + Ruth does what Simon cannot do; 50 + For she, with scanty cause for pride, [12] + Is stouter of the two. + And, though you with your utmost skill + From labour could not wean them, + 'Tis little, very little--all 55 + That they can do between them. [13] + + Few months of life has he in store + As he to you will tell, + For still, the more he works, the more + Do his weak ankles swell. [14] 60 + My gentle Reader, I perceive + How patiently you've waited, + And now I fear [15] that you expect + Some tale will be related. + + O Reader! had you in your mind 65 + Such stores as silent thought can bring,[B] + O gentle Reader! you would find + A tale in every thing. + What more I have to say is short, + And you must [16] kindly take it: 70 + It is no tale; but, should you think, [17] + Perhaps a tale you'll make it. + + One summer-day I chanced to see + This old Man doing all he could + To unearth the root [18] of an old tree, 75 + A stump of rotten wood. + The mattock tottered in his hand; + So vain was his endeavour, + That at the root of the old tree + He might have worked for ever. 80 + + "You're overtasked, good Simon Lee, + Give me your tool," to him I said; + And at the word right gladly he + Received my proffered aid. + I struck, and with a single blow 85 + The tangled root I severed, + At which the poor old Man so long + And vainly had endeavoured. + + The tears into his eyes were brought, + And thanks and praises seemed to run 90 + So fast out of his heart, I thought + They never would have done. + --I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds + With coldness still returning; + Alas! the gratitude of men 95 + Hath oftener [19] left me mourning.[C] + + + * * * * * + +VARIANTS ON THE TEXT + +[Variant 1: + +1827. + + I've heard ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 2: In editions 1798 to 1815 the following is inserted: + + Of years he has upon his back, + No doubt, a burthen weighty; + He says he is three score and ten, + But others say he's eighty. + + A long blue livery-coat has he, + That's fair behind, and fair before; + Yet, meet him where you will, you see + At once that he is poor.] + + +[Variant 3: + +1827. + + ... five and twenty ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 4: + +1845. + + And, though he has but one eye left, + His cheek is like a cherry. 1798. + + And still the centre of his cheek + Is blooming as a cherry. 1820.] + + +[Variant 5: + +1827. + + No man like him the horn could sound, + And no man was so full of glee; + To say the least, four counties round + Had heard of Simon Lee; + His master's dead, and no one now + Dwells in the hall of Ivor; + Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; + He is the sole survivor. 1798. + + Worn out by hunting feats--bereft + By time of friends and kindred, see! + Old Simon to the world is left + In liveried poverty. + His Master's dead, ... 1827. + +The fourth stanza of the final edition being second in 1827, and the +second stanza being third in 1827.] + + +[Variant 6: + +1827. + + ... race ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 7: + + Of strength, of friends, and kindred, see. + +In MS. letter to Allan Cunningham, Nov. 1828.] + + +[Variant 8: + +1832. + + His hunting feats have him bereft + Of his right eye, as you may see: + And then, what limbs those feats have left + To poor old Simon Lee! + He has no son, he has no child, + His wife, an aged woman, + Lives with him, near the waterfall, + Upon the village common. 1798. + + His hunting feats have him bereft + Of his right eye, as you may see, + And Simon to the world is left, + In liveried poverty. + When he was young he little knew + Of husbandry or tillage; + And now is forced to work, though weak, + --The weakest in the village. 1820.] + + +[Variant 9: + +1798. + + But ... 1820. + +The text of 1832 reverts to that of 1798.] + + +[Variant 10: + +1827. + + His little body's half awry, + His ancles they are swoln and thick; + His legs are thin and dry. + When he was young he little knew + Of husbandry or tillage; + And now he's forced to work, though weak, + --The weakest in the village. 1798. + + His dwindled body's half awry, 1800. + + His ancles, too, are swoln and thick; 1815. + + And now is forced to work, 1815. + + His dwindled body half awry, + Rests upon ancles swoln and thick; + His legs are thin and dry. + He has no son, he has no child, + His Wife, an aged woman, + Lives with him, near the waterfall, + Upon the village Common. 1820.] + + +[Variant 11: + +1845. + + But what avails the land to them, + Which they can till no longer? 1798. + + "But what," saith he, "avails the land, + Which I can till no longer?" 1827. + + But what avails it now, the land + Which he can till no longer? 1832. + + 'Tis his, but what avails the land + Which he can till no longer? 1837. + + The time, alas! is come when he + Can till the land no longer. 1840. + + The time is also come when he + Can till the land no longer. C.] + + +[Variant 12: + +1827. + + Old Ruth works out of doors with him, + And does what Simon cannot do; + For she, not over stout of limb, 1798.] + + +[Variant 13: + +1840. + + Alas! 'tis very little, all + Which they can ... 1798. + + That they can ... 1837.] + + +[Variant 14: + +1815. + + His poor old ancles swell. 1798.] + + +[Variant 15: + +1820. + + And I'm afraid ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 16: + +1820. + + I hope you'll ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 17: + +1798. + + ... _think_, + +In the editions 1832 to 1843.] + + +[Variant 18: + +1815. + + About the root ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 19: + +1820. + + Has oftner ... 1798. + + Has oftener ... 1805.] + + + * * * * * + +FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT + +[Footnote A: Note that the phrase: 'But oh the heavy change,' occurs in +Milton's 'Lycidas'. (Professor Dowden.) See 'Lycidas', l. 37.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote B: Compare Shakspeare's Sonnet, No. xxx.: + + When to the sessions of sweet silent thought + I summon up remembrance of things past; + +and in Spenser's 'An epitaph upon the Right Honourable Sir Phillip +Sidney, Knight; Lord governor of Flushing.' + + Farewell, self-pleasing thoughts, which quietness brings forth. + +Ed.] + + +[Footnote C: See Appendix VI. to this volume.--Ed.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING + + +Composed 1798.--Published 1798. + + + [Actually composed while I was sitting by the side of the brook that + runs down from the 'Comb', in which stands the village of Alford, + through the grounds of Alfoxden. It was a chosen resort of mine. The + brook ran down a sloping rock, so as to make a waterfall, considerable + for that county; and across the pool below had fallen a tree--an ash + if I rightly remember--from which rose perpendicularly, boughs in + search of the light intercepted by the deep shade above. The boughs + bore leaves of green, that for want of sunshine had faded into almost + lily-white; and from the underside of this natural sylvan bridge + depended long and beautiful tresses of ivy, which waved gently in the + breeze, that might, poetically speaking, be called the breath of the + waterfall. This motion varied of course in proportion to the power of + water in the brook. When, with dear friends, I revisited this spot, + after an interval of more than forty years, [A] this interesting + feature of the scene was gone. To the owner of the place I could not + but regret that the beauty of this retired part of the grounds had not + tempted him to make it more accessible by a path, not broad or + obtrusive, but sufficient for persons who love such scenes to creep + along without difficulty.--I. F.] + + +These 'Lines' were included among the "Poems of Sentiment +and Reflection."--Ed. + + + * * * * * + +THE POEM + + + I heard a thousand blended notes, + While in a grove I sate reclined, + In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts + Bring sad thoughts to the mind. + + To her fair works did Nature link 5 + The human soul that through me ran; + And much it grieved my heart to think + What man has made of man. + + Through primrose tufts, in that green [1] bower, + The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; 10 + And 'tis my faith that every flower + Enjoys the air it breathes. [B] + + The birds around me hopped and played, + Their thoughts I cannot measure:-- + But the least motion which they made, 15 + It seemed a thrill of pleasure. + + The budding twigs spread out their fan, + To catch the breezy air; + And I must think, do all I can, + That there was pleasure there. 20 + + If this belief from heaven be sent, + If such be Nature's holy plan, [2] + Have I not reason to lament + What man has made of man? + + + * * * * * + + +This Alfoxden dell, once known locally as "The Mare's Pool," was a +trysting-place of Wordsworth, Coleridge, and their friends. Coleridge +thus describes it, in his poem beginning "This Lime-Tree Bower, my +Prison," addressed to Charles Lamb: + + The roaring dell, o'er-wooded, narrow, deep, + And only speckled by the midday sun; + Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock + Flings arching like a bridge;--that branchless ash, + Unsunn'd and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves + Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still, + Fanned by the waterfall! + +Of all the localities around Alfoxden, this grove is the one chiefly +associated with Wordsworth. There was no path to the waterfall, as +suggested by the Poet to the owner of the place, in 1840; but, in 1880, +I found the "natural sylvan bridge" restored. An ash tree, having fallen +across the glen, reproduced the scene exactly as it is described in the +Fenwick note.--Ed. + + + * * * * * + +VARIANTS ON THE TEXT + +[Variant 1: + +1837. + + ... sweet 1798.] + + +[Variant 2: + +1837. + + If I these thoughts may not prevent, + If such be of my creed the plan, 1798. + + If this belief from Heaven is sent, + If such be nature's holy plan, 1820. + + From Heaven if this belief be sent, 1827.] + + + * * * * * + +FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT + +[Footnote A: See the Fenwick note to "A whirl-blast from behind the +hill," p. 238.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote B: See Appendix VII.--Ed.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +TO MY SISTER + + +Composed 1798.--Published 1798. + + + [Composed in front of Alfoxden House. My little boy-messenger on this + occasion was the son of Basil Montagu. The larch mentioned in the + first stanza was standing when I revisited the place in May 1841, more + than forty years after. I was disappointed that it had not improved in + appearance as to size, nor had it acquired anything of the majesty of + age, which, even though less perhaps than any other tree, the larch + sometimes does. A few score yards from this tree, grew, when we + inhabited Alfoxden, one of the most remarkable beech-trees ever seen. + The ground sloped both towards and from it. It was of immense size, + and threw out arms that struck into the soil, like those of the + banyan-tree, and rose again from it. Two of the branches thus inserted + themselves twice, which gave to each the appearance of a serpent + moving along by gathering itself up in folds. One of the large boughs + of this tree had been torn off by the wind before we left Alfoxden, + but five remained. In 1841 we could barely find the spot where the + tree had stood. So remarkable a production of nature could not have + been wilfully destroyed.--I. F.] + +In the editions 1798 to 1815 the title of this poem was, 'Lines written +at a small distance from my House, and sent by my little Boy to the +person to whom they are addressed'. From 1820 to 1843 the title was, 'To +my Sister; written at a small distance from my House, and sent by my +little Boy'. In 1845 and afterwards, it was simply 'To my Sister'. The +poem was placed by Wordsworth among those of "Sentiment and +Reflection."--Ed. + + + * * * * * + +THE POEM + + + It is the first mild day of March: + Each minute sweeter than before + The redbreast sings from the tall larch + That stands beside our door. + + There is a blessing in the air, 5 + Which seems a sense of joy to yield + To the bare trees, and mountains bare, + And grass in the green field. + + My sister! ('tis a wish of mine) + Now that our morning meal is done, 10 + Make haste, your morning task resign; + Come forth and feel the sun. + + Edward will come with you;--and, pray, + Put on with speed your woodland dress; + And bring no book: for this one day 15 + We'll give to idleness. + + No joyless forms shall regulate + Our living calendar: + We from to-day, my Friend, will date + The opening of the year. 20 + + Love, now a [1] universal birth, + From heart to heart is stealing, + From earth to man, from man to earth: + --It is the hour of feeling. + + One moment now may give us more 25 + Than years of toiling reason: [2] + Our minds shall drink at every pore + The spirit of the season. + + Some silent laws our hearts will make, [3] + Which they shall long obey: 30 + We for the year to come may take + Our temper from to-day. + + And from the blessed power that rolls + About, below, above, + We'll frame the measure of our souls: 35 + They shall be tuned to love. + + Then come, my Sister! come, I pray, + With speed put on your woodland dress; + And bring no book: for this one day + We'll give to idleness. 40 + + + * * * * * + + +The larch is now gone; but the place where it stood can easily be +identified.--Ed. + + + * * * * * + +VARIANTS ON THE TEXT + +[Variant 1: + +1837. + + ... an ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 2: + +1837. + + Than fifty years of reason; 1798.] + + +[Variant 3: + +1820. + + ... may. 1798.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY + + +Composed 1798.--Published 1798. + + + [This poem is a favourite among the Quakers, as I have learned on many + occasions. It was composed in front of the house of Alfoxden, in the + spring of 1798. [A]--I.F.] + +Included among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."--Ed. + + + * * * * * + +THE POEM + + + "Why, William, on that old grey stone, + Thus for the length of half a day, + Why, William, sit you thus alone, + And dream your time away? + + "Where are your books?--that light bequeathed 5 + To Beings else forlorn and blind! + Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed + From dead men to their kind. + + "You look round on your Mother Earth, + As if she for no purpose bore you; 10 + As if you were her first-born birth, + And none had lived before you!" + + One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, + When life was sweet, I knew not why, + To me my good friend Matthew spake, 15 + And thus I made reply. + + "The eye--it cannot choose but see; + We cannot bid the ear be still; + Our bodies feel, where'er they be, + Against or with our will. 20 + + "Nor less I deem that there are Powers + Which of themselves our minds impress; + That we can feed this mind of ours + In a wise passiveness. + + "Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 25 + Of things for ever speaking, + That nothing of itself will come, + But we must still be seeking? + + "--Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, + Conversing as I may, 30 + I sit upon this old grey stone, + And dream my time away." + + + * * * * * + +FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT + +[Footnote A: In his "Advertisement" to the first edition of "Lyrical +Ballads" (1798) Wordsworth writes, + + "The lines entitled 'Expostulation and Reply', and those which follow, + arose out of conversation with a friend who was somewhat unreasonably + attached to modern books of Moral Philosophy." + +Was the friend Sir James Mackintosh? or was it--a much more probable +supposition--his friend, S. T. Coleridge?--Ed.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +THE TABLES TURNED + +AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT + + +Composed 1798.--Published 1798 + + +Included among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."--Ed. + + + * * * * * + +THE POEM + + + Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; + Or surely you'll grow double: + Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; + Why all this toil and trouble? [1] + + The sun, above the mountain's head, 5 + A freshening lustre mellow + Through all the long green fields has spread, + His first sweet evening yellow. + + Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: + Come, hear the woodland linnet, 10 + How sweet his music! on my life, + There's more of wisdom in it. + + And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! + He, too, is [2] no mean preacher: + Come forth into the light of things, 15 + Let Nature be your Teacher. + + She has a world of ready wealth, + Our minds and hearts to bless-- + Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, + Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 20 + + One impulse from a vernal wood + May teach you more of man, + Of moral evil and of good, + Than all the sages can. [A] + + Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; 25 + Our meddling intellect + Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:-- + We murder to dissect. + + Enough of Science and of Art; + Close up those [3] barren leaves; 30 + Come forth, and bring with you a heart + That watches and receives. + + + * * * * * + +VARIANTS ON THE TEXT + +[Variant 1: + +1820. + + Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks, + Why all this toil and trouble? + Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, + Or surely you'll grow double. 1798.] + + +[Variant 2: + +1815. + + And he is ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 3: + +1837. + + ... these ... 1798.] + + + * * * * * + +FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT + +[Footnote A: A mediæval anticipation of this may be quoted in a +footnote. + + "Believe me, as my own experience," once said St. Bernard, "you will + find more in the woods than in books; the forests and rocks will teach + you more than you can learn from the greatest Masters." + +I quote this, as sent to me by a friend; but the only passage at all +approaching to it which I can verify is the following: + + "Quidquid in Scripturis valet, quidquid in eis spiritualiter sentit, + maxime in silvis et in agris meditando et orando se confitetur + accepisse, et in hoc nullos aliquando se magistros habuisse nisi + quercus et fagos joco illo suo gratioso inter amicos dicere solet." + +See the appendix to Mabillon's edition of 'Bernardi Opera', ii. 1072, +'S. Bernardi Vita, et Res Gesta, auctore Guilielmo'.--Ed.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +THE COMPLAINT OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN + + +Composed 1798.--Published 1798. + + +When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is unable to continue his journey +with his companions; he is left behind, covered over with Deer-skins, +and is supplied with water, food, and fuel if the situation of the place +will afford it. He is informed of the track which his companions intend +to pursue, and if he is unable to follow, or overtake them, he perishes +alone in the Desart; unless he should have the good fortune to fall in +with some other Tribes of Indians. It is unnecessary to add that the +females are equally, or still more, exposed to the same fate. See that +very interesting work, Hearne's 'Journey from Hudson's Bay to the +Northern Ocean'. When the Northern Lights, as the same writer informs +us, vary their position in the air, they make a rustling and a crackling +noise. This circumstance is alluded to in the first stanza of the +following poem.--W. W. 1798. + + [At Alfoxden, in 1798, where I read Hearne's 'Journey' with deep + interest. It was composed for the volume of "Lyrical Ballads."--I. F.] + +Classed among the "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed. + + + * * * * * + +THE POEM + + +I Before I see another day, + Oh let my body die away! + In sleep I heard the northern gleams; + The stars, they were among my dreams; [1] + In rustling conflict through the skies, [2] 5 + I heard, I saw the flashes drive, [3] + And yet they are upon my eyes, + And yet I am alive; + Before I see another day, + Oh let my body die away! 10 + + +II My fire is dead: it knew no pain; + Yet is it dead, and I remain: + All stiff with ice the ashes lie; + And they are dead, and I will die. + When I was well, I wished to live, 15 + For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire + But they to me no joy can give, + No pleasure now, and no desire. + Then here contented will I lie! + Alone, I cannot fear to die. 20 + + +III Alas! ye [4] might have dragged me on + Another day, a single one! + Too soon I yielded to despair; + Why did ye listen to my prayer? [5] + When ye [6] were gone my limbs were stronger; 25 + And oh, how grievously I rue, + That, afterwards, a little longer, + My friends, I did not follow you! + For strong and without pain I lay, + Dear friends, when ye [7] were gone away. 30 + + +IV My Child! they gave thee to another, + A woman who was not thy mother. + When from my arms my Babe they took, + On me how strangely did he look! + Through his whole body something ran, 35 + A most strange working [8] did I see; + --As if he strove to be a man, + That he might pull the sledge for me: + And then he stretched his arms, how wild! + Oh mercy! like a helpless child. [9] 40 + + +V My little joy! my little pride! + In two days more I must have died. + Then do not weep and grieve for me; + I feel I must have died with thee. + O wind, that o'er my head art flying 45 + The way my friends their course did bend, + I should not feel the pain of dying, + Could I with thee a message send; + Too soon, my friends, ye [10] went away; + For I had many things to say. 50 + +VI I'll follow you across the snow; + Ye [11] travel heavily and slow; + In spite of all my weary pain + I'll look upon your tents again. + --My fire is dead, and snowy white 55 + The water which beside it stood: + The wolf has come to me to-night, + And he has stolen away my food. + For ever left alone am I; + Then wherefore should I fear to die? 60 + +VII [12] Young as I am, my course is run, [13] + I shall not see another sun; + I cannot lift my limbs to know + If they have any life or no. + My poor forsaken Child, if I 65 + For once could have thee close to me, + With happy heart I then would die, + And my last thought would happy be; [14] + But thou, dear Babe, art far away, + Nor shall I see another day. [15] 70 + + + * * * * * + +VARIANTS ON THE TEXT + + +[Variant 1: + +1798. + + The stars were mingled with my dreams; 1815. + +The text of 1836 returns to that of 1798.] + + +[Variant 2: + +1820. + + In sleep did I behold the skies, 1798.] + + +[Variant 3: + +1827. + + I saw the crackling flashes drive; 1798. + + I heard, and saw the flashes drive; 1820.] + + +[Variant 4: + +1815. + + ... you ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 5: + +1815. + + Too soon despair o'er me prevailed; + Too soon my heartless spirit failed; 1798.] + + +[Variant 6: + +1815. + + ... you ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 7: + +1845. + + My friends, when you ... 1798. + + ... when ye ... 1815.] + + +[Variant 8: + +1815. + + A most strange something .... 1798.] + + +[Variant 9: + +1815. + + ... a little child. 1798.] + + +[Variant 10: + +1815. + + ... you ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 11: + +1815. + + You ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 12: This stanza was omitted in the editions 1815 to 1832, but +restored in 1836.--Ed.] + + +[Variant 13: + +1836. + + My journey will be shortly run, 1798.] + + +[Variant 14: + +1836. + + ... I then would die, + And my last thoughts ... 1798. + + ... I then should die, 1800.] + + +[Variant 15: + +1836. + + I feel my body die away, + I shall not see another day. 1798.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +THE LAST OF THE FLOCK + + +Composed 1798.--Published 1798. + + + [Produced at the same time as 'The Complaint', and for the same + purpose. The incident occurred in the village of Holford, close by + Alfoxden.--I. F.] + +Included among the "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed. + + + * * * * * + +THE POEM + + +I In distant countries have I been, [1] + And yet I have not often seen + A healthy man, a man full grown, + Weep in the public roads, alone. + But such a one, on English ground, 5 + And in the broad highway, I met; + Along the broad highway he came, + His cheeks with tears were wet: + Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad; + And in his arms a Lamb he had. 10 + + +II He saw me, and he turned aside, + As if he wished himself to hide: + And with his coat did then essay [2] + To wipe those briny tears away. + I followed him, and said, "My friend, 15 + What ails you? wherefore weep you so?" + --"Shame on me, Sir! this lusty Lamb, + He makes my tears to flow. + To-day I fetched him from the rock: + He is the last of all my flock. 20 + + +III "When I was young, a single man, + And after youthful follies ran, + Though little given to care and thought, + Yet, so it was, an ewe [3] I bought; + And other sheep from her I raised, 25 + As healthy sheep as you might see; + And then I married, and was rich + As I could wish to be; + Of sheep I numbered a full score, + And every year increased my store. 30 + + +IV "Year after year my stock it grew; + And from this one, this single ewe, + Full fifty comely sheep I raised, + As fine [4] a flock as ever grazed! + Upon the Quantock hills they fed; [5] 35 + They throve, and we at home did thrive: + --This lusty Lamb of all my store + Is all that is alive; + And now I care not if we die, + And perish all of poverty. 40 + + +V "Six [6] Children, Sir! had I to feed; + Hard labour in a time of need! + My pride was tamed, and in our grief + I of the Parish asked relief. + They said, I was a wealthy man; 45 + My sheep upon the uplands [7] fed, + And it was fit that thence I took + Whereof to buy us bread. + 'Do this: how can we give to you,' + They cried, 'what to the poor is due?' 50 + + +VI "I sold a sheep, as they had said, + And bought my little children bread, + And they were healthy with their food; + For me--it never did me good. + A woeful time it was for me, 55 + To see the end of all my gains, + The pretty flock which I had reared + With all my care and pains, + To see it melt like snow away-- + For me it was a woeful day. 60 + + +VII "Another still! and still another! + A little lamb, and then its mother! + It was a vein that never stopped-- + Like blood-drops from my heart they dropped. + 'Till thirty were not left alive 65 + They dwindled, dwindled, one by one; + And I may say, that many a time + I wished they all were gone-- + Reckless of what might come at last + Were but the bitter struggle past. [8] 70 + + +VIII "To wicked deeds I was inclined, + And wicked fancies crossed my mind; + And every man I chanced to see, + I thought he knew some ill of me: + No peace, no comfort could I find, 75 + No ease, within doors or without; + And, crazily and wearily + I went my work about; + And oft was moved to flee from home, + And hide my head where wild beasts roam.[9] 80 + + +IX "Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me, + As dear as my own children be; + For daily with my growing store + I loved my children more and more. + Alas! it was an evil time; 85 + God cursed me in my sore distress; + I prayed, yet every day I thought + I loved my children less; + And every week, and every day, + My flock it seemed to melt away. 90 + + +X "They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see! + From ten to five, from five to three, + A lamb, a wether, and a ewe;-. + And then at last from three to two; + And, of my fifty, yesterday 95 + I had but only one: + And here it lies upon my arm, + Alas! and I have none;-- + To-day I fetched it from the rock; + It is the last of all my flock." 100 + + + * * * * * + +VARIANTS ON THE TEXT + +[Variant 1: + +1815. + + ... I have been, 1798.] + + +[Variant 2: + +1836. + + Then with his coat he made essay 1798.] + + +[Variant 3: + +1832. + + ... a ewe ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 4: + +1836. + + As sweet ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 5: + +1836. + + Upon the mountain did they feed; 1798.] + + +[Variant 6: + +1800. + + Ten ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 7: + +1836. + + ... upon the mountain ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 8: + +1827. + + They dwindled one by one away; + For me it was a woeful day. 1798.] + + +[Variant 9: + +1836. + + Oft-times I thought to run away; + For me it was a woeful day. 1798. + + Bent oftentimes to flee from home, + And hide my head where wild beasts roam. 1827.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +THE IDIOT BOY + + +Composed 1798.--Published 1798. + + + [Alfoxden, 1798. The last stanza, 'The cocks did crow to-whoo, + to-whoo, and the sun did shine so cold,' was the foundation of the + whole. The words were reported to me by my dear friend Thomas Poole; + but I have since heard the same repeated of other idiots. Let me add, + that this long poem was composed in the groves of Alfoxden, almost + extempore; not a word, I believe, being corrected, though one stanza + was omitted. I mention this in gratitude to those happy moments, for, + in truth, I never wrote anything with so much glee.--I. F.] + +One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed. + + + * * * * * + +THE POEM + + + 'Tis eight o'clock,--a clear March night, + The moon is up,--the sky is blue, + The owlet, in the moonlight air, + Shouts from [1] nobody knows where; + He lengthens out his lonely shout, 5 + Halloo! halloo! a long halloo! + + --Why bustle thus about your door, + What means this bustle, Betty Foy? + Why are you in this mighty fret? + And why on horseback have you set 10 + Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy? + [2] + + Scarcely a soul is out of bed: [3] + Good Betty, put him down again; + His lips with joy they burr at you; + But, Betty! what has he to do 15 + With stirrup, saddle, or with rein? + [4] + + But Betty's bent on her intent; + For her good neighbour, Susan Gale, + Old Susan, she who dwells alone, + Is sick, and makes a piteous moan, 20 + As if her very life would fail. + + There's not a house within a mile, + No hand to help them in distress; + Old Susan lies a-bed in pain, + And sorely puzzled are the twain, 25 + For what she ails they cannot guess. + + And Betty's husband's at the wood, + Where by the week he doth abide, + A woodman in the distant vale; + There's none to help poor Susan Gale; 30 + What must be done? what will betide? + + And Betty from the lane has fetched + Her Pony, that is mild and good; + Whether he be in joy or pain, + Feeding at will along the lane, 35 + Or bringing faggots from the wood. + + And he is all in travelling trim,-- + And, by the moonlight, Betty Foy + Has on the well-girt saddle set [5] + (The like was never heard of yet) 40 + Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy. + + And he must post without delay + Across the bridge and through the dale, [6] + And by the church, and o'er the down, + To bring a Doctor from the town, 45 + Or she will die, old Susan Gale. + + There is no need of boot or spur, + There is no need of whip or wand; + For Johnny has his holly-bough, + And with a _hurly-burly_ now 50 + He shakes the green bough in his hand. + + And Betty o'er and o'er has told + The Boy, who is her best delight, + Both what to follow, what to shun, + What do, and what to leave undone, 55 + How turn to left, and how to right. + + And Betty's most especial charge, + Was, "Johnny! Johnny! mind that you + Come home again, nor stop at all,-- + Come home again, whate'er befal, 60 + My Johnny, do, I pray you do." + + To this did Johnny answer make, + Both with his head and with his hand, + And proudly shook the bridle too; + And then! his words were not a few, 65 + Which Betty well could understand. + + And now that Johnny is just going, + Though Betty's in a mighty flurry, + She gently pats the Pony's side, + On which her Idiot Boy must ride, 70 + And seems no longer in a hurry. + + But when the Pony moved his legs, + Oh! then for the poor Idiot Boy! + For joy he cannot hold the bridle, + For joy his head and heels are idle, 75 + He's idle all for very joy. + + And while the Pony moves his legs, + In Johnny's left hand you may see + The green bough [7] motionless and dead: + The Moon that shines above his head 80 + Is not more still and mute than he. + + His heart it was so full of glee, + That till full fifty yards were gone, + He quite forgot his holly whip, + And all his skill in horsemanship: 85 + Oh! happy, happy, happy John. + + And while the Mother, at the door, + Stands fixed, her face with joy o'erflows [8] + Proud of herself, and proud of him, + She sees him in his travelling trim, 90 + How quietly her Johnny goes. + + The silence of her Idiot Boy, + What hopes it sends to Betty's heart! + He's at the guide-post--he turns right; + She watches till he's out of sight, 95 + And Betty will not then depart. + + Burr, burr--now Johnny's lips they burr. + As loud as any mill, or near it; + Meek as a lamb the Pony moves, + And Johnny makes the noise he loves, 100 + And Betty listens, glad to hear it. + + Away she hies to Susan Gale: + Her Messenger's in merry tune; [9] + The owlets hoot, the owlets curr, + And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr, 105 + As [10] on he goes beneath the moon. + + His steed and he right well agree; + For of this Pony there's a rumour, + That, should he lose his eyes and ears, + And should he live a thousand years, 110 + He never will be out of humour. + + But then he is a horse that thinks! + And when he thinks, his pace is slack; + Now, though he knows poor Johnny well, + Yet, for his life, he cannot tell 115 + What he has got upon his back. + + So through the moonlight lanes they go, + And far into the moonlight dale, + And by the church, and o'er the down, + To bring a Doctor from the town, 120 + To comfort poor old Susan Gale. + + And Betty, now at Susan's side, + Is in the middle of her story, + What speedy help her Boy will bring, [11] + With many a most diverting thing, 125 + Of Johnny's wit, and Johnny's glory. + + And Betty, still at Susan's side, + By this time is not quite so flurried: [12] + Demure with porringer and plate + She sits, as if in Susan's fate 130 + Her life and soul were buried. + + But Betty, poor good woman! she, + You plainly in her face may read it, + Could lend out of that moment's store + Five years of happiness or more 135 + To any that might need it. + + But yet I guess that now and then + With Betty all was not so well; + And to the road she turns her ears, + And thence full many a sound she hears, 140 + Which she to Susan will not tell. + + Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans; + "As sure as there's a moon in heaven," + Cries Betty, "he'll be back again; + They'll both be here--'tis almost ten-- 145 + Both will be [13] here before eleven." + + Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans; + The clock gives warning for eleven; + 'Tis on the stroke--"He must be near," + Quoth Betty, "and will soon be here, [14] 150 + As sure as there's a moon in heaven." + + The clock is on the stroke of twelve, + And Johnny is not yet in sight: + --The Moon's in heaven, as Betty sees, + But Betty is not quite at ease; 155 + And Susan has a dreadful night. + + And Betty, half an hour ago, + On Johnny vile reflections cast: + "A little idle sauntering Thing!" + With other names, an endless string; 160 + But now that time is gone and past. + + And Betty's drooping at the heart, + That happy time all past and gone, + "How can it be he is so late? + The Doctor, he has made him wait; 165 + Susan! they'll both be here anon." + + And Susan's growing worse and worse, + And Betty's in a sad _quandary_; + And then there's nobody to say + If she must go, or she must stay! 170 + --She's in a sad _quandary_. + + The clock is on the stroke of one; + But neither Doctor nor his Guide + Appears [15] along the moonlight road; + There's neither horse nor man abroad, 175 + And Betty's still at Susan's side. + + And Susan now begins to fear [16] + Of sad mischances not a few, + That Johnny may perhaps be drowned; + Or lost, perhaps, and never found; 180 + Which they must both for ever rue. + + She prefaced half a hint of this + With, "God forbid it should be true!" + At the first word that Susan said + Cried Betty, rising from the bed, 185 + "Susan, I'd gladly stay with you. + + "I must be gone, I must away: + Consider, Johnny's but half-wise; + Susan, we must take care of him, + If he is hurt in life or limb"-- 190 + "Oh God forbid!" poor Susan cries. + + "What can I do?" says Betty, going, + "What can I do to ease your pain? + Good Susan tell me, and I'll stay; + I fear you're in a dreadful way, 195 + But I shall soon be back again." + + "Nay, Betty, [17] go! good Betty, go! + There's nothing that can ease my pain." + Then off she hies; but with a prayer + That God poor Susan's life would spare, 200 + Till she comes back again. + + So, through the moonlight lane she goes, + And far into the moonlight dale; + And how she ran, and how she walked, + And all that to herself she talked, 205 + Would surely be a tedious tale. + + In high and low, above, below, + In great and small, in round and square, + In tree and tower was Johnny seen, + In bush and brake, in black and green; 210 + 'Twas Johnny, Johnny, every where. + + And while she crossed the bridge, there came + A thought with which her heart is sore--[18] + Johnny perhaps his horse forsook, + To hunt the moon within the brook, [19] 215 + And never will be heard of more. + + Now is she high [20] upon the down, + Alone amid a prospect wide; + There's neither Johnny nor his Horse + Among the fern or in the gorse; 220 + There's neither Doctor nor his Guide. + + "Oh saints! what is become of him? + Perhaps he's climbed into an oak, + Where he will stay till he is dead; + Or, sadly he has been misled, 225 + And joined the wandering gipsy-folk. + + "Or him that wicked Pony's carried + To the dark cave, the goblin's hall; + Or in the castle he's pursuing + Among the ghosts his own undoing; 230 + Or playing with the waterfall." + + At poor old Susan then she railed, + While to the town she posts away; + "If Susan had not been so ill, + Alas! I should have had him still, 235 + My Johnny, till my dying day." + + Poor Betty, in this sad distemper, + The Doctor's self could [21] hardly spare: + Unworthy things she talked, and wild; + Even he, of cattle the most mild, 240 + The Pony had his share. + + But now she's fairly in the town, [22] + And to the Doctor's door she hies; + 'Tis silence all on every side; + The town so long, the town so wide, 245 + Is silent as the skies. + + And now she's at the Doctor's door, + She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap; + The Doctor at the casement shows + His glimmering eyes that peep and doze! 250 + And one hand rubs his old night-cap. + + "Oh Doctor! Doctor! where's my Johnny?" + "I'm here, what is't you want with me?" + "Oh Sir! you know I'm Betty Foy, + And I have lost my poor dear Boy, 255 + You know him--him you often see; + + "He's not so wise as some folks be": + "The devil take his wisdom!" said + The Doctor, looking somewhat grim, + "What, Woman! should I know of him?" 260 + And, grumbling, he went back to bed! + + "O woe is me! O woe is me! + Here will I die; here will I die; + I thought to find my lost one here, [23] + But he is neither far nor near, 265 + Oh! what a wretched Mother I!" + + She stops, she stands, she looks about; + Which way to turn she cannot tell. + Poor Betty! it would ease her pain + If she had heart to knock again; 270 + --The clock strikes three--a dismal knell! + + Then up along the town she hies, + No wonder if her senses fail; + This piteous news so much it shocked her, + She quite forgot to send the Doctor, 275 + To comfort poor old Susan Gale. + + And now she's high upon the down, + And she can see a mile of road: + "O cruel! I'm almost threescore; + Such night as this was ne'er before, 280 + There's not a single soul abroad." + + She listens, but she cannot hear + The foot of horse, the voice of man; + The streams with softest sound are flowing, + The grass you almost hear it growing, 285 + You hear it now, if e'er you can. + + The owlets through the long blue night + Are shouting to each other still: + Fond lovers! yet not quite hob nob, + They lengthen out the tremulous sob, 290 + That echoes far from hill to hill. + + Poor Betty now has lost all hope, + Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin, + A green-grown pond she just has past, + And from the brink she hurries fast, 295 + Lest she should drown herself therein. + + And now she sits her down and weeps; + Such tears she never shed before; + "Oh dear, dear Pony! my sweet joy! + Oh carry back my Idiot Boy! 300 + And we will ne'er o'erload thee more." + + A thought is come into her head: + The Pony he is mild and good, + And we have always used him well; + Perhaps he's gone along the dell, 305 + And carried Johnny to the wood. + + Then up she springs as if on wings; + She thinks no more of deadly sin; + If Betty fifty ponds should see, + The last of all her thoughts would be 310 + To drown herself therein. + + O Reader! now that I might tell + What Johnny and his Horse are doing! + What they've been doing all this time, + Oh could I put it into rhyme, 315 + A most delightful tale pursuing! + + Perhaps, and no unlikely thought! + He with his Pony now doth roam + The cliffs and peaks so high that are, + To lay his hands upon a star, 320 + And in his pocket bring it home. + + Perhaps he's turned himself about, + His face unto his horse's tail, + And, still and mute, in wonder lost, + All silent as a horseman-ghost, 325 + He travels slowly down the vale. [24] + + And now, perhaps, is hunting [25] sheep, + A fierce and dreadful hunter he; + Yon valley, now so trim [26] and green, + In five months' time, should he be seen, 330 + A desert wilderness will be! + + Perhaps, with head and heels on fire, + And like the very soul of evil, + He's galloping away, away, + And so will gallop [27] on for aye, 335 + The bane of all that dread the devil! + + I to the Muses have been bound + These fourteen years, by strong indentures: [A] + O gentle Muses! let me tell + But half of what to him befel; 340 + He surely met [28] with strange adventures. + + O gentle Muses! is this kind? + Why will ye thus my suit repel? + Why of your further aid bereave me? + And can ye thus unfriended [29] leave me; 345 + Ye Muses! whom I love so well? + + Who's yon, that, near the waterfall, + Which thunders down with headlong force + Beneath the moon, yet shining fair, + As careless as if nothing were, 350 + Sits upright on a feeding horse? + + Unto his horse--there feeding [30] free, + He seems, I think, the rein to give; + Of moon or stars he takes no heed; + Of such we in romances read: 355 + --'Tis Johnny! Johnny! as I live. + + And that's the very Pony, too! + Where is she, where is Betty Foy? + She hardly can sustain her fears; + The roaring waterfall she hears, 360 + And cannot find her Idiot Boy. + + Your Pony's worth his weight in gold: + Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy! + She's coming from among the trees, + And now all full in view she sees 365 + Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy. + + And Betty sees the Pony too: + Why stand you thus, good Betty Foy? + It is no goblin, 'tis no ghost, + 'Tis he whom you so long have lost, 370 + He whom you love, your Idiot Boy. + + She looks again--her arms are up-- + She screams--she cannot move for joy; + She darts, as with a torrent's force, + She almost has o'erturned the Horse, 375 + And fast she holds her Idiot Boy. + + And Johnny burrs, and laughs aloud; + Whether in cunning or in joy + I cannot tell; but while he laughs, + Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs 380 + To hear again her Idiot Boy. + + And now she's at the Pony's tail, + And now is [31] at the Pony's head,-- + On that side now, and now on this; + And, almost stifled with her bliss, 385 + A few sad tears does Betty shed. + + She kisses o'er and o'er again + Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy; + She's happy here, is happy there, [32] + She is uneasy every where; 390 + Her limbs are all alive with joy. + + She pats the Pony, where or when + She knows not, happy Betty Foy! + The little Pony glad may be, + But he is milder far than she, 395 + You hardly can perceive his joy. + + "Oh! Johnny, never mind the Doctor; + You've done your best, and that is all:" + She took the reins, when this was said, + And gently turned the Pony's head 400 + From the loud waterfall. + + By this the stars were almost gone, + The moon was setting on the hill, + So pale you scarcely looked at her: + The little birds began to stir, 405 + Though yet their tongues were still. + + The Pony, Betty, and her Boy, + Wind slowly through the woody dale; + And who is she, betimes abroad, + That hobbles up the steep rough road? 410 + Who is it, but old Susan Gale? + + Long time lay Susan lost in thought; [33] + And many dreadful fears beset her, + Both for her Messenger and Nurse; + And, as her mind grew worse and worse, 415 + Her body--it grew better. + + She turned, she tossed herself in bed, + On all sides doubts and terrors met her; + Point after point did she discuss; + And, while her mind was fighting thus, 420 + Her body still grew better. + + "Alas! what is become of them? + These fears can never be endured; + I'll to the wood."--The word scarce said, + Did Susan rise up from her bed, 425 + As if by magic cured. + + Away she goes [34] up hill and down, + And to the wood at length is come; + She spies her Friends, she shouts a greeting; + Oh me! it is a merry meeting 430 + As ever was in Christendom. + + The owls have hardly sung their last, + While our four travellers homeward wend; + The owls have hooted all night long, + And with the owls began my song, 435 + And with the owls must end. + + For while they all were travelling home, + Cried Betty, "Tell us, Johnny, do, + Where all this long night you have been, + What you have heard, what you have seen: 440 + And, Johnny, mind you tell us true." + + Now Johnny all night long had heard + The owls in tuneful concert strive; + No doubt too he the moon had seen; + For in the moonlight he had been 445 + From eight o'clock till five. + + And thus, to Betty's question, he + Made answer, like a traveller bold, + (His very words I give to you,) + "The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, 450 + And the sun did shine so cold!" + --Thus answered Johnny in his glory, + And that was all his travel's story. + + + * * * * * + +VARIANTS ON THE TEXT + +[Variant 1: + +1827. + + He shouts from ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 2: Inserted in the editions 1798 to 1820. + + Beneath the moon that shines so bright, + Till she is tired, let Betty Foy + With girt and stirrup fiddle-faddle; + But wherefore set upon a saddle + Him whom she loves, her idiot boy?] + + +[Variant 3: + +1836. + + There's scarce a soul that's out of bed; 1798.] + + +[Variant 4: Inserted in the editions 1798 to 1820. + + The world will say 'tis very idle, + Bethink you of the time of night; + There's not a mother, no not one, + But when she hears what you have done, + Oh! Betty she'll be in a fright.] + + +[Variant 5: + +1836. + + Has up upon the saddle set, 1798.] + + +[Variant 6: + +1820. + + ... that's in the dale, 1798.] + + +[Variant 7: + +1827. + + ... bough's ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 8: + +1827. + + And Betty's standing at the door, + And Betty's face with joy o'erflows, 1798.] + + +[Variant 9: + +1820. + + And Johnny's in a merry tune, 1798.] + + +[Variant 10: + +1827. + + And ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 11: + +1836. + + What comfort Johnny soon will bring, 1798. + + What comfort soon her Boy will bring, 1827.] + + +[Variant 12: + +1827. + + And Betty's still at Susan's side: + By this time she's not quite so flurried; 1798.] + + +[Variant 13: + +1827. + + They'll both be ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 14: + +1827. + + 'Tis on the stroke--"If Johnny's near," + Quoth Betty, "he will soon be here," 1798.] + + +[Variant 15: + +1836. + + Appear ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 16: + +1827. + + ... she begins to fear 1798.] + +[Variant 17: + +1800. + + Good Betty [i] ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 18: + +1836. + + She's past the bridge that's in the dale, + And now the thought torments her sore, 1798. + + She's past the bridge far in the dale; 1820. + + The bridge is past--far in the dale; 1827.] + + +[Variant 19: + +1827. + + ... that's in the brook, 1798.] + + +[Variant 20: + +1827. + + And now she's high ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 21. + +1827. + + ...would ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 22. + +1836. + + And now she's got into the town, 1798.] + + +[Variant 23: + +1827. + + ... my Johnny here, 1798.] + + +[Variant 24. + +1836. + + All like a silent horseman-ghost, + He travels on along the vale. 1798.] + + +[Variant 25. + +1820. + + ... he's hunting . . 1798.] + + +[Variant 26. + +1820. + + ...that's so trim .... 1798.] + + +[Variant 27. + +1827. + + ...he'll gallop .... 1798.] + + +[Variant 28. + +1802. + + For sure he met ..... 1798.] + + +[Variant 29. + +1798. + + ...unfriendly.... + +Only in MS. and in the edition of 1805.] + + +[Variant 30: + +1827. + + ...that's feeding ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 31: + +1827. + + And now she's ... 1798.] + + +[Variant 32: + +1827. + + ... she's happy there, 1798.] + + +[Variant 33: + +1827 + + Long Susan lay deep lost in thought, 1798.] + + +[Variant 34: 1836. + + ... she posts ... 1798.] + + + * * * * * + +FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT + +[Footnote A: As Wordsworth gives the date of this poem as 1798, the +above line implies that his poetical work began at least in 1784, when +he was fourteen years of age. The note to 'An Evening Walk' dictated to +Miss Fenwick (see p. 5) implies the same.--Ed.] + + + * * * * * + +SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE VARIANT + +[Sub-Footnote i: This change was made by S. T. C.--Ed.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR [A] + + +Composed 1798.--Published 1800. + + +The class of Beggars to which the old man here described +belongs, will probably soon be extinct. It consisted of poor, +and, mostly, old and infirm persons, who confined themselves to +a stated round in their neighbourhood, and had certain fixed +days, on which, at different houses, they regularly received +charity; sometimes in money, but mostly in provisions.-W. W. +1800. + + [Observed, and with great benefit to my own heart, when I was a child. + Written at Racedown and Alfoxden in my twenty-third year. [B] The + Political Economists were about that time beginning their war upon + mendicity in all its forms, and by implication, if not directly, on + alms-giving also. This heartless process has been carried as far as it + can go by the AMENDED Poor Law Bill, tho' the inhumanity that prevails + in this measure is somewhat disguised by the profession that one of + its objects is to throw the poor upon the voluntary donations of their + neighbours; that is, if rightly interpreted, to force them into a + condition between relief in the Union Poor House and alms robbed of + their Christian grace and spirit, as being _forced_ rather from the + benevolent than given by them; while the avaricious and selfish, and + all, in fact, but the humane and charitable, are at liberty to keep + all they possess from their distressed brethren.--I. F.] + +Included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Old Age."--Ed. + + + * * * * * + +THE POEM + + + I saw an aged Beggar in my walk; + And he was seated, by the highway side, + On a low structure of rude masonry + Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they + Who lead their horses down the steep rough road 5 + May thence remount at ease. The aged Man + Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone + That overlays the pile; and, from a bag + All white with flour, the dole of village dames, + He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one; 10 + And scanned them with a fixed and serious look + Of idle computation. In the sun, + Upon the second step of that small pile, + Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills, + He sat, and ate [1] his food in solitude: 15 + And ever, scattered from his palsied hand, + That, still attempting to prevent the waste, + Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers + Fell on the ground; and the small mountain birds, + Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal, 20 + Approached within the length of half his staff. + + Him from my childhood have I known; and then + He was so old, he seems not older now; + He travels on, a solitary Man, + So helpless in appearance, that for him 25 + The sauntering Horseman throws not with a slack + And careless hand [2] his alms upon the ground, + But stops,--that he may safely lodge the coin + Within the old Man's hat; nor quits him so, + But still, when he has given his horse the rein, 30 + Watches the aged Beggar with a look [3] + Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends + The toll-gate, when in summer at her door + She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees + The aged beggar coming, quits her work, 35 + And lifts the latch for him that he may pass. + The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake + The aged Beggar in the woody lane, + Shouts to him from behind; and, if thus warned [4] + The old man does not change his course, the boy 40 + Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside, + And passes gently by, without a curse + Upon his lips, or anger at his heart. + + He travels on, a solitary Man; + His age has no companion. On the ground 45 + His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along, + _They_ move along the ground; and, evermore, + Instead of common and habitual sight + Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale, + And the blue sky, one little span of earth 50 + Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day, + Bow-bent, his eyes for ever on the ground, [5] + He plies his weary journey; seeing still, + And seldom [6] knowing that he sees, some straw, + Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track, 55 + The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left + Impressed on the white road,--in the same line, + At distance still the same. Poor Traveller! + His staff trails with him; scarcely do his feet [7] + Disturb the summer dust; he is so still 60 + In look and motion, that the cottage curs, [8] + Ere he has [9] passed the door, will turn away, + Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls, + The vacant and the busy, maids and youths, + And urchins newly breeched--all pass him by: 65 + Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind. + + But deem not this Man useless.--Statesmen! ye + Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye + Who have a broom still ready in your hands + To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud, 70 + Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate + Your talents, power, or [10] wisdom, deem him not + A burthen of the earth! 'Tis nature's law + That none, the meanest of created things, + Of forms created the most vile and brute, 75 + The dullest or most noxious, should exist + Divorced from good--a spirit and pulse of good, + A life and soul, to every mode of being + Inseparably linked. Then be assured + That least of all can aught--that ever owned 80 + The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime [C] + Which man is born to--sink, howe'er depressed, + So low as to be scorned without a sin; + Without offence to God cast out of view; + Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower 85 + Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement + Worn out and worthless. [11] While from door to door + This old Man creeps, [12] the villagers in him + Behold a record which together binds + Past deeds and offices of charity, 90 + Else unremembered, and so keeps alive + The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years, + And that half-wisdom half-experience gives, + Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign + To selfishness and cold oblivious cares. 95 + Among the farms and solitary huts, + Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages, + Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds, + The mild necessity of use compels + To acts of love; and habit does the work 100 + Of reason; yet prepares that after-joy + Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul, + By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued + Doth find herself [13] insensibly disposed + To virtue and true goodness. 105 + Some there are, + By their good works exalted, lofty minds + And meditative, authors of delight + And happiness, which to the end of time + Will live, and spread, and kindle: even such minds [14] 110 + In childhood, from this solitary Being, + Or from like wanderer, haply have received [15] + (A thing more precious far than all that books + Or the solicitudes of love can do!) + That first mild touch of sympathy and thought, 115 + In which they found their kindred with a world + Where want and sorrow were. The easy man + Who sits at his own door,--and, like the pear + That [16] overhangs his head from the green wall, + Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young, 120 + The prosperous and unthinking, they who live + Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove + Of their own kindred;--all behold in him + A silent monitor, which on their minds + Must needs impress a transitory thought 125 + Of self-congratulation, to the heart + Of each recalling his peculiar boons, + His charters and exemptions; and, perchance, + Though he to no one give the fortitude + And circumspection needful to preserve 130 + His present blessings, and to husband up + The respite of the season, he, at least, + And 'tis no vulgar service, makes them felt. + + Yet further.--Many, I believe, there are + Who live a life of virtuous decency, 135 + Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel + No self-reproach; who of the moral law + Established in the land where they abide + Are strict observers; and not negligent + In acts of love to those with whom they dwell, [17] 140 + Their kindred, and the children of their blood. + Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace! + --But of the poor man ask, the abject poor; + Go, and demand of him, if there be here + In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, 145 + And these inevitable charities, + Wherewith to satisfy the human soul? + No--man is dear to man; the poorest poor + Long for some moments in a weary life + When they can know and feel that they have been, 150 + Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out + Of some small blessings; have been kind to such + As needed kindness, for this single cause, + That we have all of us one human heart. + --Such pleasure is to one kind Being known, 155 + My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week + Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself + By her own wants, she from her store [18] of meal + Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip + Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door 160 + Returning with exhilarated heart, + Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven. + + Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! + And while in that vast solitude to which + The tide of things has borne [19] him, he appears 165 + To breathe and live but for himself alone, + Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about + The good which the benignant law of Heaven + Has hung around him: and, while life is his, + Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers 170 + To tender offices and pensive thoughts. [D] + --Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! + And, long as he can wander, let him breathe + The freshness of the valleys; let his blood + Struggle with frosty air and winter snows; 175 + And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath + Beat his grey locks against his withered face. + Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness + Gives the last human interest to his heart. + May never HOUSE, misnamed of INDUSTRY, 180 + Make him a captive!--for that pent-up din, + Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air, + Be his the natural silence of old age! + Let him be free of mountain solitudes; + And have around him, whether heard or not, 185 + The pleasant melody of woodland birds. + Few are his pleasures: if his eyes have now + Been doomed so long to settle upon earth + That not without some effort they behold + The countenance of the horizontal sun, [20] 190 + Rising or setting, let the light at least + Find a free entrance to their languid orbs. + And let him, _where_ and _when_ he will, sit down + Beneath the trees, or on a [21] grassy bank + Of highway side, and with the little birds 195 + Share his chance-gathered meal; and, finally, + As in the eye of Nature he has lived, + So in the eye of Nature let him die! [E] + + + * * * * * + +VARIANTS ON THE TEXT + +[Variant 1: + +1805. + +... eat ... 1800.] + + +[Variant 2: + +1837. + + The sauntering horseman-traveller does not throw + With careless hand ... 1800.] + + +[Variant 3: + +1827. + + Towards the aged Beggar turns a look, 1800.] + + +[Variant 4: + +1827. + + ... and, if perchance 1800.] + + +[Variant 5: + +1800. + + ... and, evermore, + Instead of Nature's fair variety,] + Her ample scope of hill and dale, of clouds + And the blue sky, the same short span of earth + Is all his prospect. When the little birds + Flit over him, if their quick shadows strike + Across his path, he does not lift his head + Like one whose thoughts have been unsettled. So + Brow-bent, his eyes for ever ... MS.] + + +[Variant 6: + +1827. + + And never ... 1800.] + + +[Variant 7: + +1800. + + ... his slow footsteps scarce MS.] + + +[Variant 8: + +1800. + + ... that the miller's dog + Is tired of barking at him. MS.] + + +[Variant 9: + +1837. + + ... have ... 1800.] + + +[Variant 10: + +1837. + + ... and ... 1800.] + + +[Variant 11: The lines from "Then be assured" to "worthless" were added +in the edition of 1837.] + + +[Variant 12: + +1837. + + ... While thus he creeps + From door to door, ... 1800.] + + +[Variant 13: + +1832. + + ... itself ... 1800.] + + +[Variant 14: + +1827. + + ... ; minds like these, 1800.] + + +[Variant 15: + +1827. + + This helpless wanderer, have perchance receiv'd, 1800.] + + +[Variant 16: + +1827. + + Which ... 1800.] + + +[Variant 17: + +1827. + + ... and not negligent, + Meanwhile, in any tenderness of heart + Or act of love ... 1800.] + + +[Variant 18: + +1827. + + ... chest ... 1800.] + + +[Variant 19: + +1827. + + ... led ... 1800.] + + +[Variant 20: + +1837. + + ... if his eyes, which now + Have been so long familiar with the earth, + No more behold the horizontal sun 1800. + + ... if his eyes have now + Been doomed so long to settle on the earth + That not without some effort they behold + The countenance of the horizontal sun, 1815.] + + +[Variant 21: + +1837. + + ... or by the ... 1800.] + + + + * * * * * + +FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT + +[Footnote A: In an early MS. the title of this poem is 'Description of a +Beggar', and in the editions 1800 to 1820 the title was 'The Old +Cumberland Beggar, a Description'.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote B: Wordsworth went to Racedown in 1795, when he was +twenty-five years of age; and was at Alfoxden in his twenty-eighth +year.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote C: Compare Ovid's 'Metamorphoses' I. 84: + + Os homini sublime dedit, coelumque videre + Jussit et erectos ad sidera tollere vultus. + +Ed.] + + +[Footnote D: With this poem compare Frederick William Faber's "Hymn," +which he called 'The Old Labourer', beginning: + + What end doth he fulfil! + He seems without a will. +Ed.] + + +[Footnote E: In January 1801 Charles Lamb thus wrote to Wordsworth of +his 'Old Cumberland Beggar': + + "It appears to me a fault that the instructions conveyed in it are too + direct, and like a lecture: they don't slide into the mind of the + reader while he is imagining no such matter," + +At the same time he refers to + + "the delicate and curious feeling in the wish of the Beggar that he + may have about him the melody of birds, although he hears them not." + +('The Letters of Charles Lamb', edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i. p. +163.)--Ed.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY + + +Composed 1798.--Published 1798. + + + [If I recollect right, these verses were an overflowing from 'The Old + Cumberland Beggar'.--I. F.] + +They were published in the first edition of "Lyrical Ballads" (1798), +but 'The Old Cumberland Beggar' was not published till 1800. In an early +MS., however, the two are incorporated. + +In the edition of 1798, the poem was called, 'Old Man Travelling; Animal +Tranquillity and Decay, a Sketch'. In 1800, the title was 'Animal +Tranquillity and Decay. A Sketch'. In 1845, it was 'Animal Tranquillity +and Decay'. + +It was included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Old +Age."--Ed. + + + * * * * * + +THE POEM + + + The little hedgerow birds, + That peck along the road, regard him not. + He travels on, and in his face, his step, + His gait, is one expression: every limb, + His look and bending figure, all bespeak 5 + A man who does not move with pain, but moves + With thought.--He is insensibly subdued + To settled quiet: he is one by whom + All effort seems forgotten; one to whom + Long patience hath [1] such mild composure given, 10 + That patience now doth seem a thing of which + He hath no need. He is by nature led + To peace so perfect that the young behold + With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels. [2] + + + * * * * * + +VARIANTS ON THE TEXT + +[Variant 1: + +1805. + + ...has... 1798.] + + +[Variant 2: + +1815. + + --I asked him whither he was bound, and what + The object of his journey; he replied + "Sir! I am going many miles to take + A last leave of my son, a mariner, + Who from a sea-fight has been brought to Falmouth, + And there is dying in an hospital." 1798. + + ... he replied + That he was going many miles to take + A last leave of his son, a mariner, + Who from a sea-fight had been brought to Falmouth, + And there was dying [i] in an hospital. 1800 to 1805.] + + + * * * * * + +SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE VARIANT + +[Sub-Footnote i: The edition of 1800 has "lying," evidently a +misprint.--Ed.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +APPENDIX + + + +I + +The following is the full text of the original edition of 'Descriptive +Sketches', first published in 1793: + + +DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES + +IN VERSE. +TAKEN DURING A +PEDESTRIAN TOUR +IN THE +ITALIAN, GRISON, SWISS, AND SAVOYARD +ALPS. BY +W. WORDSWORTH, B.A. +OF ST. JOHN'S, CAMBRIDGE. +"LOCA PASTORUM DESERTA ATQUE OTIA DIA." +'Lucret'. +"CASTELLA IN TUMULIS-- +ET LONGE SALTUS LATEQUE VACANTES." +'Virgil'. +LONDON: +PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, ST. PAUL'S CHURCH-YARD. +1793. + + +TO THE REV. ROBERT JONES, FELLOW OF ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. + + +Dear sir, However desirous I might have been of giving you proofs of the +high place you hold in my esteem, I should have been cautious of +wounding your delicacy by thus publicly addressing you, had not the +circumstance of my having accompanied you amongst the Alps, seemed to +give this dedication a propriety sufficient to do away any scruples +which your modesty might otherwise have suggested. + +In inscribing this little work to you I consult my heart. You know well +how great is the difference between two companions lolling in a post +chaise, and two travellers plodding slowly along the road, side by side, +each with his little knap-sack of necessaries upon his shoulders. How +much more of heart between the two latter! + +I am happy in being conscious I shall have one reader who will approach +the conclusion of these few pages with regret. You they must certainly +interest, in reminding you of moments to which you can hardly look back +without a pleasure not the less dear from a shade of melancholy. You +will meet with few images without recollecting the spot where we +observed them together, consequently, whatever is feeble in my design, +or spiritless in my colouring, will be amply supplied by your own +memory. + +With still greater propriety I might have inscribed to you a description +of some of the features of your native mountains, through which we have +wandered together, in the same manner, with so much pleasure. But the +sea-sunsets which give such splendour to the vale of Clwyd, Snowdon, the +chair of Idris, the quiet village of Bethkelert, Menai and her druids, +the Alpine steeps of the Conway, and the still more interesting windings +of the wizard stream of the Dee remain yet untouched. Apprehensive that +my pencil may never be exercised on these subjects, I cannot let slip +this opportunity of thus publicly assuring you with how much affection +and esteem, + +I am Dear Sir, + +Your most obedient very humble Servant + +W. WORDSWORTH. + + + +ARGUMENT + +'Happiness (if she had been to be found on Earth) amongst the Charms of +Nature--Pleasures of the pedestrian Traveller--Author crosses France to +the Alps--Present state of the Grande Chartreuse--Lake of Como--Time, +Sunset--Same Scene, Twilight--Same Scene, Morning, it's Voluptuous +Character; Old Man and Forest Cottage Music--River Tusa--Via Mala and +Grison Gypsey. Valley of Sckellenen-thal--Lake of Uri, Stormy +Sunset--Chapel of William Tell--force of Local Emotion--Chamois +Chaser--View of the higher Alps--Manner of Life of a Swiss Mountaineer +interspersed with views of the higher Alps--Golden Age of the Alps--Life +and Views continued--Ranz des Vaches famous Swiss Air--Abbey of +Einsiedlen and it's Pilgrims--Valley of Chamouny--Mont Blanc--Slavery of +Savoy--Influence of Liberty on Cottage Happiness--France--Wish for the +extirpation of Slavery--Conclusion.' + + +DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES [A] + + + Were there, below, a spot of holy ground, + By Pain and her sad family unfound, + Sure, Nature's GOD that spot to man had giv'n, + Where murmuring rivers join the song of ev'n; + Where falls the purple morning far and wide 5 + In flakes of light upon the mountain-side; + Where summer Suns in ocean sink to rest, + Or moonlight Upland lifts her hoary breast; + Where Silence, on her night of wing, o'er-broods + Unfathom'd dells and undiscover'd woods; 10 + Where rocks and groves the power of waters shakes + In cataracts, or sleeps in quiet lakes. + + But doubly pitying Nature loves to show'r + Soft on his wounded heart her healing pow'r, + Who plods o'er hills and vales his road forlorn, 15 + Wooing her varying charms from eve to morn. + No sad vacuities his heart annoy, + Blows not a Zephyr but it whispers joy; + For him lost flowers their idle sweets exhale; + He tastes the meanest note that swells the gale; 20 + For him sod-seats the cottage-door adorn, + And peeps the far-off spire, his evening bourn! + Dear is the forest frowning o'er his head, + And dear the green-sward to his velvet tread; + Moves there a cloud o'er mid-day's flaming eye? 25 + Upward he looks--and calls it luxury; + Kind Nature's charities his steps attend, + In every babbling brook he finds a friend, + While chast'ning thoughts of sweetest use, bestow'd + By Wisdom, moralize his pensive road. 30 + Host of his welcome inn, the noon-tide bow'r, + To his spare meal he calls the passing poor; + He views the Sun uprear his golden fire, + Or sink, with heart alive like [B] Memnon's lyre; + Blesses the Moon that comes with kindest ray 35 + To light him shaken by his viewless way. + With bashful fear no cottage children steal + From him, a brother at the cottage meal, + His humble looks no shy restraint impart, + Around him plays at will the virgin heart. 40 + While unsuspended wheels the village dance, + The maidens eye him with inquiring glance, + Much wondering what sad stroke of crazing Care + Or desperate Love could lead a wanderer there. + + Me, lur'd by hope her sorrows to remove, 45 + A heart, that could not much itself approve, + O'er Gallia's wastes of corn dejected led, + [C] Her road elms rustling thin above my head, + Or through her truant pathway's native charms, + By secret villages and lonely farms, 50 + To where the Alps, ascending white in air, + Toy with the Sun, and glitter from afar. + + Ev'n now I sigh at hoary Chartreuse' doom + Weeping beneath his chill of mountain gloom. + Where now is fled that Power whose frown severe 55 + Tam'd "sober Reason" till she crouch'd in fear? + That breath'd a death-like peace these woods around + Broke only by th' unvaried torrent's sound, + Or prayer-bell by the dull cicada drown'd. + The cloister startles at the gleam of arms, 60 + And Blasphemy the shuddering fane alarms; + Nod the cloud-piercing pines their troubl'd heads, + Spires, rocks, and lawns, a browner night o'erspreads. + Strong terror checks the female peasant's sighs, + And start th' astonish'd shades at female eyes. 65 + The thundering tube the aged angler hears, + And swells the groaning torrent with his tears. + From Bruno's forest screams the frighted jay, + And slow th' insulted eagle wheels away. + The cross with hideous laughter Demons mock, 70 + By [D] angels planted on the aëreal rock. + The "parting Genius" sighs with hollow breath + Along the mystic streams of [E] Life and Death. + Swelling the outcry dull, that long resounds + Portentous, thro' her old woods' trackless bounds, 75 + Deepening her echoing torrents' awful peal + And bidding paler shades her form conceal, + [F] Vallombre, mid her falling fanes, deplores, + For ever broke, the sabbath of her bow'rs. + + More pleas'd, my foot the hidden margin roves 80 + Of Como bosom'd deep in chesnut groves. + No meadows thrown between, the giddy steeps + Tower, bare or sylvan, from the narrow deeps. + To towns, whose shades of no rude sound complain, + To ringing team unknown and grating wain, 85 + To flat-roof'd towns, that touch the water's bound, + Or lurk in woody sunless glens profound, + Or from the bending rocks obtrusive cling, + And o'er the whiten'd wave their shadows fling; + Wild round the steeps the little [G] pathway twines, 90 + And Silence loves it's purple roof of vines. + The viewless lingerer hence, at evening, sees + From rock-hewn steps the sail between the trees; + Or marks, mid opening cliffs, fair dark-ey'd maids + Tend the small harvest of their garden glades, 95 + Or, led by distant warbling notes, surveys, + With hollow ringing ears and darkening gaze, + Binding the charmed soul in powerless trance, + Lip-dewing Song and ringlet-tossing Dance, + Where sparkling eyes and breaking smiles illume 100 + The bosom'd cabin's lyre-enliven'd gloom; + Or stops the solemn mountain-shades to view + Stretch, o'er their pictur'd mirror, broad and blue, + Tracking the yellow sun from steep to steep, + As up th' opposing hills, with tortoise foot, they creep. 105 + Here half a village shines, in gold array'd, + Bright as the moon, half hides itself in shade. + From the dark sylvan roofs the restless spire + Inconstant glancing, mounts like springing fire. + There, all unshaded, blazing forests throw no 110 + Rich golden verdure on the waves below. + Slow glides the sail along th' illumin'd shore, + And steals into the shade the lazy oar. + Soft bosoms breathe around contagious sighs, + And amourous music on the water dies. 115 + Heedless how Pliny, musing here, survey'd + Old Roman boats and figures thro' the shade, + Pale Passion, overpower'd, retires and woos + The thicket, where th' unlisten'd stock-dove coos. + + How bless'd, delicious Scene! the eye that greets 120 + Thy open beauties, or thy lone retreats; + Th' unwearied sweep of wood thy cliffs that scales, + The never-ending waters of thy vales; + The cots, those dim religious groves enbow'r, + Or, under rocks that from the water tow'r 125 + Insinuated, sprinkling all the shore, + Each with his household boat beside the door, + Whose flaccid sails in forms fantastic droop, + Bright'ning the gloom where thick the forests stoop; + --Thy torrents shooting from the clear-blue sky, 130 + Thy towns, like swallows' nests that cleave on high; + That glimmer hoar in eve's last light, descry'd + Dim from the twilight water's shaggy side, + Whence lutes and voices down th' enchanted woods + Steal, and compose the oar-forgotten floods, 135 + While Evening's solemn bird melodious weeps, + Heard, by star-spotted bays, beneath the steeps; + --Thy lake, mid smoking woods, that blue and grey + Gleams, streak'd or dappled, hid from morning's ray + Slow-travelling down the western hills, to fold 140 + It's green-ting'd margin in a blaze of gold; + From thickly-glittering spires the matin-bell + Calling the woodman from his desert cell, + A summons to the sound of oars, that pass, + Spotting the steaming deeps, to early mass; 145 + Slow swells the service o'er the water born, + While fill each pause the ringing woods of morn. + + Farewel! those forms that, in thy noon-tide shade, + Rest, near their little plots of wheaten glade; + Those stedfast eyes, that beating breasts inspire 150 + To throw the "sultry ray" of young Desire; + Those lips, whose tides of fragrance come, and go, + Accordant to the cheek's unquiet glow; + Those shadowy breasts in love's soft light array'd, + And rising, by the moon of passion sway'd. 155 + + --Thy fragrant gales and lute-resounding streams, + Breathe o'er the failing soul voluptuous dreams; + While Slavery, forcing the sunk mind to dwell + On joys that might disgrace the captive's cell, + Her shameless timbrel shakes along thy marge, 160 + And winds between thine isles the vocal barge. + + Yet, arts are thine that rock th' unsleeping heart, + And smiles to Solitude and Want impart. + I lov'd, mid thy most desert woods astray, + With pensive step to measure my slow way, [H] 165 + By lonely, silent cottage-doors to roam, + The far-off peasant's day-deserted home; + Once did I pierce to where a cabin stood, + The red-breast peace had bury'd it in wood, + There, by the door a hoary-headed sire 170 + Touch'd with his wither'd hand an aged lyre; + Beneath an old-grey oak as violets lie, + Stretch'd at his feet with stedfast, upward eye, + His children's children join'd the holy sound, + A hermit--with his family around. 175 + + Hence shall we seek where fair Locarno smiles + Embower'd in walnut slopes and citron isles, + Or charms that smile on Tusa's evening stream, + While mid dim towers and woods her [I] waters gleam; + From the bright wave, in solemn gloom, retire 180 + The dull-red steeps, and darkening still, aspire, + To where afar rich orange lustres glow + Round undistinguish'd clouds, and rocks, and snow; + Or, led where Viamala's chasms confine + Th' indignant waters of the infant Rhine, 185 + Bend o'er th' abyss?--the else impervious gloom + His burning eyes with fearful light illume. + The Grison gypsey here her tent has plac'd, + Sole human tenant of the piny waste; + Her tawny skin, dark eyes, and glossy locks, 190 + Bend o'er the smoke that curls beneath the rocks. + + --The mind condemn'd, without reprieve, to go + O'er life's long deserts with it's charge of woe, + With sad congratulation joins the train, + Where beasts and men together o'er the plain 195 + Move on,--a mighty caravan of pain; + Hope, strength, and courage, social suffering brings, + Freshening the waste of sand with shades and springs. + + --She solitary through the desert drear + Spontaneous wanders, hand in hand with Fear. 200 + + A giant moan along the forest swells + Protracted, and the twilight storm foretells, + And, ruining from the cliffs their deafening load + Tumbles, the wildering Thunder slips abroad; + On the high summits Darkness comes and goes, 205 + Hiding their fiery clouds, their rocks, and snows; + The torrent, travers'd by the lustre broad, + Starts like a horse beside the flashing road; + In the roof'd [J] bridge, at that despairing hour, + She seeks a shelter from the battering show'r. 210 + --Fierce comes the river down; the crashing wood + Gives way, and half it's pines torment the flood; + [K] Fearful, beneath, the Water-spirits call, + And the bridge vibrates, tottering to its fall. + + --Heavy, and dull, and cloudy is the night, 215 + No star supplies the comfort of it's light, + Glimmer the dim-lit Alps, dilated, round, + And one sole light shifts in the vale profound; + While, opposite, the waning moon hangs still, + And red, above her melancholy hill. 220 + By the deep quiet gloom appall'd, she sighs, + Stoops her sick head, and shuts her weary eyes. + --Breaking th' ascending roar of desert floods, + And insect buzz, that stuns the sultry woods, + She hears, upon the mountain forest's brow, 225 + The death-dog, howling loud and long, below; + On viewless fingers counts the valley-clock, + Followed by drowsy crow of midnight cock. + --Bursts from the troubl'd Larch's giant boughs + The pie, and chattering breaks the night's repose. 230 + Low barks the fox; by Havoc rouz'd the bear, + Quits, growling, the white bones that strew his lair; + The dry leaves stir as with the serpent's walk, + And, far beneath, Banditti voices talk; + Behind her hill the Moon, all crimson, rides, 235 + And his red eyes the slinking Water hides; + Then all is hush'd; the bushes rustle near, + And with strange tinglings sings her fainting ear. + --Vex'd by the darkness, from the piny gulf + Ascending, nearer howls the famish'd wolf, 240 + While thro' the stillness scatters wild dismay, + Her babe's small cry, that leads him to his prey. + + Now, passing Urseren's open vale serene, + Her quiet streams, and hills of downy green, + Plunge with the Russ embrown'd by Terror's breath, 245 + Where danger roofs the narrow walks of death; + By floods, that, thundering from their dizzy height, + Swell more gigantic on the stedfast sight; + Black drizzling craggs, that beaten by the din, + Vibrate, as if a voice complain'd within; 250 + Bare steeps, where Desolation stalks, afraid, + Unstedfast, by a blasted yew upstay'd; + By [L] cells whose image, trembling as he prays, + Awe-struck, the kneeling peasant scarce surveys; + Loose-hanging rocks the Day's bless'd eye that hide, 255 + And [M] crosses rear'd to Death on every side, + Which with cold kiss Devotion planted near, + And, bending, water'd with the human tear, + Soon fading "silent" from her upward eye, + Unmov'd with each rude form of Danger nigh, 260 + Fix'd on the anchor left by him who saves + Alike in whelming snows and roaring waves. + + On as we move, a softer prospect opes, + Calm huts, and lawns between, and sylvan slopes. + While mists, suspended on th' expiring gale, 265 + Moveless o'er-hang the deep secluded vale, + The beams of evening, slipping soft between, + Light up of tranquil joy a sober scene; + Winding it's dark-green wood and emerald glade, + The still vale lengthens underneath the shade; 270 + While in soft gloom the scattering bowers recede, + Green dewy lights adorn the freshen'd mead, + Where solitary forms illumin'd stray + Turning with quiet touch the valley's hay, + On the low [N] brown wood-huts delighted sleep 275 + Along the brighten'd gloom reposing deep. + While pastoral pipes and streams the landscape lull, + And bells of passing mules that tinkle dull, + In solemn shapes before th' admiring eye + Dilated hang the misty pines on high, 280 + Huge convent domes with pinnacles and tow'rs, + And antique castles seen tho' drizzling show'rs. + + From such romantic dreams my sould awake, + Lo! Fear looks silent down on Uri's lake, + By whose unpathway'd margin still and dread 285 + Was never heard the plodding peasant's tread. + Tower like a wall the naked rocks, or reach + Far o'er the secret water dark with beech, + More high, to where creation seems to end, + Shade above shade the desert pines ascend, 290 + And still, below, where mid the savage scene + Peeps out a little speck of smilgin green, + There with his infants man undaunted creeps + And hangs his small wood-hut upon the steeps. + A garden-plot the desert air perfumes, 295 + Mid the dark pines a little orchard blooms, + A zig-zag path from the domestic skiff + Threading the painful cragg surmounts the cliff. + --Before those hermit doors, that never know + The face of traveller passing to and fro, 300 + No peasant leans upon his pole, to tell + For whom at morning toll'd the funeral bell, + Their watch-dog ne'er his angry bark forgoes, + Touch'd by the beggar's moan of human woes, + The grass seat beneath their casement shade 305 + The pilgrim's wistful eye hath never stay'd. + --There, did the iron Genius not disdain + The gentle Power that haunts the myrtle plain, + There might the love-sick maiden sit, and chide + Th' insuperable rocks and severing tide, 310 + There watch at eve her lover's sun-gilt sail + Approaching, and upbraid the tardy gale, + There list at midnight till is heard no more, + Below, the echo of his parting oar, + There hang in fear, when growls the frozen stream, 315 + To guide his dangerous tread the taper's gleam. + + Mid stormy vapours ever driving by, + Where ospreys, cormorants, and herons cry, + Where hardly giv'n the hopeless waste to chear, + Deny'd the bread of life the foodful ear, 320 + Dwindles the pear on autumn's latest spray, + And apple sickens pale in summer's ray, + Ev'n here Content has fix'd her smiling reign + With Independance child of high Disdain. + Exulting mid the winter of the skies, 325 + Shy as the jealous chamois, Freedom flies, + And often grasps her sword, and often eyes, + Her crest a bough of Winter's bleakest pine, + Strange "weeds" and alpine plants her helm entwine, + And wildly-pausing oft she hangs aghast, 330 + While thrills the "Spartan fife" between the blast. + + 'Tis storm; and hid in mist from hour to hour + All day the floods a deeper murmur pour, + And mournful sounds, as of a Spirit lost, + Pipe wild along the hollow-blustering coast, 335 + 'Till the Sun walking on his western field + Shakes from behind the clouds his flashing shield. + Triumphant on the bosom of the storm, + Glances the fire-clad eagle's wheeling form; + Eastward, in long perspective glittering, shine 340 + The wood-crown'd cliffs that o'er the lake recline; + Wide o'er the Alps a hundred streams unfold, + At once to pillars turn'd that flame with gold; + Behind his sail the peasant strives to shun + The west that burns like one dilated sun, 345 + Where in a mighty crucible expire + The mountains, glowing hot, like coals of fire. [O] + + But lo! the boatman, over-aw'd, before + The pictur'd fane of Tell suspends his oar; + Confused the Marathonian tale appears, 350 + While burn in his full eyes the glorious tears. + And who but feels a power of strong controul, + Felt only there, oppress his labouring soul, + Who walks, where honour'd men of ancient days + Have wrought with god-like arm the deeds of praise? 355 + Say, who, by thinking on Canadian hills, + Or wild Aosta lulled by Alpine rills, + On Zutphen's plain; or where with soften'd gaze + The old grey stones the plaided chief surveys, + Can guess the high resolve, the cherish'd pain 360 + Of him whom passion rivets to the plain, + Where breath'd the gale that caught Wolfe's happiest sigh, + And the last sun-beam fell on Bayard's eye, + Where bleeding Sydney from the cup retir'd, + And glad Dundee in "faint huzzas" expir'd. 365 + + But now with other soul I stand alone + Sublime upon this far-surveying cone, + And watch from [P] pike to pike amid the sky + Small as a bird the chamois-chaser fly. + 'Tis his with fearless step at large to roam 370 + Thro' wastes, of Spirits wing'd the solemn home, + [Q] Thro' vacant worlds where Nature never gave + A brook to murmur or a bough to wave, + Which unsubstantial Phantoms sacred keep; + Thro' worlds where Life and Sound, and Motion sleep, 375 + Where Silence still her death-like reign extends, + Save when the startling cliff unfrequent rends: + In the deep snow the mighty ruin drown'd, + Mocks the dull ear of Time with deaf abortive sound; + --To mark a planet's pomp and steady light 380 + In the least star of scarce-appearing night, + And neighbouring moon, that coasts the vast profound, + Wheel pale and silent her diminish'd round, + While far and wide the icy summits blaze + Rejoicing in the glory of her rays; 385 + The star of noon that glitters small and bright, + Shorn of his beams, insufferably white, + And flying fleet behind his orb to view + Th' interminable sea of sable blue. + --Of cloudless suns no more ye frost-built spires 390 + Refract in rainbow hues the restless fires! + Ye dewy mists the arid rocks o'er-spread + Whose slippery face derides his deathful tread! + + --To wet the peak's impracticable sides + He opens of his feet the sanguine tides, 395 + Weak and more weak the issuing current eyes + Lapp'd by the panting tongue of thirsty skies. [R] + --At once bewildering mists around him close, + And cold and hunger are his least of woes; + The Demon of the snow with angry roar 400 + Descending, shuts for aye his prison door. + Craz'd by the strength of hope at morn he eyes + As sent from heav'n the raven of the skies, + Then with despair's whole weight his spirits sink, + No bread to feed him, and the snow his drink, 405 + While ere his eyes can close upon the day, + The eagle of the Alps o'ershades his prey. + --Meanwhile his wife and child with cruel hope + All night the door at every moment ope; + Haply that child in fearful doubt may gaze, 410 + Passing his father's bones in future days, + Start at the reliques of that very thigh, + On which so oft he prattled when a boy. + + Hence shall we turn where, heard with fear afar, + Thunders thro' echoing pines the headlong Aar? 415 + Or rather stay to taste the mild delights + Of pensive [S] Underwalden's pastoral heights? + + --Is there who mid these awful wilds has seen + The native Genii walk the mountain green? + Or heard, while other worlds their charms reveal, 420 + Soft music from th' aëreal summit steal? + While o'er the desert, answering every close, + Rich steam of sweetest perfume comes and goes. + --And sure there is a secret Power that reigns + Here, where no trace of man the spot profanes, 425 + Nought but the herds that pasturing upward creep, + Hung dim-discover'd from the dangerous steep, + [T] Or summer hamlet, flat and bare, on high + Suspended, mid the quiet of the sky. + + How still! no irreligious sound or sight 430 + Rouzes the soul from her severe delight. + An idle voice the sabbath region fills + Of Deep that calls to Deep across the hills, + Broke only by the melancholy sound + Of drowsy bells for ever tinkling round; 435 + Faint wail of eagle melting into blue + Beneath the cliffs, and pine-woods steady sugh; [U] + The solitary heifer's deepen'd low; + Or rumbling heard remote of falling snow. + Save that, the stranger seen below, the boy 440 + Shouts from the echoing hills with savage joy. + + When warm from myrtle bays and tranquil seas, + Comes on, to whisper hope, the [V] vernal breeze, + When hums the mountain bee in May's glad ear, + And emerald isles to spot the heights appear, 445 + When shouts and lowing herds the valley fill, + And louder torrents stun the noon-tide hill, + When fragrant scents beneath th' enchanted tread + Spring up, his little all around him spread, + The pastoral Swiss begins the cliffs to scale 450 + To silence leaving the deserted vale, + Up the green mountain tracking Summer's feet, + Each twilight earlier call'd the Sun to meet, + With earlier smile the ray of morn to view + Fall on his shifting hut that gleams mid smoking dew; 455 + Bless'd with his herds, as in the patriarch's age, + The summer long to feed from stage to stage; + O'er azure pikes serene and still, they go, + And hear the rattling thunder far below; + Or lost at eve in sudden mist the day 460 + Attend, or dare with minute-steps their way; + Hang from the rocks that tremble o'er the steep, + And tempt the icy valley yawning deep, + O'er-walk the chasmy torrent's foam-lit bed, + Rock'd on the dizzy larch's narrow tread, 465 + Whence Danger leans, and pointing ghastly, joys + To mock the mind with "desperation's toys"; + Or steal beneath loose mountains, half deterr'd, + That sigh and shudder to the lowing herd. + --I see him, up the midway cliff he creeps 470 + To where a scanty knot of verdure peeps, + Thence down the steep a pile of grass he throws + The fodder of his herds in winter snows. + Far different life to what tradition hoar + Transmits of days more bless'd in times of yore. [W] 475 + Then Summer lengthen'd out his season bland, + And with rock-honey flow'd the happy land. + Continual fountains welling chear'd the waste, + And plants were wholesome, now of deadly taste. + Nor Winter yet his frozen stores had pil'd 480 + Usurping where the fairest herbage smil'd; + Nor Hunger forc'd the herds from pastures bare + For scanty food the treacherous cliffs to dare. + Then the milk-thistle bad those herds demand + Three times a day the pail and welcome hand. 485 + But human vices have provok'd the rod + Of angry Nature to avenge her God. + Thus does the father to his sons relate, + On the lone mountain top, their chang'd estate. + Still, Nature, ever just, to him imparts 490 + Joys only given to uncorrupted hearts. + --'Tis morn: with gold the verdant mountain glows, + More high, the snowy peaks with hues of rose. + Far stretch'd beneath the many-tinted hills + A mighty waste of mist the valley fills, 495 + A solemn sea! whose vales and mountains round + Stand motionless, to awful silence bound. + A gulf of gloomy blue, that opens wide + And bottomless, divides the midway tide. + Like leaning masts of stranded ships appear 500 + The pines that near the coast their summits rear; + Of cabins, woods, and lawns a pleasant shore + Bounds calm and clear the chaos still and hoar; + Loud thro' that midway gulf ascending, sound + Unnumber'd streams with hollow roar profound. 505 + Mounts thro' the nearer mist the chaunt of birds, + And talking voices, and the low of herds, + The bark of dogs, the drowsy tinkling bell, + And wild-wood mountain lutes of saddest swell. + Think not, suspended from the cliff on high 510 + He looks below with undelighted eye. + --No vulgar joy is his, at even tide + Stretch'd on the scented mountain's purple side. + For as the pleasures of his simple day + Beyond his native valley hardly stray, 515 + Nought round it's darling precincts can he find + But brings some past enjoyment to his mind, + While Hope that ceaseless leans on Pleasure's urn + Binds her wild wreathes, and whispers his return. + + Once Man entirely free, alone and wild, 520 + Was bless'd as free--for he was Nature's child. + He, all superior but his God disdain'd, + Walk'd none restraining, and by none restrain'd, + Confess'd no law but what his reason taught, + Did all he wish'd, and wish'd but what he ought. 525 + As Man in his primaeval dower array'd + The image of his glorious sire display'd, + Ev'n so, by vestal Nature guarded, here + The traces of primaeval Man appear. + The native dignity no forms debase, 530 + The eye sublime, and surly lion-grace. + The slave of none, of beasts alone the lord, + He marches with his flute, his book, and sword, + Well taught by that to feel his rights, prepar'd + With this "the blessings he enjoys to guard." 535 + + And as on glorious ground he draws his breath, + Where Freedom oft, with Victory and Death, + Hath seen in grim array amid their Storms + Mix'd with auxiliar Rocks, three [X] hundred Forms; + While twice ten thousand corselets at the view 540 + Dropp'd loud at once, Oppression shriek'd, and flew. + Oft as those sainted Rocks before him spread, + An unknown power connects him with the dead. + For images of other worlds are there, + Awful the light, and holy is the air. 545 + Uncertain thro' his fierce uncultur'd soul + Like lighted tempests troubled transports roll; + To viewless realms his Spirit towers amain, + Beyond the senses and their little reign. + + And oft, when pass'd that solemn vision by, 550 + He holds with God himself communion high, + When the dread peal of swelling torrents fills + The sky-roof'd temple of th' eternal hills, + And savage Nature humbly joins the rite, + While flash her upward eyes severe delight. 555 + Or gazing from the mountain's silent brow, + Bright stars of ice and azure worlds of snow, + Where needle peaks of granite shooting bare + Tremble in ever-varying tints of air, + Great joy by horror tam'd dilates his heart, 560 + And the near heav'ns their own delights impart. + --When the Sun bids the gorgeous scene farewell, + Alps overlooking Alps their state upswell; + Huge Pikes of Darkness nam'd, of [Y] Fear and Storms + Lift, all serene, their still, illumin'd forms, 565 + In sea-like reach of prospect round him spread, + Ting'd like an angel's smile all rosy red. + + When downward to his winter hut he goes, + Dear and more dear the lessening circle grows, + That hut which from the hills his eyes employs 570 + So oft, the central point of all his joys. + And as a swift by tender cares oppress'd + Peeps often ere she dart into her nest, + So to th' untrodden floor, where round him looks + His father helpless as the babe he rocks, 575 + Oft he descends to nurse the brother pair, + Till storm and driving ice blockade him there; + There hears, protected by the woods behind, + Secure, the chiding of the baffled wind, + Hears Winter, calling all his Terrors round, 580 + Rush down the living rocks with whirlwind sound. + + Thro' Nature's vale his homely pleasures glide + Unstain'd by envy, discontent, and pride, + The bound of all his vanity to deck + With one bright bell a favourite heifer's neck; 585 + Content upon some simple annual feast, + Remember'd half the year, and hop'd the rest, + If dairy produce, from his inner hoard, + Of thrice ten summers consecrate the board. + --Alas! in every clime a flying ray 590 + Is all we have to chear our wintry way, + Condemn'd, in mists and tempests ever rife, + To pant slow up the endless Alp of life. + "Here," cried a swain, whose venerable head + Bloom'd with the snow-drops of Man's narrow bed, 595 + Last night, while by his dying fire, as clos'd + The day, in luxury my limbs repos'd, + "Here Penury oft from misery's mount will guide + Ev'n to the summer door his icy tide, + And here the avalanche of Death destroy 600 + The little cottage of domestic Joy. + But, ah! th' unwilling mind may more than trace + The general sorrows of the human race: + The churlish gales, that unremitting blow + Cold from necessity's continual snow, 605 + To us the gentle groups of bliss deny + That on the noon-day bank of leisure lie. + Yet more; the tyrant Genius, still at strife + With all the tender Charities of life, + When close and closer they begin to strain, 610 + No fond hand left to staunch th' unclosing vein, + Tearing their bleeding ties leaves Age to groan + On his wet bed, abandon'd and alone. + For ever, fast as they of strength become + To pay the filial debt, for food to roam, 615 + The father, forc'd by Powers that only deign + That solitary Man disturb their reign, + From his bare nest amid the storms of heaven + Drives, eagle-like, his sons as he was driven, + His last dread pleasure! watches to the plain-- 620 + And never, eagle-like, beholds again." [Z] + + When the poor heart has all its joys resign'd, + Why does their sad remembrance cleave behind? + Lo! by the lazy Seine the exile roves, + Or where thick sails illume Batavia's groves; 625 + Soft o'er the waters mournful measures swell, + Unlocking bleeding Thought's "memorial cell"; + At once upon his heart Despair has set + Her seal, the mortal tear his cheek has wet; + Strong poison not a form of steel can brave 630 + Bows his young hairs with sorrow to the grave. + Gay lark of hope thy silent song resume! + Fair smiling lights the purpled hills illume! + Soft gales and dews of life's delicious morn, + And thou, lost fragrance of the heart return! 635 + [Aa] Soon flies the little joy to man allow'd, + And tears before him travel like a cloud. + For come Diseases on, and Penury's rage, + Labour, and Pain, and Grief, and joyless Age, + And Conscience dogging close his bleeding way 640 + Cries out, and leads her Spectres to their prey, + 'Till Hope-deserted, long in vain his breath + Implores the dreadful untried sleep of Death. + --Mid savage rocks and seas of snow that shine + Between interminable tracts of pine, 645 + Round a lone fane the human Genii mourn, + Where fierce the rays of woe collected burn. + --From viewless lamps a ghastly dimness falls, + And ebbs uncertain on the troubled walls, + Dim dreadful faces thro' the gloom appear, 650 + Abortive Joy, and Hope that works in fear, + While strives a secret Power to hush the crowd, + Pain's wild rebellious burst proclaims her rights aloud. + Oh give not me that eye of hard disdain + That views undimm'd Einsiedlen's [Bb] wretched fane. 655 + Mid muttering prayers all sounds of torment meet, + Dire clap of hands, distracted chafe of feet, + While loud and dull ascends the weeping cry, + Surely in other thoughts contempt may die. + If the sad grave of human ignorance bear 660 + One flower of hope--Oh pass and leave it there. + + --The tall Sun, tiptoe on an Alpine spire, + Flings o'er the desert blood-red streams of fire. + At such an hour there are who love to stray, + And meet the gladdening pilgrims on their way. 665 + --Now with joy's tearful kiss each other greet, + Nor longer naked be your way-worn feet, + For ye have reach'd at last that happy shore, + Where the charm'd worm of pain shall gnaw no more. + How gayly murmur and how sweetly taste 670 + The [Cc] fountains rear'd for you amid the waste! + Yes I will see you when ye first behold + Those turrets tipp'd by hope with morning gold, + And watch, while on your brows the cross ye make, + Round your pale eyes a wintry lustre wake. 675 + --Without one hope her written griefs to blot, + Save in the land where all things are forgot, + My heart, alive to transports long unknown, + Half wishes your delusion were it's own. + + Last let us turn to where Chamouny [Dd] shields, 680 + Bosom'd in gloomy woods, her golden fields, + Five streams of ice amid her cots descend, + And with wild flowers and blooming orchards blend, + A scene more fair than what the Grecian feigns + Of purple lights and ever vernal plains. 685 + Here lawns and shades by breezy rivulets fann'd, + Here all the Seasons revel hand in hand, + --Red stream the cottage lights; the landscape fades, + Erroneous wavering mid the twilight shades. + Alone ascends that mountain nam'd of white, [Ee] 690 + That dallies with the Sun the summer night. + Six thousand years amid his lonely bounds + The voice of Ruin, day and night, resounds. + Where Horror-led his sea of ice assails, + Havoc and Chaos blast a thousand vales, 695 + In waves, like two enormous serpents, wind + And drag their length of deluge train behind. + Between the pines enormous boughs descry'd + Serene he towers, in deepest purple dy'd; + Glad Day-light laughs upon his top of snow, 700 + Glitter the stars above, and all is black below. + + At such an hour I heav'd the human sigh, + When roar'd the sullen Arve in anger by, + That not for thee, delicious vale! unfold + Thy reddening orchards, and thy fields of gold; 705 + That thou, the [Ff] slave of slaves, art doom'd to pine, + While no Italian arts their charms combine + To teach the skirt of thy dark cloud to shine; + For thy poor babes that, hurrying from the door, + With pale-blue hands, and eyes that fix'd implore, 710 + Dead muttering lips, and hair of hungry white, + Besiege the traveller whom they half affright. + --Yes, were it mine, the cottage meal to share + Forc'd from my native mountains bleak and bare; + O'er [Gg] Anet's hopeless seas of marsh to stray, 715 + Her shrill winds roaring round my lonely way; + To scent the sweets of Piedmont's breathing rose, + And orange gale that o'er Lugano blows; + In the wide range of many a weary round, + Still have my pilgrim feet unfailing found, 720 + As despot courts their blaze of gems display, + Ev'n by the secret cottage far away + The lilly of domestic joy decay; + While Freedom's farthest hamlets blessings share, + Found still beneath her smile, and only there. 725 + The casement shade more luscious woodbine binds, + And to the door a neater pathway winds, + At early morn the careful housewife, led + To cull her dinner from it's garden bed, + Of weedless herbs a healthier prospect sees, 730 + While hum with busier joy her happy bees; + In brighter rows her table wealth aspires, + And laugh with merrier blaze her evening fires; + Her infant's cheeks with fresher roses glow, + And wilder graces sport around their brow; 735 + By clearer taper lit a cleanlier board + Receives at supper hour her tempting hoard; + The chamber hearth with fresher boughs is spread, + And whiter is the hospitable bed. + + --And thou! fair favoured region! which my soul 740 + Shall love, till Life has broke her golden bowl, + Till Death's cold touch her cistern-wheel assail, + And vain regret and vain desire shall fail; + Tho' now, where erst the grey-clad peasant stray'd, + To break the quiet of the village shade 745 + Gleam war's [Hh] discordant habits thro' the trees, + And the red banner mock the sullen breeze; + Tho' now no more thy maids their voices suit + To the low-warbled breath of twilight lute, + And heard, the pausing village hum between, 750 + No solemn songstress lull the fading green, + Scared by the fife, and rumbling drum's alarms, + And the short thunder, and the flash of arms; + While, as Night bids the startling uproar die, + Sole sound, the [Ii] sourd renews his mournful cry: 755 + --Yet, hast thou found that Freedom spreads her pow'r + Beyond the cottage hearth, the cottage door: + All nature smiles; and owns beneath her eyes + Her fields peculiar, and peculiar skies. + Yes, as I roam'd where Loiret's [Jj] waters glide 760 + Thro' rustling aspins heard from side to side, + When from October clouds a milder light + Fell, where the blue flood rippled into white, + Methought from every cot the watchful bird + Crowed with ear-piercing power 'till then unheard; 765 + Each clacking mill, that broke the murmuring streams, + Rock'd the charm'd thought in more delightful dreams; + Chasing those long long dreams the falling leaf + Awoke a fainter pang of moral grief; + The measured echo of the distant flail 770 + Winded in sweeter cadence down the vale; + A more majestic tide the [Kk] water roll'd, + And glowed the sun-gilt groves in richer gold: + + --Tho' Liberty shall soon, indignant, raise + Red on his hills his beacon's comet blaze; 775 + Bid from on high his lonely cannon sound, + And on ten thousand hearths his shout rebound; + His larum-bell from village-tow'r to tow'r + Swing on th' astounded ear it's dull undying roar: + Yet, yet rejoice, tho' Pride's perverted ire 780 + Rouze Hell's own aid, and wrap thy hills in fire. + Lo! from th' innocuous flames, a lovely birth! + With it's own Virtues springs another earth: + Nature, as in her prime, her virgin reign + Begins, and Love and Truth compose her train; 785 + With pulseless hand, and fix'd unwearied gaze, + Unbreathing Justice her still beam surveys: + No more, along thy vales and viny groves, + Whole hamlets disappearing as he moves, + With cheeks o'erspread by smiles of baleful glow, 790 + On his pale horse shall fell Consumption go. + + Oh give, great God, to Freedom's waves to ride + Sublime o'er Conquest, Avarice, and Pride, + To break, the vales where Death with Famine scow'rs, + And dark Oppression builds her thick-ribb'd tow'rs; 795 + Where Machination her fell soul resigns, + Fled panting to the centre of her mines; + Where Persecution decks with ghastly smiles + Her bed, his mountains mad Ambition piles; + Where Discord stalks dilating, every hour, 800 + And crouching fearful at the feet of Pow'r, + Like Lightnings eager for th' almighty word, + Look up for sign of havoc, Fire, and Sword; [Ll] + --Give them, beneath their breast while Gladness springs, + To brood the nations o'er with Nile-like wings; 805 + And grant that every sceptred child of clay, + Who cries, presumptuous, "here their tides shall stay," + Swept in their anger from th' affrighted shore, + With all his creatures sink--to rise no more. + To-night, my friend, within this humble cot 810 + Be the dead load of mortal ills forgot, + Renewing, when the rosy summits glow + At morn, our various journey, sad and slow. + + + + + +FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT + +[Footnote A: All the notes to this reprint of the edition of 1793 are +Wordsworth's own, as given in that edition.--Ed.] + + +[Footnote B: The lyre of Memnon is reported to have emitted melancholy +or chearful tones, as it was touched by the sun's evening or morning +rays.] + + +[Footnote C: There are few people whom it may be necessary to inform, +that the sides of many of the post-roads in France are planted with a +row of trees.] + + +[Footnote D: Alluding to crosses seen on the tops of the spiry rocks of +the Chartreuse, which have every appearance of being inaccessible.] + + +[Footnote E: Names of rivers at the Chartreuse.] + + +[Footnote F: Name of one of the vallies of the Chartreuse.] + + +[Footnote G: If any of my readers should ever visit the Lake of Como, I +recommend it to him to take a stroll along this charming little pathway: +he must chuse the evening, as it is on the western side of the Lake. We +pursued it from the foot of the water to it's head: it is once +interrupted by a ferry.] + + +[Footnote H: + + Solo, e pensoso i più deserti campi + Vò misurando à passi tardi, e lenti. +'Petrarch'.] + + +[Footnote I: The river along whose banks you descend in crossing the +Alps by the Semplon pass. From the striking contrast of it's features, +this pass I should imagine to be the most interesting among the Alps.] + + +[Footnote J: Most of the bridges among the Alps are of wood and covered: +these bridges have a heavy appearance, and rather injure the effect of +the scenery in some places.] + + +[Footnote K: + + "Red came the river down, and loud, and oft + The angry Spirit of the water shriek'd." + +HOME'S 'Douglas'.] + + +[Footnote L: The Catholic religion prevails here, these cells are, as is +well known, very common in the Catholic countries, planted, like the +Roman tombs, along the road side.] + + +[Footnote M: Crosses commemorative of the deaths of travellers by the +fall of snow and other accidents very common along this dreadful road.] + + +[Footnote N: The houses in the more retired Swiss valleys are all built +of wood.] + + +[Footnote O: I had once given to these sketches the title of +Picturesque; but the Alps are insulted in applying to them that term. +Whoever, in attempting to describe their sublime features, should +confine himself to the cold rules of painting would give his reader but +a very imperfect idea of those emotions which they have the irresistible +power of communicating to the most impassive imaginations. The fact is, +that controuling influence, which distinguishes the Alps from all other +scenery, is derived from images which disdain the pencil. Had I wished +to make a picture of this scene I had thrown much less light into it. +But I consulted nature and my feelings. The ideas excited by the stormy +sunset I am here describing owed their sublimity to that deluge of +light, or rather of fire, in which nature had wrapped the immense forms +around me; any intrusion of shade, by destroying the unity of the +impression, had necessarily diminished its grandeur.] + + +[Footnote P: Pike is a word very commonly used in the north of England, +to signify a high mountain of the conic form, as Langdale pike, etc.] + + +[Footnote Q: For most of the images in the next sixteen verses I am +indebted to M. Raymond's interesting observations annexed to his +translation of Coxe's 'Tour in Switzerland'.] + + +[Footnote R: The rays of the sun drying the rocks frequently produce on +their surface a dust so subtile and slippery, that the wretched +chamois-chasers are obliged to bleed themselves in the legs and feet in +order to secure a footing.] + + +[Footnote S: The people of this Canton are supposed to be of a more +melancholy disposition than the other inhabitants of the Alps: this, if +true, may proceed from their living more secluded.] + + +[Footnote T: These summer hamlets are most probably (as I have seen +observed by a critic in the 'Gentleman's Magazine') what Virgil alludes +to in the expression "Castella in tumulis."] + + +[Footnote U: Sugh, a Scotch word expressive of the sound of the wind +through the trees.] + + +[Footnote V: This wind, which announces the spring to the Swiss, is +called in their language Foen; and is according to M. Raymond the Syroco +of the Italians.] + + +[Footnote W: This tradition of the golden age of the Alps, as M. Raymond +observes, is highly interesting, interesting not less to the philosopher +than to the poet. Here I cannot help remarking, that the superstitions +of the Alps appear to be far from possessing that poetical character +which so eminently distinguishes those of Scotland and the other +mountainous northern countries. The Devil with his horns, etc., seems to +be in their idea, the principal agent that brings about the sublime +natural revolutions that take place daily before their eyes.] + + +[Footnote X: Alluding to several battles which the Swiss in very small +numbers have gained over their oppressors the house of Austria; and in +particular, to one fought at Naeffels near Glarus, where three hundred +and thirty men defeated an army of between fifteen and twenty thousand +Austrians. Scattered over the valley are to be found eleven stones, with +this inscription, 1388, the year the battle was fought, marking out as I +was told upon the spot, the several places where the Austrians +attempting to make a stand were repulsed anew.] + + +[Footnote Y: As Schreck-Horn, the pike of terror. Wetter-Horn, the pike +of storms, etc. etc.] + + +[Footnote Z: The effect of the famous air called in French Ranz des +Vaches upon the Swiss troops removed from their native country is well +known, as also the injunction of not playing it on pain of death, before +the regiments of that nation, in the service of France and Holland.] + + +[Footnote Aa: Optima quæque dies, etc.] + + +[Footnote Bb: This shrine is resorted to, from a hope of relief, by +multitudes, from every corner of the Catholick world, labouring under +mental or bodily afflictions.] + + +[Footnote Cc: Rude fountains built and covered with sheds for the +accommodation of the pilgrims, in their ascent of the mountain. Under +these sheds the sentimental traveller and the philosopher may find +interesting sources of meditation.] + + +[Footnote Dd: This word is pronounced upon the spot Chàmouny, I have +taken the liberty of reading it long thinking it more musical.] + + +[Footnote Ee: It is only from the higher part of the valley of Chàmouny +that Mont Blanc is visible.] + + +[Footnote Ff: It is scarce necessary to observe that these lines were +written before the emancipation of Savoy.] + + +[Footnote Gg: A vast extent of marsh so called near the lake of +Neuf-chatel.] + + +[Footnote Hh: This, as may be supposed, was written before France became +the seat of war.] + + +[Footnote Ii: An insect so called, which emits a short, melancholy cry, +heard, at the close of the summer evenings, on the banks of the Loire.] + + +[Footnote Jj: The river Loiret, which has the honour of giving name to a +department, rises out of the earth at a place, called La Source, a +league and a half south-east of Orleans, and taking at once the +character of a considerable stream, winds under a most delicious bank on +its left, with a flat country of meadows, woods, and vineyards on its +right, till it falls into the Loire about three or four leagues below +Orleans. The hand of false taste has committed on its banks those +outrages which the Abbé de Lille so pathetically deprecates in those +charming verses descriptive of the Seine, visiting in secret the retreat +of his friend Watelet. Much as the Loiret, in its short course, suffers +from injudicious ornament, yet are there spots to be found upon its +banks as soothing as meditation could wish for: the curious traveller +may meet with some of them where it loses itself among the mills in the +neighbourhood of the villa called La Fontaine. The walks of La Source, +where it takes its rise, may, in the eyes of some people, derive an +additional interest from the recollection that they were the retreat of +Bolingbroke during his exile, and that here it was that his +philosophical works were chiefly composed. The inscriptions, of which he +speaks in one of his letters to Swift descriptive of this spot, are not, +I believe, now extant. The gardens have been modelled within these +twenty years according to a plan evidently not dictated by the taste of +the friend of Pope.] + + +[Footnote Kk: The duties upon many parts of the French rivers were so +exorbitant that the poorer people, deprived of the benefit of water +carriage, were obliged to transport their goods by land.] + + +[Footnote Ll: + + --And, at his heels, + Leash'd in like hounds, should Famine, Sword, and Fire, + Crouch for employment.] + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +APPENDIX II + +The following is Wordsworth's Itinerary of the Tour, taken by him and +his friend Jones, which gave rise to 'Descriptive Sketches'. + + +July +13. Calais. +14. Ardres. +17. Péronne. +18. Village near Coucy. +19. Soissons. +20. Château Thierry. +21. Sézanne. +22. Village near Troyes. +23. Bar-le-Duc. +24. Chatillon-sur-Seine. +26. Nuits. +27. Châlons. +28. Châlons. +29. On the Saône. +30. Lyons. +31. Condrieu. + +August + 1. Moreau. + 2. Voreppe. + 3. Village near Chartreuse. + 4. Chartreuse. + 6. Aix. + 7. Town in Savoy. + 8. Town on Lake of Geneva. + 9. Lausanne. +10. Villeneuve. +11. St. Maurice in the Valais. +12. Chamouny. +13. Chamouny. +14. Martigny. +15. Village beyond Sion. +16. Brieg. +17. Spital on Alps. +18. Margozza. +19. Village beyond Lago Maggiore. +20. Village on Lago di Como. +21. Village beyond Gravedona. +22. Jones at Chiavenna; W. W. at Samolaco. +23. Sovozza. +24. Splügen. +25. Flems. +26. Dissentis. +27. Village on the Reuss. +28. Fluelen. +29. Lucerne. +30. Village on the Lake of Zurich. +31. Einsiedlen. + + +September + +1. Glarus. +2. Glarus. +3. Village beyond Lake of Wallenstadt. +4. Village on road to Appenzell. +5. Appenzell. +6. Keswill, on Lake of Constance. +7. On the Rhine. +8. On the Rhine. +9. On road to Lucerne. +10. Lucerne. +11. Saxeln. +12. Village on the Aar. +13. Grindelwald. +14. Lauterbrunnen. +15. Village three leagues from Berne. +16. Avranches. +19. Village beyond Pierre Pertuises. +20. Village four leagues from Basle. +21. Basle. +22. Town six leagues from Strasburg. +23. Spires. +24. Village on Rhine. +25. Mentz. Mayence. +27. Village on Rhine, two leagues from Coblentz. +28. Cologne. +29. Village three leagues from Aix-la-Chapelle. + + +The pedestrians bought a boat at Basle, and in it floated down the Rhine +as far as Cologne, intending to proceed in the same way to Ostend; but +they returned to England from Cologne by Calais. In the course of this +tour, Wordsworth wrote a letter to his sister, dated "Sept. 6, 1790, +Keswill, a small village on the Lake of Constance," which will be found +amongst his letters in a subsequent volume.--Ed. + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +APPENDIX III + +The following two variants in 'Descriptive Sketches' are from MS. notes +written in the late Lord Coleridge's copy of the edition of 1836-7. + +l. 247. + + Yet the world's business hither finds its way + At times, and unsought tales beguile the day, + And tender thoughts are those which Solitude + + +l. 249. + + Yet tender thoughts dwell there. No Solitude + Hath power Youth's natural feelings to exclude. + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +APPENDIX IV + +'Anecdote for Fathers' + +See Eusebius' 'Præparatio Evangelica', vi. 5.--[Greek: kleie bi_en +kartos te log_on pseud_egora lex_o]--which was Apollo's answer to +certain persons who tried to force his oracle to reply.--Ed. + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +APPENDIX V + +'The Thorn' + +William Taylor's translation of Bürger's 'Pfarrer's Tochter' appeared in +'The Monthly Magazine' (1796), and as the same volume contained +contributions by Coleridge and Lamb, it is possible that Wordsworth saw +it. Bürger's Pastor's Daughter murdered her natural child, but it is her +ghost which haunts its grave, which she had torn + + With bleeding nails beside the pond, + And nightly pines the pool beside. + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +APPENDIX VI + +'Simon Lee' + +It was found impossible fully to describe, within the limits of a +footnote, the endless shiftings to and fro of the stanzas and half +stanzas of 'Simon Lee'. The first eight stanzas of the edition of 1798 +are therefore reprinted in this Appendix; and a Table is added, by means +of which the various transpositions effected from time to time may be +readily ascertained. In the Table 'a' stands for lines 1-4, and 'b' for +lines 5-8 of a stanza. + + + In the sweet shire of Cardigan, + Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, + An old man dwells, a little man, + I've heard he once was tall. + Of years he has upon his back, + No doubt, a burthen weighty; + He says he is three score and ten, + But others say he's eighty. + + A long blue livery-coat has he, + That's fair behind, and fair before; + Yet, meet him where you will, you see + At once that he is poor. + Full five and twenty years he lived + A running huntsman merry; + And, though he has but one eye left, + His cheek is like a cherry. + + No man like him the horn could sound, + And no man was so full of glee; + To say the least, four counties round + Had heard of Simon Lee; + His master's dead, and no one now + Dwells in the hall of Ivor; + Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; + He is the sole survivor. + + His hunting feats have him bereft + Of his right eye, as you may see: + And then, what limbs those feats have left + To poor old Simon Lee! + He has no son, he has no child, + His wife, an aged woman, + Lives with him, near the waterfall, + Upon the village common. + + And he is lean and he is sick, + His little body's half awry + His ancles they are swoln and thick; + His legs are thin and dry. + When he was young he little knew + Of husbandry or tillage; + And now he's forced to work, though weak, + --The weakest in the village. + + He all the country could outrun, + Could leave both man and horse behind; + And often, ere the race was done, + He reeled and was stone-blind. + And still there's something in the world + At which his heart rejoices; + For when the chiming hounds are out, + He dearly loves their voices! + + Old Ruth works out of doors with him, + And does what Simon cannot do; + For she, not over stout of limb, + Is stouter of the two. + And though you with your utmost skill + From labour could not wean them, + Alas! 'tis very little, all + Which they can do between them. + + Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, + Not twenty paces from the door, + A scrap of land they have, but they + Are poorest of the poor. + This scrap of land he from the heath + Enclosed when he was stronger; + But what avails the land to them, + Which they can till no longer? + + + +Editions Editions Edition Edition Editions +1798 and 1800. 1802-1815. 1820. 1827. 1832-1849. + + 1 1 1 a 1 a 1 a + 2 b 2 b 2 b + + 2 2 3 4 a 3 a + 3 b 5 b + + 3 3 4 a 3 a 6 + 5 b 5 b + + 4 6 6 6 4 a + 3 b + + 5 4 5 a 5 a 5 a + 4 b 4 b 4 b + + 6 5 7 8 8 + + 7 7 8 7 7 + + 8 8 9 9 9 + + + + + +APPENDIX VII + +'Lines written in Early Spring', ll. 11, 12 + +Compare the 'Laws of Manu', i. 49: + + "Vegetables, as well as animals, have internal consciousness, and are + sensible of pleasure and pain." + +This I have received from a correspondent, but I have never seen the +English version.--Ed. + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +APPENDIX VIII + +'An Evening Walk' + + +(1) l. 219, + + "His neck, a varying arch, between his towering wings." + +Compare 'Paradise Lost', book vii. l. 438. + + +(2) l. 286, in the footnote reading of 1793, the line occurs + + "Or clock, that blind against the wanderer borne." + +This refers to the winged beetle, the buzzard-clock. + + +(3) l. 323, "The bird, etc." The owl. Compare Cowper's 'Task', i. ll. +205, 206. + + +END OF VOL. I. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poetical Works of William +Wordsworth, Edited by William Knight + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10219 *** |