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Volume IV (of 8), by William Wordsworth, Edited by William Knight


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Title: The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth, Volume IV (of 8)


Author: William Wordsworth

Editor: William Knight

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Language: English

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***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POETICAL WORKS OF WILLIAM
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THE POETICAL WORKS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Edited by

WILLIAM KNIGHT

VOL. IV







[ILLUSTRATION]


=London=
Macmillan and Co., Ltd.
New York: Macmillan & Co.
1896




CONTENTS


                                    1806

                                                                 PAGE
    To the Spade of a Friend                                        2

    Character of the Happy Warrior                                  7

    The Horn of Egremont Castle                                    12

    A Complaint                                                    17

    Stray Pleasures                                                18

    Power of Music                                                 20

    Star-gazers                                                    22

    "Yes, it was the mountain Echo"                                25

    "Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room"                 27

    Personal Talk                                                  30

    Admonition                                                     34

    "'Beloved Vale!' I said, 'when I shall con'"                   35

    "How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks"                     36

    "Those words were uttered as in pensive mood"                  37

    "With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the sky"            38

    "The world is too much with us; late and soon"                 39

    "With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh"                40

    "Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go?"               41

    To Sleep                                                       42

    To Sleep                                                       43

    To Sleep                                                       43

    To the Memory of Raisley Calvert                               44

    "Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne"                    46

    Lines composed at Grasmere, during a walk one Evening,
      after a stormy day, the Author having just read
      in a Newspaper that the dissolution of Mr. Fox was
      hourly expected                                              47

    November, 1806                                                 49

    Address to a Child                                             50

    "Brook! whose society the Poet seeks"                          52

    "There is a little unpretending Rill"                          53


                                    1807

    To Lady Beaumont                                               57

    A Prophecy. February, 1807                                     59

    Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland          60

    To Thomas Clarkson, on the final passing of the Bill for
      the Abolition of the Slave Trade, March, 1807                62

    The Mother's Return                                            63

    Gipsies                                                        65

    "O Nightingale! thou surely art"                               67

    "Though narrow be that old Man's cares, and near"              68

    Composed by the side of Grasmere Lake. 1807                    73

    In the Grounds of Coleorton, the Seat of Sir George
      Beaumont, Bart., Leicestershire                              74

    In a Garden of the same                                        76

    Written at the request of Sir George Beaumont, Bart.,
      and in his name, for an Urn, placed by him at the
      termination of a newly-planted Avenue in the same
      Grounds                                                      78

    For a Seat in the Groves of Coleorton                          80

    Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle                           82


                                    1808

    The White Doe of Rylstone                                     100

    The Force of Prayer                                           204

    Composed while the Author was engaged in writing a
      Tract, occasioned by the Convention of Cintra. 1808         210

    Composed at the same time and on the same occasion            211


                                    1809

    Tyrolese Sonnets--

      Hoffer                                                      213

      "Advance--come forth from thy Tyrolean ground"              214

      Feelings of the Tyrolese                                    215

      "Alas! what boots the long laborious quest"                 216

      On the final Submission of the Tyrolese                     217

      "The martial courage of a day is vain"                      217

    "And is it among rude untutored Dales"                        222

    "O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain"               223

    "Hail, Zaragoza! If with unwet eye"                           224

    "Say, what is Honour?--'Tis the finest sense"                 225

    "Brave Schill! by death delivered, take thy flight"           226

    "Call not the royal Swede unfortunate"                        227

    "Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid"                   228

    "Is there a power that can sustain and cheer"                 228

    Epitaphs translated from Chiabrera--

      "Weep not, beloved Friends! nor let the air"                230

      "Perhaps some needful service of the State"                 230

      "O Thou who movest onward with a mind"                      231

      "There never breathed a man who, when his life"             232

      "True is it that Ambrosio Salinero"                         233

      "Destined to war from very infancy"                         234

      "O flower of all that springs from gentle blood"            235

      "Not without heavy grief of heart did He"                   236

      "Pause, courteous Spirit!--Balbi supplicates"               237


                                    1810

    "Ah! where is Palafox? Nor tongue nor pen"                    240

    "In due observance of an ancient rite"                        241

    Feelings of a noble Biscayan at one of those Funerals,        242
      1810

    On a celebrated Event in Ancient History                      242

    Upon the same Event                                           244

    The Oak of Guernica                                           245

    Indignation of a high-minded Spaniard, 1810                   246

    "Avaunt all specious pliancy of mind"                         247

    "O'erweening Statesmen have full long relied"                 247

    The French and the Spanish Guerillas                          248

    Maternal Grief                                                248


                                    1811

    Characteristics of a Child three years old                    252

    Spanish Guerillas, 1811                                       253

    "The power of Armies is a visible thing"                      254

    "Here pause: the poet claims at least this praise"            255

    Epistle to Sir George Howland Beaumont, Bart.                 256

    Upon perusing the foregoing Epistle thirty years after its
      composition                                                 267

    Upon the sight of a Beautiful Picture                         271

    To the Poet, John Dyer                                        273


                                    1812

    Song for the Spinning Wheel                                   275

    Composed on the Eve of the Marriage of a Friend in the
      Vale of Grasmere, 1812                                      276

    Water-fowl                                                    277


                                    1813

    View from the Top of Black Comb                               279

    Written with a Slate Pencil on a Stone, on the side of the
      Mountain of Black Comb                                      281

    November, 1813                                                282




WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS




1806


Wordsworth left Grasmere with his household for Coleorton in November
1806, and there is no evidence that he returned to Westmoreland till
April 1808; although his sister spent part of the winter of 1807-8 at
Dove Cottage, while he and Mrs. Wordsworth wintered at Stockton with the
Hutchinson family. Several of the sonnets which are published in the
"Poems" of 1807 refer, however, to Grasmere, and were probably composed
there. I have conjecturally assigned a good many of them to the year
1806. Some may have been composed earlier than 1806, but it is not
likely that any belong to a later year.

In addition to these, the poems of 1806 include the _Character of the
Happy Warrior_, unless it should be assigned to the close of the
previous year (see the note to the poem, p. 11), _The Horn of Egremont
Castle_, the three poems composed in London in the spring of the year
(April or May)--viz. _Stray Pleasures_, _Power of Music_, and
_Star-gazers_--the lines on the Mountain Echo, those composed in
expectation of the death of Mr. Fox, and the _Ode, Intimations of
Immortality_.[A] Southey, in writing to Sir Walter Scott, on the 4th of
February 1806, said, "Wordsworth has of late been more employed in
correcting his poems than in writing others."--ED.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] For reasons stated in the preface to vol. i. this Ode is printed in
vol. viii. at the close of the poems.--ED.




TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND

(AN AGRICULTURIST)

COMPOSED WHILE WE WERE LABOURING[A] TOGETHER IN HIS PLEASURE-GROUND

Composed 1806.--Published 1807


[This person was Thomas Wilkinson, a Quaker by religious profession; by
natural constitution of mind--or, shall I venture to say, by God's
grace? he was something better. He had inherited a small estate, and
built a house upon it, near Yanwath, upon the banks of the Emont. I have
heard him say that his heart used to beat, in his boyhood, when he heard
the sound of a drum and fife. Nevertheless the spirit of adventure in
him confined itself in tilling his ground, and conquering such obstacles
as stood in the way of its fertility. Persons of his religious
persuasion do now, in a far greater degree than formerly, attach
themselves to trade and commerce. He kept the old track. As represented
in this poem, he employed his leisure hours in shaping pleasant walks by
the side of his beloved river, where he also built something between a
hermitage and a summer house, attaching to it inscriptions after the
manner of Shenstone at his Leasowes. He used to travel from time to
time, partly from love of Nature, and partly with religious friends, in
the service of humanity. His admiration of genius in every department
did him much honour. Through his connection with the family in which
Edmund Burke was educated, he became acquainted with that great man, who
used to receive him with great kindness and condescension; and many
times I have heard Wilkinson speak of those interesting interviews. He
was honoured also by the friendship of Elizabeth Smith, and of Thomas
Clarkson and his excellent wife, and was much esteemed by Lord and Lady
Lonsdale, and every member of that family. Among his verses (he wrote
many) are some worthy of preservation; one little poem in particular,
upon disturbing, by prying curiosity, a bird while hatching her young in
his garden. The latter part of this innocent and good man's life was
melancholy. He became blind, and also poor, by becoming surety for some
of his relations. He was a bachelor. He bore, as I have often witnessed,
his calamities with unfailing resignation. I will only add, that while
working in one of his fields, he unearthed a stone of considerable size,
then another, then two more; observing that they had been placed in
order, as if forming the segment of a circle, he proceeded carefully to
uncover the soil, and brought into view a beautiful Druid's temple, of
perfect, though small dimensions. In order to make his farm more
compact, he exchanged this field for another, and, I am sorry to add,
the new proprietor destroyed this interesting relic of remote ages for
some vulgar purpose. The fact, so far as concerns Thomas Wilkinson, is
mentioned in the note on a sonnet on _Long Meg and her Daughters_.--I.
F.]

One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."--ED.


    Spade! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his lands,
    And shaped these pleasant walks by Emont's side,
    Thou art a tool of honour in my hands;
    I press thee, through the yielding soil, with pride.

    Rare master has it been thy lot to know;                     5
    Long hast Thou served a man to reason true;
    Whose life combines the best of high and low,
    The labouring[1] many and the resting few;

    Health, meekness, ardour, quietness secure,[2]
    And industry of body and of mind;                           10
    And elegant enjoyments, that are pure
    As nature is;--too pure to be refined.

    Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing
    In concord with his river murmuring by;
    Or in some silent field, while timid spring                 15
    Is yet uncheered by other minstrelsy.

    Who shall inherit Thee when death has[3] laid
    Low in the darksome cell thine own dear lord?
    That man will have a trophy, humble Spade!
    A trophy nobler than a conqueror's sword.[4]                20

    If he be one that feels, with skill to part
    False praise from true, or, greater from the less,
    Thee will he welcome to his hand and heart,
    Thou monument of peaceful happiness!

    He will not dread with Thee a toilsome day--                25
    Thee his loved servant, his inspiring mate![5]
    And, when thou art past service, worn away,
    No dull oblivious nook shall hide thy fate.[6]

    His thrift thy uselessness[7] will never scorn;
    An _heir-loom_ in his cottage wilt thou be:--               30
    High will he hang thee up, well pleased to adorn[8]
    His rustic chimney with the last of Thee!


Thomas Wilkinson of Yanwath, the friend of Wordsworth and the subject of
these verses, deserves more than a passing note.

                                He was a man
      Whom no one could have passed without remark.

One of the old race of Cumbrian "Statesmen"--men who owned, and
themselves cultivated, small bits of land (see Wordsworth's letter on
_The Brothers_ and _Michael_, vol. ii. p. 234)--he was Wordsworth's
senior by nineteen years, and lived on a patrimonial farm of about forty
acres, on the banks of the Emont,--the stream which, flowing out of
Ullswater, divides Cumberland from Westmoreland. He was a Friend, and
used to travel great distances to attend religious conferences, or
engage in philanthropic work,--on one occasion riding on his pony from
Yanwath to London, to the yearly meeting of the Friends; and, on
another, walking the 300 miles to town, in eight days, for the same
purpose. A simple, genuine nature; serene, refined, hospitable, naive,
and humorous withal; a quaint original man, with a true eye for Nature,
a keen relish for rural life (especially for gardening) and a happy
knack of characterization, whether he undertook descriptions of scenery
in the course of his travels, or narrated the incidents which befell him
on the way. This is how he writes of his farm, and his work upon
it:--"We have at length some traces of spring (6th April 1784); the
primrose under the hedge begins to open her modest flower, the buds
begin to swell, and the birds to build; yet we have still a wide
horizon, the mountain tops resign not their snows. The happiest season
of the year with me is now commencing--I mean that in which I am at the
plough; my horses pace slowly on before, the larks sing above my head,
and the furrow falls at my side, and the face of Nature and my own mind
seem to wear a sweet and cheerful tranquillity."

The following extract shows the interest which he took in the very
implements of his industry, and may serve as an illustration of
Wordsworth's stanzas on his "spade." "Eighth month, 16th, 1789.
Yesterday I parted without regret from an old acquaintance--I set by my
scythe for this year. I have often this season seen the dark blue
mountains before the sun and his rising embroider them with gold. I have
had many a good sleep in the shade among fragrant grass and refreshing
breezes, and though closely engaged in what may be thought heavy work, I
was sensible of the enjoyments of life with uninterrupted health." In
the closing years of the last century, when the spirit of patriotic
ardour was so thoroughly roused in England by the restlessness of France
and the ambition of Napoleon, he lived on at his pastoral farm, "busy
with his husbandry." In London, he made the acquaintance of Edmund
Burke; and Thomas Clarkson, the philanthropist,--whose labours for the
abolition of the slave trade are matter of history,--became his intimate
friend, and was a frequent visitor at Yanwath. Clarkson afterwards
bought an estate near to Wilkinson's home, on the shores of Ullswater,
where he built a house, and named it Eusemere, and there the Wordsworths
were not infrequent guests. (See the note to the poem beginning "I
wandered lonely as a cloud," vol. iii. p. 5.) Wordsworth stayed at
Yanwath for two days in 1806. The _Tours to the British Mountains, with
the Descriptive Poems of Lowther and Emont Vale_ (London, 1824), have
been referred to in the note to _The Solitary Reaper_, vol. ii. p. 399,
one of the poems in the "Memorials of a Tour in Scotland, 1803." It is
an interesting volume--the prose much superior to the verse--and might
be reprinted with advantage. Wilkinson was urged repeatedly to publish
his "Tour through the Highlands," but he always declined, and it was
printed at last without his knowledge, by some one to whom he had lent
his MS.

Wilkinson's relations to Wordsworth are alluded to in the note to _The
Solitary Reaper_. He is occasionally referred to in Dorothy Wordsworth's
Grasmere Journal of January and March 1802, _e.g._:--"Monday, 12th
March.--The ground covered with snow. Walked to T. Wilkinson's and sent
for letters. The woman brought me one from Wm. and Mary. It was a sharp
windy night. Thomas Wilkinson came with me to Barton, and questioned me
like a catechiser all the way. Every question was like the snapping of a
little thread about my heart. I was so full of thought of my half-read
letter and other things."

The following are extracts from letters of Wilkinson to Miss Mary
Leadbeater of Ballintore:--"Yanwath, 15. 2. 1801.--I had lately a young
Poet seeing me that sprang originally from the next village. He has left
the College, turned his back on all preferment, and settled down
contentedly among our Lakes, with his Sister and his Muse. He ... writes
in what he conceives to be the language of Nature in opposition to the
finery of our present poetry. He has published two volumes of Poems,
mostly of the same character. His name is William Wordsworth." In a
letter, dated 29. 1. 1809, the following occurs:--"Thou hast wished to
have W. Wordsworth's Lines on my Spade, which I shall transcribe thee. I
had promised Lord Lonsdale to take him to Lowther, when he came to see
me, but when we arrived he was gone to shoot moor-game with Judge
Sutton. William and I then returned, and wrought together at a walk I
was then forming, which gave birth to his Verses." The expression
"sprang from the next village" might not be intended to mean that he was
born there; or, if it did, the fact that Wordsworth's mother was a
native of Penrith, and his own visits to that town, might account for
the mistake of one who had made no minute enquiry as to the poet's
birthplace. He was born at Cockermouth. Compare an interesting account
of Thomas Wilkinson, by Mary Carr, reprinted from the _Friends'
Quarterly Examiner_, 1882.--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

      ... toiling ...                                    1807.

[2] 1827.

      Health, quiet, meekness, ardour, hope secure,      1807.

[3] 1815.

      ... hath ...                                       1807.

[4] 1815.

      More noble than the noblest Warrior's sword.       1807.

[5] 1837.

      With Thee he will not dread a toilsome day,
      His powerful Servant, his inspiring Mate!          1807.

[6] 1837.

      Thee a surviving soul shall consecrate.            1807.

[7] 1815.

      ... usefulness ...                                 1807.

The text of 1832 resumes that of 1807, but the edition of 1837 returns
to the final text of 1815.

[8] 1837.

      ... and will adorn                                 1807.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] In a letter to Wilkinson, accompanying a copy of these verses, which
Wordsworth sent from Coleorton, in November 1806, he wrote: "They are
supposed to have been composed that afternoon when you and I were
labouring together in your pleasure-ground." I think that Professor
Dowden is right in supposing that they were written in 1806.--ED.




CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR

Composed 1806.--Published 1807


[The course of the great war with the French naturally fixed one's
attention upon the military character, and, to the honour of our
country, there were many illustrious instances of the qualities that
constitute its highest excellence. Lord Nelson carried most of the
virtues that the trials he was exposed to in his department of the
service necessarily call forth and sustain, if they do not produce the
contrary vices. But his public life was stained with one great crime, so
that though many passages of these lines were suggested by what was
generally known as excellent in his conduct, I have not been able to
connect his name with the poem as I could wish, or even to think of him
with satisfaction in reference to the idea of what a warrior ought to
be. For the sake of such of my friends as may happen to read this note,
I will add that many elements of the character here pourtrayed were
found in my brother John, who perished by shipwreck, as mentioned
elsewhere. His messmates used to call him the Philosopher, from which it
must be inferred that the qualities and dispositions I allude to had not
escaped their notice. He often expressed his regret, after the war had
continued some time, that he had not chosen the Naval, instead of the
East India Company's, service, to which his family connection had led
him. He greatly valued moral and religious instruction for youth, as
tending to make good sailors. The best, he used to say, came from
Scotland; the next to them, from the North of England, especially from
Westmoreland and Cumberland, where, thanks to the piety and local
attachments of our ancestors, endowed, or, as they are commonly called,
free, schools abound.--I. F.]

Classed among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."--ED.


    Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he
    That[1] every man in arms should wish to be?
    --It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought
    Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought
    Upon the plan that pleased his boyish[2] thought:            5
    Whose high endeavours are an inward light
    That makes[3] the path before him always bright:
    Who, with a natural instinct to discern
    What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn;
    Abides by this resolve, and stops not there,                10
    But makes his moral being his prime care;
    Who, doomed to go in company with Pain,
    And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train!
    Turns his necessity to glorious gain;
    In face of these doth exercise a power                      15
    Which is our human nature's highest dower;
    Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves
    Of their bad influence, and their good receives:
    By objects, which might force the soul to abate
    Her feeling, rendered more compassionate;                   20
    Is placable--because occasions rise
    So often that demand such sacrifice;
    More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure,
    As tempted more; more able to endure,
    As more exposed to suffering and distress;                  25
    Thence, also, more alive to tenderness.
    --'Tis he whose law is reason; who depends
    Upon that law as on the best of friends;
    Whence, in a state where men are tempted still
    To evil for a guard against worse ill,                      30
    And what in quality or act is best
    Doth seldom on a right foundation rest,
    He labours good on good to fix,[4] and owes
    To virtue every triumph that he knows:
    --Who, if he rise to station of command,                    35
    Rises by open means; and there will stand
    On honourable terms, or else retire,
    And in himself possess his own desire;
    Who comprehends his trust, and to the same
    Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim;                    40
    And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait
    For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state;
    Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall,
    Like showers of manna, if they come at all:[A]
    Whose powers shed round him in the common strife,
    Or mild concerns of ordinary life,                          46
    A constant influence, a peculiar grace;
    But who, if he be called upon to face
    Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined
    Great issues, good or bad for human kind,                   50
    Is happy as a Lover; and attired
    With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired;
    And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law
    In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw;
    Or if an unexpected call succeed,                           55
    Come when it will, is equal to the need:
    --He who, though thus endued as with a sense
    And faculty for storm and turbulence,
    Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans
    To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes;                 60
    Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be,
    Are at his heart; and such fidelity
    It is his darling passion to approve;
    More brave for this, that he hath much to love:--
    'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high,                   65
    Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye,
    Or left unthought-of in obscurity,--
    Who, with a toward or untoward lot,
    Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not--
    Plays, in the many games of life, that one                  70
    Where what he most doth value must be won:
    Whom neither shape of danger can dismay,
    Nor thought of tender happiness betray;
    Who, not content that former worth stand fast,
    Looks forward, persevering to the last,                     75
    From well to better, daily self-surpast:[B]
    Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth
    For ever, and to noble deeds give birth,
    Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame,[5]
    And leave a dead unprofitable name--                        80
    Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;
    And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws
    His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause:
    This is the happy Warrior; this is He
    That[6] every Man in arms should wish to be.                85


The following note was appended by Wordsworth in the edition of 1807.
"The above Verses were written soon after tidings had been received of
the Death of Lord Nelson, which event directed the Author's thoughts to
the subject. His respect for the memory of his great fellow-countryman
induces him to mention this; though he is well aware that the Verses
must suffer from any connection in the Reader's mind with a Name so
illustrious."

       *       *       *       *       *

This note would seem to warrant our removing the date of the composition
of the poem from 1806 to 1805; since Lord Nelson died at the battle of
Trafalgar, on the 21st of October 1805. On the other hand, Wordsworth
himself gave the date 1806; and the "soon after" of the above note may
perhaps be stretched to include two months and a half. In writing to Sir
George Beaumont on the 11th of February 1806, and enclosing a copy of
these verses, he says, "they were written several weeks ago." Southey,
writing to Sir Walter Scott, from Keswick, on the 4th of February 1806,
says, "Wordsworth was with me last week; he has of late been more
employed in correcting his poems than in writing others; but one piece
he has written, upon the ideal character of a soldier, than which I have
never seen anything more full of meaning and sound thought. The subject
was suggested by Nelson's most glorious death, though having no
reference to it. He had some thoughts of sending it to _The Courier_, in
which case you will easily recognise his hand." (_The Life and
Correspondence of Robert Southey_, vol. iii. p. 19.) As it is impossible
to decide with accuracy, in the absence of more definite data, I follow
the poet's own statement, and assign it to the year 1806.

Wordsworth tells us that features in the character, both of Lord Nelson
and of his own brother John, are delineated in this poem. Mr. William
Davies writes to me, "He might very well have set the name of Cuthbert,
Lord Collingwood, Nelson's contemporary, at the head of the poem, as
embodying its spirit and lofty rule of life."--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1820.

      Whom ...                                           1807.

[2] 1845.

      ... childish ...                                   1807.

[3] 1832.

      ... make ...                                       1807.

[4] 1837.

      He fixes good on good alone, ...                   1807.

[5] C. and 1840.

      Or He must go to dust without his fame,            1807.

      Or he must fall and sleep without his fame,        1837.

[6] 1845.

      Whom ...                                           1807.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare Pope's _Temple of Fame_ (ll. 513, 514)--

      Nor Fame I slight, nor for her favours call;
      She comes unlook'd for, if she comes at all.

And Carew's _Epistle to the Countess of Anglesie_ (ll. 57, 58)--

      He chose not in the active stream to swim,
      Nor hunted Honour, which yet hunted him.             ED.

[B] In the edition of 1807, the following note was added to these
lines:--

      For Knightes ever should be persevering,
      To seeke honour without feintise or slouth,
      Fro wele to better in all manner thinge.

                     CHAUCER--_The Floure and the Leafe_.--ED.




THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE

Composed 1806.--Published 1807


[A Tradition transferred from the ancient mansion of Hutton John, the
seat of the Huddlestones, to Egremont Castle.--I. F.]

In 1815 this poem was placed among those "of the Imagination"; in 1845
it was transferred to the class of "Miscellaneous Poems."--ED.


    Ere the Brothers through the gateway
    Issued forth with old and young,
    To the Horn Sir Eustace pointed
    Which for ages there had hung.[1]
    Horn it was which none could sound,                          5
    No one upon living ground,
    Save He who came as rightful Heir
    To Egremont's Domains and Castle fair.

    Heirs from times of earliest record[2]
    Had the House of Lucie born,                                10
    Who of right had held the Lordship
    Claimed by proof upon the Horn:[3]
    Each at the appointed hour
    Tried the Horn,--it owned his power;
    He was acknowledged: and the blast,                         15
    Which good Sir Eustace sounded, was the last.

    With his lance Sir Eustace pointed,
    And to Hubert thus said he,
    "What I speak this Horn shall witness
    For thy better memory.                                      20
    Hear, then, and neglect me not!
    At this time, and on this spot,
    The words are uttered from my heart,
    As my last earnest prayer ere we depart.

    "On good service we are going                               25
    Life to risk by sea and land,
    In which course if Christ our Saviour
    Do my sinful soul demand,
    Hither come thou back straightway,
    Hubert, if alive that day;                                  30
    Return, and sound the Horn, that we
    May have a living House still left in thee!"

    "Fear not," quickly answered Hubert;
    "As I am thy Father's son,
    What thou askest, noble Brother,                            35
    With God's favour shall be done."
    So were both right well content:
    Forth they from the Castle went,[4]
    And at the head of their Array
    To Palestine the Brothers took their way.                   40

    Side by side they fought (the Lucies
    Were a line for valour famed)
    And where'er their strokes alighted,
    There the Saracens were tamed.
    Whence, then, could it come--the thought--                  45
    By what evil spirit brought?
    Oh! can a brave Man wish to take
    His Brother's life, for Lands' and Castle's sake?

    "Sir!" the Ruffians said to Hubert,
    "Deep he lies in Jordan flood."                             50
    Stricken by this ill assurance,
    Pale and trembling Hubert stood.
    "Take your earnings."--Oh! that I
    Could have _seen_[5] my Brother die!
    It was a pang that vexed him then;                          55
    And oft returned, again, and yet again.

    Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace!
    Nor of him were tidings heard.
    Wherefore, bold as day, the Murderer
    Back again to England steered.                              60
    To his Castle Hubert sped;
    Nothing has he[6] now to dread.
    But silent and by stealth he came,
    And at an hour which nobody could name.

    None could tell if it were night-time,                      65
    Night or day, at even or morn;
    No one's eye had seen him enter,
    No one's ear had heard the Horn.[7]
    But bold Hubert lives in glee:
    Months and years went smilingly;                            70
    With plenty was his table spread;
    And bright the Lady is who shares his bed.

    Likewise he had sons and daughters;
    And, as good men do, he sate
    At his board by these surrounded,                           75
    Flourishing in fair estate.
    And while thus in open day
    Once he sate, as old books say,
    A blast was uttered from the Horn,
    Where by the Castle-gate it hung forlorn.                   80

    'Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace!
    He is come to claim his right:
    Ancient castle, woods, and mountains
    Hear the challenge with delight.
    Hubert! though the blast be blown                           85
    He is helpless and alone:
    Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word!
    And there he may be lodged, and thou be Lord.

    Speak!--astounded Hubert cannot;
    And, if power to speak he had,                              90
    All are daunted, all the household
    Smitten to the heart, and sad.
    'Tis Sir Eustace; if it be
    Living man, it must be he!
    Thus Hubert thought in his dismay,                          95
    And by a postern-gate he slunk away.[8]

    Long, and long was he unheard of:
    To his Brother then he came,
    Made confession, asked forgiveness,
    Asked it by a brother's name,                              100
    And by all the saints in heaven;
    And of Eustace was forgiven:
    Then in a convent went to hide
    His melancholy head, and there he died.

    But Sir Eustace, whom good angels                          105
    Had preserved from murderers' hands,
    And from Pagan chains had rescued,
    Lived with honour on his lands.
    Sons he had, saw sons of theirs:
    And through ages, heirs of heirs,                          110
    A long posterity renowned,
    Sounded the Horn which they alone could sound.


The following note is appended to this poem in the edition of 1807, and
in those of 1836 to 1850:--

  "This Story is a Cumberland tradition; I have heard it also
  related of the Hall of Hutton John, an antient residence of the
  Huddlestones, in a sequestered Valley upon the River Dacor."

Egremont Castle, to which this Cumberland tradition was transferred, is
close to the town of Egremont, an ancient borough on the river Ehen, not
far from St. Bees. The castle was founded about the beginning of the
twelfth century, by William, brother of Ranulph de Meschines, who
bestowed on William the whole of the extensive barony of Copeland. The
gateway of the castle is vaulted with semi-circular arches, and defended
by a strong tower. Westward from the castle area is an ascent to three
narrow gates, standing in a line, and close together. These communicated
with the outworks, each being defended by a portcullis. Beyond the gates
is an artificial mound, seventy-eight feet above the moat; and on this
stood an ancient circular tower. (See a description of the castle in
Britton and Brayley's _Cumberland_.) The river Dacor, or Dacre, referred
to in Wordsworth's note, joins the Emont a short way below Ullswater;
and the hall of Hutton John, which in the reign of Edward III. belonged
to the barony of Graystock, passed in the time of Elizabeth to the
Huddlestones. The famous Catholic father, John Huddlestone, chaplain to
Charles II. and James II., was of this family.

In the edition of 1815, there is the following footnote to the title of
the poem:--"This Poem and the Ballad which follows it" (it was that of
_Goody Blake and Harry Gill_), "as they rather refer to the imagination
than are produced by it, would not have been placed here" (_i.e._ among
the "Poems of the Imagination"), "but to avoid a needless multiplication
of the Classes."

The text of 1807 underwent no change until 1845. But--as is shown by the
notes in the late Lord Coleridge's copy of the edition of 1836--the
alterations subsequently adopted in 1845 were made in the interval
between these years.--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] C. and 1845.

      When the Brothers reach'd the gateway,
      Eustace pointed with his lance
      To the Horn which there was hanging;
      Horn of the inheritance.                           1807.

      When the Brothers reached the gateway,
      With their followers old and young,
      To the Horn Sir Eustace pointed
      That for ages there had hung.                         C.

[2] C. and 1845.

      Heirs from ages without record                     1807.

[3] C. and 1845.

      Who of right had claim'd the Lordship
      By the proof upon the Horn:                        1807.

                   ... held ...
      Claimed by proof ...                                  C.

[4] C. and 1845.

      From the Castle forth they went.                   1807.

[5] _Italics_ were first used in 1815.

[6] 1845.

      He has nothing ...                                 1807.

[7] C. and 1845.

      For the sound was heard by no one
      Of the proclamation-horn.                          1807.

[8] 1807.

      ... slipped away.                                    MS.




A COMPLAINT

Composed 1806.--Published 1807


[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Suggested by a change in the manner of a
friend.--I. F.]

Classed among the "Poems founded on the Affections."--ED.


    There is a change--and I am poor;
    Your love hath been, nor long ago,
    A fountain at my fond heart's door,
    Whose only business was to flow;
    And flow it did; not taking heed                             5
    Of its own bounty, or my need.

    What happy moments did I count!
    Blest was I then all bliss above!
    Now, for that[1] consecrated fount
    Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,                       10
    What have I? shall I dare to tell?
    A comfortless and hidden well.

    A well of love--it may be deep--
    I trust it is,--and never dry:
    What matter? if the waters sleep                            15
    In silence and obscurity.
    --Such change, and at the very door
    Of my fond heart, hath made me poor.


It is highly probable that the friend was S. T. Coleridge. See the _Life
of Wordsworth_ (1889), vol. ii. pp. 166, 167.--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1836.

      ... this ...                                       1807.




STRAY PLEASURES

Composed 1806.--Published 1807


[Suggested on the Thames by the sight of one of those floating mills
that used to be seen there. This I noticed on the Surrey side between
Somerset House and Blackfriars' Bridge. Charles Lamb was with me at the
time; and I thought it remarkable that I should have to point out to
_him_, an idolatrous Londoner, a sight so interesting as the happy group
dancing on the platform. Mills of this kind used to be, and perhaps
still are, not uncommon on the continent. I noticed several upon the
river Saone in the year 1799, particularly near the town of Chalons,
where my friend Jones and I halted a day when we crossed France; so far
on foot; there we embarked, and floated down to Lyons.--I. F.]

      "----_Pleasure is spread through the earth
      In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find._"

One of the "Poems of the Fancy." The title _Stray Pleasures_ was first
given in the edition of 1820. In 1807 and 1815 the poem had no title;
but in the original MS. it was called "Dancers."--ED.


          By their floating mill,
          That[1] lies dead and still,
    Behold yon Prisoners three,
    The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames!
    The platform is small, but gives room[2] for them all;       5
    And they're dancing merrily.

          From the shore come the notes
          To their mill where it floats,
    To their house and their mill tethered fast:
    To the small wooden isle where, their work to beguile,      10
    They from morning to even take whatever is given;--
    And many a blithe day they have past.[3]

          In sight of the spires,
          All alive with the fires
    Of the sun going down to his rest,                          15
    In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,
    They dance,--there are three, as jocund as free,
    While they dance on the calm river's breast.

          Man and Maidens wheel,
          They themselves make the reel,                        20
    And their music's a prey which they seize;
    It plays not for them,--what matter? 'tis theirs;
    And if they had care, it has scattered their cares
    While they dance, crying, "Long as ye please!"

          They dance not for me,                                25
          Yet mine is their glee!
    Thus pleasure is spread through the earth
    In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find;
    Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind,
    Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.                     30

          The showers of the spring
          Rouse the birds, and they sing;
    If the wind do but stir for his proper delight,
    Each leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss;[A]
    Each wave, one and t'other, speeds after his brother;       35
    They are happy, for that is their right!


Wordsworth went up to London in April 1806, where he stayed two months.
It was, doubtless, on that occasion that these lines were written. The
year mentioned in the Fenwick note is incorrect. It was in 1790 that
Wordsworth crossed France with his friend Jones.--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1827.

      Which ...                                          1807.

[2] 1820.

      ... but there's room ...                           1807.

[3] 1807.

                        ... with whatever be given;--
      Full many a blithe day have past.                    MS.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare Michael Drayton, _The Muse's Elysium_, nymphal vi. ll. 4-7--

      The wind had no more strength than this,
      That leisurely it blew,
      To make one leaf the next to kiss
      That closely by it grew.

Wordsworth frequently confessed his obligation to Dr. Anderson--the
editor of the _British Poets_--for enabling him to acquaint himself with
the poetry of Drayton, and other early English writers.--ED.




POWER OF MUSIC

Composed 1806.--Published 1807


[Taken from life.--I. F.]

Classed among the "Poems of the Imagination." The original title in MS.
was "A Street Fiddler (in London)."--ED.


    An Orpheus! an Orpheus! yes, Faith may grow bold,
    And take to herself all the wonders of old;--
    Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same
    In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its name.

    His station is there; and he works on the crowd,             5
    He sways them with harmony merry and loud;
    He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim--
    Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him?

    What an eager assembly! what an empire is this!
    The weary have life, and the hungry have bliss;             10
    The mourner is cheered, and the anxious have rest;
    And the guilt-burthened soul is no longer opprest.

    As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night,
    So He, where he stands, is a centre of light;
    It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-browed[1] Jack,      15
    And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket on back.

    That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in haste--
    What matter! he's caught--and his time runs to waste;
    The Newsman is stopped, though he stops on the fret;
    And the half-breathless Lamplighter--he's in the net!       20

    The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore;
    The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store;[2]--
    If a thief could be here he might pilfer at ease;
    She sees the Musician, 'tis all that she sees!              24

    He stands, backed by the wall;--he abates not his din;
    His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in,
    From the old and the young, from the poorest; and there!
    The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare.

    O blest are the hearers, and proud be the hand              29
    Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a band;
    I am glad for him, blind as he is!--all the while
    If they speak 'tis to praise, and they praise with a smile.

    That tall Man, a giant in bulk and in height,
    Not an inch of his body is free from delight;
    Can he keep himself still, if he would? oh, not he!         35
    The music stirs in him like wind through a tree.

    Mark that Cripple[3] who leans on his crutch; like a tower
    That long has leaned forward, leans hour after hour!--
    That Mother,[4] whose spirit in fetters is bound,
    While she dandles the Babe in her arms to the sound.        40

    Now, coaches and chariots! roar on like a stream;
    Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream:
    They are deaf to your murmurs--they care not for you,
    Nor what ye are flying, nor[5] what ye pursue!


This must be assigned to the same London visit, in the spring of 1806,
referred to in the note to the previous poem.

Charles Lamb wrote to Wordsworth in 1815, "Your _Power of Music_
reminded me of his" (Bourne's) "poem of _The Ballad Singer in the Seven
Dials_."--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1815.

      ... dusky-faced ...                                1807.

[2] 1815.

      ... for store;--                                   1807.

[3] 1827.

      There's a Cripple ...                              1807.

[4] 1827.

      A Mother, ...                                      1807.

[5] 1815.

      ... or ...                                         1807.




STAR-GAZERS

Composed 1806.--Published 1807


[Observed by me in Leicester-square, as here described.--I. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Imagination."--ED.


    What crowd[1] is this? what have we here! we must not[2] pass it by;
    A Telescope upon its frame, and pointed to the sky:
    Long is it as a barber's pole, or mast of little boat,
    Some little pleasure skiff, that doth on Thames's waters float.

    The Show-man chooses well his place, 'tis Leicester's busy         5
        Square;
    And is[3] as happy in his night, for the heavens are blue and fair;
    Calm, though impatient, is[4] the crowd; each stands ready[5] with
        the fee,
    And envies him that's looking[6];--what an insight must it be!

    Yet, Show-man, where can lie[7] the cause? Shall thy Implement have
        blame,
    A boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put to shame?     10
    Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault?
    Their eyes, or minds? or, finally, is yon[8] resplendent vault?

    Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have here?
    Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be dear?
    The silver moon with all her vales, and hills of mightiest fame,  15
    Doth she betray us when they're seen? or[9] are they but a name?

    Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and strong,
    And bounty never yields[10] so much but it seems to do her wrong?
    Or is it, that when human Souls a journey long have had
    And are returned into themselves, they cannot but be sad?[A]      20

    Or must we be constrained to think that these Spectators rude,
    Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude,
    Have souls which never yet have risen, and therefore prostrate lie?
    No, no, this cannot be;--men thirst for power and majesty![11]

    Does, then, a deep and earnest thought[12] the blissful mind      25
        employ
    Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave and steady joy,
    That doth reject all show of pride, admits no outward sign,
    Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine!

    Whatever be the cause,[13] 'tis sure that they who pry and pore
    Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than before:       30
    One after One they take their turn,[14] nor have I one espied
    That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied.


Doubtless "observed" during the visit to London in April and May
1806.--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1807.

      What throng ...                                      MS.

[2] 1807

      ... we cannot ...                                    MS.

[3] 1827.

      And he's ...                                       1807.

[4] 1807.

      ... are ...

    MS. letter, D. W. to Lady Beaumont, Nov. 15, 1806.

[5] 1827.

      ... Each is ready ...                              1807.

[6] 1807.

      Impatient till his moment comes-- ...              1827.

      ... come;-- ...                                    1836.

    The text of 1840 returns to that of 1807.

[7] 1807.

      ... be ...                                           MS.

[8] 1832.

      ... this ...                                       1807.

    And MS. letter, D. W. to Lady Beaumont, Nov. 15, 1806.

[9] 1827.

      Do they betray us when they're seen? and ...       1807.

    And MS. letter, D. W. to Lady Beaumont, Nov. 15, 1806.

[10] 1807.

      ... cannot yield ...                                 MS.

[11] 1807.

      Or is it but unwelcome thought! that these Spectators rude,
      Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude,
      Have souls which never yet have risen, and therefore prostrate lie,
      Not to be lifted up at once to power and majesty?

    MS. letter, D. W. to Lady Beaumont, Nov. 15, 1806.

[12] 1807.

      Or does some deep and earnest joy ...

    MS. letter, D. W. to Lady Beaumont, Nov. 15, 1806.

[13] 1807.

      Whate'er the cause may be, ...

    MS. letter, D. W. to Lady Beaumont, Nov. 15, 1806.

[14] 1827.

      ... turns, ...                                     1807.

    And MS. letter, D. W. to Lady Beaumont, Nov. 15, 1806.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] "Compare Shelley's statement in _Julian and Maddalo_--where he
speaks of material not spiritual voyaging--that coming homeward 'always
makes the spirit tame'" (Professor Dowden).




"YES, IT WAS THE MOUNTAIN ECHO"

Composed 1806.--Published 1807


[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The echo came from Nab-scar, when I was
walking on the opposite side of Rydal Mere. I will here mention, for my
dear Sister's sake, that, while she was sitting alone one day high up on
this part of Loughrigg Fell, she was so affected by the voice of the
Cuckoo heard from the crags at some distance that she could not suppress
a wish to have a stone inscribed with her name among the rocks from
which the sound proceeded. On my return from my walk I recited these
verses to Mrs. Wordsworth.--I. F.]

Classed among the "Poems of the Imagination."--ED.


    Yes, it was the mountain Echo,
    Solitary, clear, profound,
    Answering to the shouting Cuckoo,
    Giving to her sound for sound![1]

               [2]

    Unsolicited reply                                            5
    To a babbling wanderer sent;[3]
    Like her ordinary cry,
    Like--but oh, how different!

    Hears not also mortal Life?
    Hear not we, unthinking Creatures!                          10
    Slaves of folly, love, or strife--
    Voices of two different natures?

    Have not _we_[4] too?--yes, we have
    Answers, and we know not whence;
    Echoes from beyond the grave,                               15
    Recognised intelligence!

    Such rebounds our inward ear[A]
    Catches sometimes from afar--[5]
    Listen, ponder, hold them dear;[6]
    For of God,--of God they are.                               20


The place where this echo was heard can easily be identified by any one
walking along the southern or Loughrigg shore of Rydal. The Fenwick
note refers to a wish of Dorothy Wordsworth to have her name inscribed
on a stone among the rocks of Loughrigg Fell. It is impossible to know
whether it was ever carried out or not. If it was, the place is
undiscoverable, like the spot on the banks of the Rotha, where Joanna's
name was graven "deep in the living rock," or the place where Wordsworth
carved his wife's initials (as recorded in Mrs. Hemans' _Memoirs_), or
where the daisy was found, which suggested the lines beginning

      Small service is true service while it lasts;

and it is well that they are undiscoverable. It is so easy for posterity
to vulgarise, by idle and unappreciative curiosity, spots that are
sacred only to the few who feel them to be shrines. The very grave where
Wordsworth rests runs the risk of being thus abused by the unthinking
crowd. But, in the hope that no one will desecrate it, as the Rock of
Names has been injured, I may mention that there is a stone near Rydal
Mere, on the north-eastern slope of Loughrigg, with the initial "M."
deeply cut. The exact locality I need not more minutely indicate.--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1827.

      Yes! full surely 'twas the Echo,
      Solitary, clear, profound,
      Answering to Thee, shouting Cuckoo!
      Giving to thee Sound for Sound.                    1807.

[2]   Whence the Voice? from air or earth?
      This the Cuckoo cannot tell;
      But a startling sound had birth,
      As the Bird must know full well;

    Only in the edition of 1807.

[3] 1815.

      Like the voice through earth and sky
      By the restless Cuckoo sent;                       1807.

[4] _Italics_ were first used in the edition of 1836.

[5] 1836.

      Such within ourselves we hear
      Oft-times, ours though sent from far;              1807.

      Such rebounds our inward ear
      Often catches from afar;--                         1827.

      Often as thy inward ear
      Catches such rebounds, beware,--                   1832.

[6] 1807.

      Giddy Mortals! hold them dear;                     1827.

    The edition of 1832 returns to the text of 1807.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] Writing to Barron Field about this stanza of the poem in 1827,
Wordsworth said, "The word 'rebounds' I wish much to introduce here; for
the imaginative warning turns upon the echo, which ought to be revived
as near the conclusion as possible."--ED.




"NUNS FRET NOT AT THEIR CONVENT'S NARROW ROOM"

Composed 1806.--Published 1807


[In the cottage, Town-end, Grasmere, one afternoon in 1801, my sister
read to me the sonnets of Milton. I had long been well acquainted with
them, but I was particularly struck on that occasion with the dignified
simplicity and majestic harmony that runs through most of them,--in
character so totally different from the Italian, and still more so from
Shakspeare's fine sonnets. I took fire, if I may be allowed to say so,
and produced three sonnets the same afternoon, the first I ever wrote,
except an irregular one at school. Of these three, the only one I
distinctly remember is--"I grieved for Buonaparte." One was never
written down; the third, which was, I believe, preserved, I cannot
particularise.--I. F.]

From 1807 to 1820 this was named _Prefatory Sonnet_, as introducing the
series of "Miscellaneous Sonnets" in these editions. In 1827 it took its
place as the first in that series, following the Dedication
_To ----_.--ED.


    Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room;
    And hermits are contented with their cells;
    And students with their pensive citadels;
    Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
    Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,              5
    High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,
    Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
    In truth the prison, unto which we doom
    Ourselves, no prison is:[A] and hence for me,[1]
    In sundry moods,'twas pastime to be bound                   10
    Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground;
    Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)
    Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,[B]
    Should find brief[2] solace there, as I have found.


In Wordsworth's time "Furness-fells" was a generic phrase for all the
hills east of the Duddon, south of the Brathay, and west of Windermere;
including the Coniston group, Wetherlam, with the Yewdale and
Tilberthwaite fells. The district of Furness, like that of Craven in
Yorkshire, being originally ecclesiastical, had a wide area, of which
the abbey of Furness was the centre.

In the Fenwick note prefixed to this sonnet, Wordsworth refers to his
earliest attempt at sonnet writing. He says he wrote an irregular one at
school, and the next were three sonnets written one afternoon in Dove
Cottage in the year 1801, after his sister had read the sonnets of
Milton. This note is not, however, to be trusted. It was not in 1801,
but on the 21st of May 1802, that his sister read to him these sonnets
of Milton; and he afterwards wrote not one but two sonnets on
Buonaparte. What the irregular sonnet written at school was it is
impossible to say, unless he refers to the one entitled, in 1807 and
subsequent editions, _Written in Very Early Youth_; and beginning--

      Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.

But on a copy of _An Evening Walk_ (1793 edition) Wordsworth
wrote:--"This is the first of my published poems, with the exception of
a sonnet, written when I was a schoolboy, and published in the _European
Magazine_ in June or July 1786, and signed Axiologus." Even as to this
date his memory was at fault. It was published in 1787, when he was
seventeen years of age. Its full title may be given; although, for
reasons already stated, it would be unjustifiable to republish the
sonnet, except in an appendix to the poems, and mainly for its
biographical interest. It was entitled, _Sonnet, on seeing Miss Maria
Williams weep at a Tale of Distress_. But, fully ten years before the
date mentioned by Dorothy Wordsworth in her Grasmere Journal--as the day
on which she read Milton's sonnets to her brother, and on which he wrote
the two on Buonaparte--he had written others, the existence of which he
had evidently forgotten. On the 6th of May 1792, his sister wrote thus
from Forncett Rectory in Norfolk to her friend, Miss Jane Pollard:--"I
promised to transcribe some of William's compositions. As I made the
promise, I will give you a little sonnet.... I take the first that
offers. It is very valuable to me, because the cause which gave birth to
it was the favourite evening walk of William and me.... I have not
chosen this sonnet from any particular beauty it has. _It was the first
I laid my hands upon._" From the clause I have italicised, it would
almost seem that other sonnets belong to that period, viz. before 1793,
when _An Evening Walk_ appeared. She would hardly have spoken of it as
she did, if this was the only sonnet her brother had then written.
Though very inferior to his later work, this sonnet may be preserved as
a specimen of Wordsworth's earlier manner, before he had broken away,
by the force of his own imagination, from the trammels of the
conventional style, which he inherited. It is printed in the Appendix to
volume viii.

It will be seen that Wordsworth's memory cannot be always relied upon,
in reference to dates, and similar details, in the Fenwick
memoranda.--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1849.

      ... to me,                                         1807.

[2] 1827.

      ... short ...                                      1807.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare in Lovelace's poem, _To Althea from Prison_--

      Stone walls do not a prison make,
        Nor iron bars a cage;
      Minds innocent and quiet take
        That for a hermitage.                              ED.

[B] Compare the line in the _Ode to Duty_ vol. iii. p. 40--

      Me this unchartered freedom tires.                   ED.




PERSONAL TALK

Composed 1806.--Published 1807


[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The last line but two stood, at first,
better and more characteristically, thus:--

      "By my half-kitchen and half-parlour fire."

My sister and I were in the habit of having the tea-kettle in our little
sitting room; and we toasted the bread ourselves, which reminds me of a
little circumstance not unworthy to be set down among these minutiae.
Happening both of us to be engaged a few minutes one morning when we had
a young prig of a Scotch lawyer to breakfast with us, my dear Sister,
with her usual simplicity, put the toasting fork with a slice of bread
into the hands of this Edinburgh genius. Our little book-case stood on
one side of the fire. To prevent loss of time, he took down a book, and
fell to reading, to the neglect of the toast, which was burnt to a
cinder. Many a time have we laughed at this circumstance, and other
cottage simplicities of that day. By the bye, I have a spite at one of
this series of Sonnets (I will leave the reader to discover which) as
having been the means of nearly putting off for ever our acquaintance
with dear Miss Fenwick, who has always stigmatized one line of it as
vulgar, and worthy only of having been composed by a country squire.--I.
F.]

In 1815, this was classed among the "Poems proceeding from Sentiment and
Reflection." From 1820 to 1843, it found a place among the
"Miscellaneous Sonnets," and in 1845 was restored to its earlier one
among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."--ED.


                         I

    I am not One who much or oft delight
    To season my fireside with personal talk,--
    Of[1] friends, who live within an easy walk,
    Or neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight:
    And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright,              5
    Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk,[A]
    These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk
    Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night.
    Better than such discourse doth silence long,
    Long, barren silence, square with my desire;                10
    To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,
    In the loved presence of my cottage-fire,[2]
    And listen to the flapping of the flame,
    Or kettle whispering its faint undersong.


                        II

    "Yet life," you say, "is life; we have seen and see,        15
    And with a living pleasure we describe;
    And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe
    The languid mind into activity.
    Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee
    Are fostered by the comment and the gibe."                  20
    Even be it so: yet still among your tribe,
    Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank not me!
    Children are blest, and powerful; their world lies
    More justly balanced; partly at their feet,
    And part far from them:--sweetest melodies                  25
    Are those that are by distance made more sweet;[B]
    Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes,
    He is a Slave; the meanest we can meet![C]


                       III

    Wings have we,--and as far as we can go
    We may find pleasure: wilderness and wood,                  30
    Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood
    Which with the lofty sanctifies the low.
    Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know,
    Are a substantial world, both pure and good:
    Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
    Our pastime and our happiness will grow.                    36
    There find I personal themes, a plenteous store,
    Matter wherein right voluble I am,
    To which I listen with a ready ear;
    Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear,--[3]                40
    The gentle Lady married to the Moor;[D]
    And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb.


                        IV

    Nor can I not believe but that hereby
    Great gains are mine; for thus I live remote
    From evil-speaking; rancour, never sought,                  45
    Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie.
    Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I
    Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought:
    And thus from day to day my little boat
    Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably.                    50
    Blessings be with them--and eternal praise,
    Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares--
    The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs
    Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays!
    Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs,                 55
    Then gladly would I end my mortal days.


The text of the poem was little altered, and was fixed in 1827. It had
no title in 1807 and 1815.

The reading of 1807,

      my half-kitchen my half-parlour fire,

was a reminiscence of Dove Cottage, which we regret to lose in the later
editions.

In the Baptistery of Westminster Abbey, there is a statue of Wordsworth
by Frederick Thrupp of great merit, placed there by the late Dean
Stanley, beside busts of Keble, Maurice, and Kingsley. Underneath the
statue of Wordsworth are the four lines from _Personal Talk_--

      Blessings be with them--and eternal praise,
      Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares--
      The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs
      Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays!

Dean Stanley found it difficult to select from Wordsworth's poems the
lines most appropriate for inscription, and adopted these at the
suggestion of his friend, Principal Shairp.--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1815.

      About ...                                          1807.

[2] 1815.

      By my half-kitchen my half-parlour fire,           1807.

[3] 1827.

      There do I find a never-failing store
      Of personal themes, and such as I love best;
      Matter wherein right voluble I am:
      Two will I mention, dearer than the rest;          1807.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] This is the line referred to by Wordsworth in the Fenwick note.
Compare _Midsummer Night's Dream_, act I. scene i. ll. 75-78.--ED.

[B] Compare Collins, _The Passions_, l. 60, and _An Evening Walk_, l.
237 and note (vol. i. p. 22).--ED.

[C] Compare _The Prelude_, book xii. l. 151 (vol. iii. p. 349)--

                                  I knew a maid,
      A young enthusiast, who escaped these bonds;
      Her eye was not the mistress of her heart.           ED.

[D] Wordsworth said on one occasion, as Professor Dowden has reminded
us, that he thought _Othello_, the close of the _Phaedo_, and Walton's
_Life of George Herbert_, the three "most pathetic" writings in the
world.--ED.




ADMONITION

Intended more particularly for the perusal of those who may have happened
  to be enamoured of some beautiful place of Retreat, in the Country of
  the Lakes.

Composed 1806.--Published 1807


Classed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.


    Well may'st thou halt--and gaze with brightening eye![1]
    The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook
    Hath stirred thee deeply; with its own dear brook,
    Its own small pasture, almost its own sky![A]
    But covet not the Abode;--forbear to sigh,[2]                5
    As many do, repining while they look;
    Intruders--who would tear[3] from Nature's book
    This precious leaf, with harsh impiety.[4]
    Think what the Home must[5] be if it were thine,
    Even thine, though few thy wants!--Roof, window, door,      10
    The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,
    The roses to the porch which they entwine:
    Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day
    On which it should be touched, would melt away.[6]


The cottage at Town-end, Grasmere--where this sonnet was composed--may
have suggested it. Some of the details, however, are scarcely applicable
to Dove Cottage; the "brook" (referred to elsewhere) is outside the
orchard ground, and there is scarcely anything in the garden to warrant
the phrase, "its own small pasture." It is unnecessary to localise the
allusions.--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

      Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!          1807.

[2] 1827.

      ... oh! do not sigh,                               1807.

[3] 1827.

      Sighing a wish to tear ...                         1807.

[4] 1827.

      This blissful leaf, with worst impiety.            1807.

      ... with harsh impiety.                            1815.

[5] 1827.

      ... would ...                                      1807.

[6] 1838.

      ... would melt, and melt away!                     1807.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare the lines in _Peter Bell_, vol. ii. p. 13--

      Where deep and low the hamlets lie
      Beneath their little patch of sky
      And little lot of stars.                             ED.




"'BELOVED VALE!' I SAID, 'WHEN I SHALL CON'"

Composed 1806.--Published 1807


One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.


    "Beloved Vale!" I said, "when I shall con
    Those many records of my childish years,
    Remembrance of myself and of my peers
    Will press me down: to think of what is gone
    Will be an awful thought, if life have one."                 5
    But, when into the Vale I came, no fears
    Distressed me; from mine eyes escaped no tears;[1]
    Deep thought, or dread remembrance, had I none.[2]
    By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost[3]
    I stood, of simple shame the blushing Thrall;[A]            10
    So narrow seemed the brooks, the fields so small![4]
    A Juggler's balls old Time about him tossed;
    I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed; and all
    The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.


Doubtless the "Vale" referred to is that of Hawkshead; the "brooks" may
refer to the one that feeds Esthwaite lake, or to Sawrey beck, or (more
likely) to the streamlet, "the famous brook within our garden boxed,"
described in _The Prelude_, books i. and ii. (vol. iii.) See also _The
Fountain_, vol. ii. p. 92.--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1827.

      Distress'd me; I look'd round, I shed no tears;    1807.

[2] 1837.

      ... or awful vision, I had none.                   1807.

      ... had I none.                                    1827.

[3] 1827.

      By thousand petty fancies I was cross'd,           1807.

[4] 1827.

      To see the Trees, which I had thought so tall,
      Mere dwarfs; the Brooks so narrow, Fields so small.
                                                         1807.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare _Hart-Leap Well_, l. 117 (vol. ii. p. 134).--ED.




"HOW SWEET IT IS, WHEN MOTHER FANCY ROCKS"

Composed 1806.--Published 1807


Placed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.


    How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks
    The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood!
    An old place, full of many a lovely brood,
    Tall trees, green arbours, and ground-flowers in flocks;
    And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks,                  5
    Like a bold Girl, who plays her agile pranks[1]
    At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks,--
    When she stands cresting the Clown's head, and mocks
    The crowd beneath her. Verily I think,
    Such place to me is sometimes like a dream                  10
    Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link,
    Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam
    Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink,
    And leap at once from the delicious stream.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1827.

      Like to a bonny Lass, who plays her pranks         1807.




"THOSE WORDS WERE UTTERED AS IN PENSIVE MOOD"

Composed 1806.--Published 1807


      ----"they are of the sky,
      And from our earthly memory fade away."[A]

Placed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.


    Those[1] words were uttered as in pensive mood[2]
    We turned, departing from[3] that solemn sight:
    A contrast and reproach to[4] gross delight,
    And life's unspiritual pleasures daily wooed!
    But now upon this thought I cannot brood;                    5
    It is unstable as a dream of night;[5]
    Nor will I praise a cloud, however bright,
    Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food.
    Grove, isle, with every shape of sky-built dome,[6]
    Though clad in colours beautiful and pure,                  10
    Find in the heart of man no natural home:
    The immortal Mind craves objects that endure:
    These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam,
    Nor they from it: their fellowship is secure.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1838.

      These ...                                          1807.

[2] 1827.

      ... utter'd in a pensive mood.                     1807.

[3] 1827.

      Even while mine eyes were on ...                   1807.

      Mine eyes yet lingering on ...                     1815.

[4] 1807.

      A silent counter part of ...                         MS.

[5] 1827.

      It is unstable, and deserts me quite;              1807.

[6] 1827.

      The Grove, the sky-built Temple, and the Dome,     1807.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] See the sonnet _Composed after a Journey across the Hambleton Hills,
Yorkshire_, vol. ii. p. 349.--ED.




"WITH HOW SAD STEPS, O MOON, THOU CLIMB'ST THE SKY"

Composed 1806.--Published 1807


In the edition of 1815, this was placed among the "Poems of the Fancy."
In 1820 it became one of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.


    With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the sky,
    "How silently, and with how wan a face!"[A]
    Where art thou? Thou so often seen on high[1]
    Running among the clouds a Wood-nymph's race!
    Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a sigh                   5
    Which they would stifle, move at such a pace!
    The northern Wind, to call thee to the chase,
    Must blow to-night his bugle horn. Had I
    The power of Merlin, Goddess! this should be:
    And all the stars, fast as the clouds were riven,[2]        10
    Should sally forth, to keep thee company,[3]
    Hurrying and sparkling through the clear blue heaven;[4]
    But, Cynthia! should to thee the palm be given,
    Queen both for beauty and for majesty.


The sonnet of Sir Philip Sidney's, from which the two first lines are
taken, is No. XXXI. in _Astrophel and Stella_. In the edition of 1807
these lines were printed, not as a sonnet, but as No. III. in the series
of "Poems composed during a Tour, chiefly on foot;" and in 1807 and 1815
the first two lines were placed within quotation marks.--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

      ... Thou whom I have seen on high                  1807.

[2] 1837.

      And all the Stars, now shrouded up in heaven,      1807.

      And the keen Stars, fast as the clouds were riven,
                                                         1820.

[3] 1807.

      Should sally forth, an emulous Company,            1820.

    The text of 1837 returns to that of 1807.

[4] 1840.

      What strife would then be yours, fair Creatures, driv'n
      Now up, now down, and sparkling in your glee!      1807.

      Sparkling, and hurrying through the clear blue heaven;
                                                         1820.

      All hurrying with thee through the clear blue heaven;
                                                         1832.

      In that keen sport along the plain, of heaven;     1837.

                             ... in emulous company
      Sparkling, and hurrying through the clear blue heaven;
                                                   1838 and C.

      Hurrying and sparkling through the clear blue Heaven. C.

      With emulous brightness through the clear blue Heaven.
                                                            C.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] From a sonnet of Sir Philip Sydney.--W. W. 1807.




"THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US; LATE AND SOON"

Composed 1806.--Published 1807


One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.


    The world is too much with us; late and soon,
    Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
    Little we see in Nature that is ours;
    We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
    This[1] Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;                5
    The winds that will be howling at all hours,
    And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
    For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
    It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
    A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;                         10
    So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,[A]
    Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
    Have sight of Proteus rising[2] from the sea;[B]
    Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.[C]


The "pleasant lea" referred to in this sonnet is unknown. It may have
been on the Cumbrian coast, or in the Isle of Man.

I am indebted to the Rev. Canon Ainger for suggesting an (unconscious)
reminiscence of Spenser in the last line of the sonnet. Compare Dr.
Arnold's commentary (_Miscellaneous Works of Thomas Arnold_, p. 311),
and that of Sir Henry Taylor in his _Notes from Books_.--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1807.

      The ...                                              MS.

[2] 1827.

      ... coming ...                                     1807.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] See Spenser's _Colin Clout's come Home againe_, l. 283--

      "A goodly pleasant lea."                             ED.

[B] Compare _Paradise Lost_, book iii. l. 603.

[C] See _Colin Clout's come Home againe_, ll. 244-5--

      Of them the shepheard which hath charge in chief,
      Is Triton, blowing loud his wreathed horne.          ED.




"WITH SHIPS THE SEA WAS SPRINKLED FAR AND NIGH"

Composed 1806.--Published 1807


Placed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.


    With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh,[A]
    Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed;
    Some lying fast at anchor in the road,
    Some veering up and down, one knew not why.
    A goodly Vessel did I then espy                              5
    Come like a giant from a haven broad;
    And lustily along the bay she strode,
    Her tackling rich, and of apparel high.[B]
    This Ship was nought to me, nor I to her,
    Yet I pursued her with a Lover's look;                      10
    This Ship to all the rest did I prefer:
    When will she turn, and whither? She will brook
    No tarrying; where She comes the winds must stir:
    On went She, and due north her journey took.[C]


FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare _The Excursion_, book iv. l. 1197--

                ... sea with ships
      Sprinkled ...                                        ED.

[B] In the editions of 1815 to 1832 (but not in 1807) this line was
printed within inverted commas. The quotation marks were dropped,
however, in subsequent editions (as in the quotation from Spenser, in
the poem _Beggars_). In a note at the end of the volumes of 1807,
Wordsworth says, "From a passage in Skelton, which I cannot here insert,
not having the Book at hand."

The passage is as follows--

      Her takelynge ryche, and of hye apparayle.

                  Skelton's _Bowge of Courte_, stanza vi.--ED.

[C] See Professor H. Reed's note to the American edition of _Memoirs of
Wordsworth_, vol. i. p. 335; and Wordsworth's comment on Mrs. Fermor's
criticism of this sonnet in his letter to Lady Beaumont, May 21,
1807.--ED.




"WHERE LIES THE LAND TO WHICH YON SHIP MUST GO?"

Composed 1806.--Published 1807


Classed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.


    Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go?
    Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day,
    Festively she puts forth in trim array;[1]
    Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?
    What boots the inquiry?--Neither friend nor foe              5
    She cares for; let her travel where she may,
    She finds familiar names, a beaten way
    Ever before her, and a wind to blow.
    Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark?
    And, almost as it was when ships were rare,                 10
    (From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there
    Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark,
    Of the old Sea some reverential fear,
    Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark!


VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

      Festively she puts forth in trim array;
      As vigorous as a Lark at break of day:             1807.




TO SLEEP

Composed 1806.--Published 1807


Placed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.


    O gentle sleep! do they belong to thee,
    These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love
    To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove,
    A captive never wishing to be free.
    This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me                 5
    A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove
    Upon a fretful rivulet, now above
    Now on the water vexed with mockery.
    I have no pain that calls for patience, no;[A]
    Hence am I[1] cross and peevish as a child:                 10
    Am[2] pleased by fits to have thee for my foe,
    Yet ever willing to be reconciled:
    O gentle Creature! do not use me so,
    But once and deeply let me be beguiled.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1807.

      ... I am ...                                       1815.

    The text of 1827 returns to that of 1807.

[2] 1807.

      And ...                                            1815.

    The text of 1827 returns to that of 1807.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare--"Et c'est encore ce qui me fache, de n'etre pas meme en
droit de ... facher."--Rousseau, _La Nouvelle Heloise_.

      "Vixque tenet lacrymas; quia nil lacrymabile cernit."

                  Ovid, _Metamorphoses_, lib. ii. l. 796.--ED.




TO SLEEP

Composed 1806.--Published 1807


One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.


    Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!
    And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names;
    The very sweetest, Fancy culls or frames,[1]
    When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep!
    Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep               5
    In rich reward all suffering; Balm that tames
    All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims
    Takest away, and into souls dost creep,
    Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone,
    I surely not a man ungently made,                           10
    Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost?
    Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown,
    Mere slave of them who never for thee prayed,
    Still last to come where thou art wanted most!


VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

      The very sweetest words that fancy frames          1807.




TO SLEEP

Composed 1806.--Published 1807


Classed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.


    A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by,
    One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
    Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
    Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;
    I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie[1]            5
    Sleepless[A]! and soon the small birds' melodies
    Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees;
    And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
    Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
    And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:              10
    So do not let me wear to-night away:
    Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
    Come, blessed barrier between[2] day and day,
    Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!


Compare Ovid, _Metamorphoses_, book xi. l. 623; _Macbeth_, act II. scene
ii. l. 39; _King Henry IV._, Part II., act III. scene i. l. 5;
_Midsummer Night's Dream_, act III. scene ii. l. 435.--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1845.

      I've thought of all by turns; and still I lie      1807.

      By turns have all been thought of; yet I lie       1827.

      I thought of all by turns, and yet I lie           1837.

      I have thought ...                                 1838.

[2] 1832.

      ... betwixt ...                                    1807.

      ... between night and day,                           MS.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare _The Faerie Queene_, book I. canto i. stanza 41--

      And more to lulle him in his slumber soft,
      A trickling streame from high rock tumbling downe,
      And ever-drizling raine upon the loft,
      Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne
      Of swarming Bees, did cast him in a swowne.          ED.




TO THE MEMORY OF RAISLEY CALVERT

Composed 1806.--Published 1807


[This young man, Raisley Calvert, to whom I was so much indebted, died
at Penrith, 1795.--I. F.]

Classed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.


    Calvert! it must not be unheard by them
    Who may respect my name, that I to thee
    Owed many years of early liberty.
    This care was thine when sickness did condemn
    Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem--               5
    That I, if frugal and severe, might stray
    Where'er I liked; and finally array
    My temples with the Muse's diadem.
    Hence, if in freedom I have loved the truth;
    If there be aught of pure, or good, or great,               10
    In my past verse; or shall be, in the lays
    Of higher mood, which now I meditate;--
    It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived, Youth!
    To think how much of this will be thy praise.


Raisley Calvert was the son of R. Calvert, steward to the Duke of
Norfolk. Writing to Sir George Beaumont, on the 20th February 1805,
Wordsworth said, "I should have been forced into one of the professions"
(the church or law) "by necessity, had not a friend left me L900. This
bequest was from a young man with whom, though I call him friend, I had
but little connection; and the act was done entirely from a confidence
on his part that I had powers and attainments which might be of use to
mankind.... Upon the interest of the L900, and L100 legacy to my sister,
and L100 more which the 'Lyrical Ballads' have brought me, my sister and
I contrived to live seven years, nearly eight." To his friend Matthews
he wrote, November 7th, 1794, "My friend" (Calvert) "has every symptom
of a confirmed consumption, and I cannot think of quitting him in his
present debilitated state." And in January 1795 he wrote to Matthews
from Penrith (where Calvert was staying), "I have been here for some
time. I am still much engaged with my sick friend; and am sorry to add
that he worsens daily ... he is barely alive." In a letter to Dr. Joshua
Stanger of Keswick, written in the year 1842, Wordsworth referred thus
to Raisley Calvert. Dr. Calvert--a nephew of Raisley, and son of the W.
Calvert whom the poet accompanied to the Isle of Wight and Salisbury in
1793--had just died. "His removal (Dr. Calvert's) has naturally thrown
my mind back as far as Dr. Calvert's grandfather, his father, and sister
(the former of whom was, as you know, among my intimate friends), and
his uncle Raisley, whom I have so much cause to remember with gratitude
for his testamentary remembrance of me, when the greatest part of my
patrimony was kept back from us by injustice. It may be satisfactory to
your wife for me to declare that my friend's bequest enabled me to
devote myself to literary pursuits, independent of any necessity to look
at pecuniary emolument, so that my talents, such as they might be, were
free to take their natural course. Your brothers Raisley and William
were both so well known to me, and I have so many reasons to respect
them, that I cannot forbear saying, that my sympathy with this last
bereavement is deepened by the remembrance that they both have been
taken from you...." On October 1, 1794, Wordsworth wrote from Keswick to
Ensign William Calvert about his brother Raisley. (The year is not given
in the letter, but it must have been 1794.) He tells him that Raisley
was determined to set out for Lisbon; but that he (Wordsworth) could not
brook the idea of his going alone; and that he wished to accompany his
friend and stay with him, till his health was re-established. He adds,
"Reflecting that his return is uncertain, your brother requests me to
inform you that he has drawn out his will, which he means to get
executed in London. The purport of his will is to leave you all his
property, real and personal, chargeable with a legacy of L600 to me, in
case that, on inquiry into the state of our affairs in London, he should
think it advisable to do so. It is at my request that this information
is communicated to you." Calvert did not live to go south; and he
changed the sum left to Wordsworth from L600 to L900. The relationship
of the two men suggests the somewhat parallel one between Spinoza and
Simon de Vries.--ED.




"METHOUGHT I SAW THE FOOTSTEPS OF A THRONE"

Composed 1806.--Published 1807


[The latter part of this sonnet was a great favourite with my sister S.
H. When I saw her lying in death, I could not resist the impulse to
compose the Sonnet that follows it.--I. F.]

One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.


    Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne
    Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud--
    Nor view of who might sit[1] thereon allowed;
    But all the steps and ground about were strown
    With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone               5
    Ever put on; a miserable crowd,
    Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,
    "Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan."
    Those steps I clomb; the mists before me gave[2]
    Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one                    10
    Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,
    With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have
    Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone;
    A lovely Beauty in a summer grave!


"The Sonnet that follows," referred to in the Fenwick note, is one
belonging to the year 1836, beginning--

      Even so for me a Vision sanctified.

See the note to that sonnet.--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1815.

      ... of him who sate ...                            1807.

[2] 1845.

      I seem'd to mount those steps; the vapours gave    1807.

      Those steps I mounted, as the vapours gave         1837.

      ... while the vapours gave                         1838.

      Those steps I clomb; the opening vapours gave
                                                  C. and 1840.




LINES

Composed at Grasmere, during a walk one Evening, after a stormy day,
  the Author having just read in a Newspaper that the dissolution of
  Mr. Fox was hourly expected.

Composed September 1806.--Published 1807


This poem was ranked among the "Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces."--ED.


    Loud is the Vale! the Voice is up
    With which she speaks when storms are gone,
    A mighty unison of streams!
    Of all her Voices, One!

    Loud is the Vale;--this inland Depth                         5
    In peace is roaring like the Sea;
    Yon star upon the mountain-top
    Is listening quietly.

    Sad was I, even to pain deprest,
    Importunate and heavy load![A]                              10
    The Comforter hath found me here,
    Upon this lonely road;

    And many thousands now are sad--
    Wait the fulfilment of their fear;
    For he must die who is their stay,                          15
    Their glory disappear.

    A Power is passing from the earth
    To breathless Nature's dark abyss;
    But when the great and good depart[1]
    What is it more than this--                                 20

    That Man, who is from God sent forth,
    Doth yet again to God return?--
    Such ebb and flow must ever be,
    Then wherefore should we mourn?


Charles James Fox died September 13, 1806. He was Minister for Foreign
Affairs at the time, having assumed office on the 5th February, shortly
after the death of William Pitt. Wordsworth's sadness on this occasion,
his recognition of Fox as great and good, and as "a Power" that was
"passing from the earth," may have been due partly to personal and
political sympathy, but also probably to Fox's appreciation of the
better side of the French Revolution, and to his welcoming the pacific
proposals of Talleyrand, perhaps also to his efforts for the abolition
of slavery.

The "lonely road" referred to in these _Lines_, was, in all likelihood,
the path from Town-end towards the Swan Inn past the Hollins, Grasmere.
A "mighty unison of streams" may be heard there any autumn evening after
a stormy day, and especially after long continued rain, the sound of
waters from Easdale, from Greenhead Ghyll, and the slopes of Silver How,
blending with that of the Rothay in the valley below. Compare Dorothy
Wordsworth's _Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland_, in 1803, p. 229
(edition 1874).--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

      But when the Mighty pass away                      1807.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] Importuna e grave salma. (Michael Angelo.)--W. W. 1807.




NOVEMBER, 1806

Composed 1806.--Published 1807


Classed among the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty," re-named in 1845,
"Poems dedicated to National Independence and Liberty."--ED.


    Another year!--another deadly blow!
    Another mighty Empire overthrown!
    And We are left, or shall be left, alone;
    The last that dare[1] to struggle with the Foe.
    'Tis well! from this day forward we shall know               5
    That in ourselves our safety must be sought;
    That by our own right hands it must be wrought;
    That we must stand unpropped, or be laid low.
    O dastard whom such foretaste[2] doth not cheer!
    We shall exult, if they who rule the land                   10
    Be men who hold its many blessings dear,
    Wise, upright, valiant; not a servile[3] band,
    Who are to judge of danger which they fear,
    And honour which they do not understand.[A]


Napoleon won the battle of Jena on the 14th October 1806, entered
Potsdam on the 25th, and Berlin on the 28th; Prince Hohenlohe laid down
his arms on the 6th November; Bluecher surrendered at Luebeck on the 7th;
Magdeburg was taken on the 8th; on the 14th the French occupied Hanover;
and on the 21st Napoleon issued his Berlin decree for the blockade of
England--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1827.

      ... dares ...                                      1807.

[2] 1807.

      ... knowledge ...                                    MS.

[3] 1820.

      ... venal ...                                      1807.


FOOTNOTES:

[A]   Who are to judge of danger which they fear
      And honour which they do not understand.

These two lines from Lord Brooke's _Life of Sir Philip Sydney_--W. W.
1807.

"Danger which they fear, and honour which they understand not." Words in
Lord Brooke's _Life of Sir P. Sidney_.--W. W. 1837.




ADDRESS TO A CHILD

DURING A BOISTEROUS WINTER EVENING

BY MY SISTER

Composed 1806.--Published 1815


[Written at Town-end, Grasmere.--I. F.]

One of the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."--ED.


    What way does the Wind come? What way does he go?
    He rides over the water, and over the snow,
    Through wood, and through vale; and, o'er rocky height
    Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight;
    He tosses about in every bare tree,                          5
    As, if you look up, you plainly may see;
    But how he will come, and whither he goes,
    There's never a scholar in England knows.
    He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook,
    And ring[1] a sharp 'larum;--but, if you should look,       10
    There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow
    Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,
    And softer than if it were covered with silk.
    Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock,
    Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock;                 15
    --Yet seek him,--and what shall you find in the place?
    Nothing but silence and empty space;
    Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,
    That he's left, for a bed, to[2] beggars or thieves!
    As soon as 'tis daylight to-morrow, with me                 20
    You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see
    That he has been there, and made a great rout,
    And cracked the branches, and strewn them about;
    Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig
    That looked up at the sky so proud and big                  25
    All last summer, as well you know,
    Studded with apples, a beautiful show!
    Hark! over the roof he makes a pause,
    And growls as if he would fix his claws
    Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle                 30
    Drive them down, like men in a battle:
    --But let him range round; he does us no harm,
    We build up the fire, we're snug and warm;
    Untouched by his breath see the candle shines bright,
    And burns with a clear and steady light;                    35
    Books have we to read,--but that half-stifled knell,
    Alas! tis the sound[3] of the eight o'clock bell.
    --Come now we'll to bed! and when we are there
    He may work his own will, and what shall we care?
    He may knock at the door,--we'll not let him in;            40
    May drive at the windows,--we'll laugh at his din;
    Let him seek his own home wherever it be;
    Here's a _cozie_ warm house for Edward and me.


Wordsworth dated this poem 1806, and said to Miss Fenwick that it was
written at Grasmere. If it was written "during a boisterous winter
evening" in 1806, it could not have been written at Grasmere; because
the Wordsworths spent most of that winter at Coleorton. I am inclined to
believe that the date which the poet gave is wrong, and that the
_Address_ really belongs to the year 1805; but, as it is just possible
that--although referring to winter--it may have been written at Town-end
in the summer of 1806, it is placed among the poems belonging to the
latter year.

This _Address_ was translated into French by Mme. Amable Tastu, and
published in a popular school-book series of extracts, but Wordsworth's
name is not given along with the translation.

From 1815 to 1843 the authorship was veiled under the title, "by a
female Friend of the Author." In 1845, it was disclosed, "by my Sister."

In 1815 Charles Lamb wrote to Wordsworth, "We were glad to see the poems
'by a female friend.' The one of the Wind is masterly, but not new to
us. Being only three, perhaps you might have clapt a D. at the corner,
and let it have past as a printer's mark to the uninitiated, as a
delightful hint to the better instructed. As it is, expect a formal
criticism on the poems of your female friend, and she must expect it."
(_The Letters of Charles Lamb_, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i. p.
285.)--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1845.

      ... rings ...                                      1815.

[2] 1827.

      ... for ...                                        1815.

[3] 1827.

                       ... --hush! that half-stifled knell,
      Methinks 'tis the sound ...                        1815.




"BROOK! WHOSE SOCIETY THE POET SEEKS"

Composed 1806?--Published 1815


One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.


    Brook! whose society the Poet seeks,
    Intent his wasted spirits to renew;
    And whom the curious Painter doth pursue
    Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks,
    And tracks thee dancing down thy water-breaks;               5
    If wish were mine some type of thee to view,[1]
    Thee, and not thee thyself, I would not do
    Like Grecian Artists, give thee human cheeks,
    Channels for tears; no Naiad should'st thou be,--
    Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints nor hairs:       10
    It seems the Eternal Soul is clothed in thee
    With purer robes than those of flesh and blood,
    And hath bestowed on thee a safer good;[2]
    Unwearied joy, and life without its cares.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1827.

      If I some type of thee did wish to view,           1815.

[2] 1845.

      ... a better good;                                 1815.




"THERE IS A LITTLE UNPRETENDING RILL"

Composed 1806?--Published 1820


[This Rill trickles down the hill-side into Windermere, near Low-wood.
My sister and I, on our first visit together to this part of the
country, walked from Kendal, and we rested to refresh ourselves by the
side of the lake where the streamlet falls into it. This sonnet was
written some years after in recollection of that happy ramble, that most
happy day and hour.--I. F.]

One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.


    There is a little unpretending Rill
    Of limpid water, humbler far than aught[1]
    That ever among Men or Naiads sought
    Notice or name!--It quivers down the hill,
    Furrowing its shallow way with dubious will;                 5
    Yet to my mind this scanty Stream is brought[2]
    Oftener than Ganges or the Nile; a thought
    Of private recollection sweet and still![3]
    Months perish with their moons; year treads on year;
    But, faithful Emma! thou with me canst say                  10
    That, while ten thousand pleasures disappear,
    And flies their memory fast almost as they,[4]
    The immortal Spirit of one happy day
    Lingers beside that Rill,[5] in vision clear.[6]


One of the MS. readings of the ninth line of this sonnet gives the date
of the incident as "now seven years gone"; but I leave the date of
composition undetermined. If we could know accurately the date of the
"first visit" to the district with his sister (referred to in the
Fenwick note), and if we could implicitly trust this MS. reading, it
might be possible to fix it; but we can do neither. Wordsworth visited
the Lake District with his sister as early as 1794, and in December 1799
he took up his abode with her at Dove Cottage. I have no doubt that the
sonnet belongs to the year 1806, or was composed at an earlier date. As
to the locality of the rill, the late Rev. R. Perceval Graves, of
Dublin, wrote to me:--

  "It was in 1843, when quitting the parsonage at Bowness, I went to
  reside at Dovenest, that, calling one day at Rydal Mount, I was
  told by both Mr. and Mrs. Wordsworth, as a fact in which I should
  take a special interest, that the 'little unpretending rill'
  associated by the poet with 'the immortal spirit of one happy
  day,' was the rill which, rising near High Skelgill at the back of
  Wansfell, descends steeply down the hill-side, passes behind the
  house at Dovenest, and crossing beneath the road, enters the lake
  near the gate of the drive which leads up to Dovenest.

  "The authority on which I give this information is decisive of the
  question. I have often traced upwards the course of the rill; and
  the secluded hollow, which by its source is beautified with fresh
  herbage and wild straggling bushes, was a favourite haunt of
  mine."--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1820.

      There is a tiny water, neither rill,
      Motionless well, nor running brook, nor aught        MS.

      There is a noiseless water, neither rill,
      Nor spring enclosed in sculptured stone, nor aught   MS.

      There is a trickling water, neither rill,
      Fountain inclosed, or rivulet, nor aught       MS. 1806.

[2] 1820.

                        ... It trickles down the hill,
      So feebly, just for love of power and will,
      Yet to my mind the nameless thing is brought         MS.

                        ... It totters down the hill,
      So feebly, quite forlorn of power and will;
      Yet nameless Thing it to my mind is brought          MS.

[3] 1827.

      Oftener than mightiest Floods, whose path is wrought
      Through wastes of sand, and forests dark and chill.
                                                         1820.

[4] 1827.

      Do thou, even thou, O faithful Anna! say
      Why this small Streamlet is to me so dear;
      Thou know'st, that while enjoyments disappear
      And sweet remembrances like flowers decay,         1820.

[5] 1827.

      Lingers upon its marge, ...                        1820.

[6] 1820.

      For on that day, now seven years gone, when first
      Two glad foot-travellers, through sun and shower
      My Love and I came hither, while thanks burst
      Out of our hearts ...
      We from that blessed water slaked our thirst.        MS.

      ... seven years back, ...

                    ... hearts to God for that good hour,
      Eating a traveller's meal in shady bower,
      We ...                                               MS.




1807


In few instances is it more evident that the dates which Wordsworth
affixed to his poems, in the editions of 1815, 1820, 1836, and
1845,--and those assigned in the Fenwick notes--cannot be absolutely
relied upon, than in the case of the poems referring to Coleorton.
Trusting to these dates, in the absence of contrary evidence, one would
naturally assign the majority of the Coleorton poems to the year 1808.
But it is clear that, while the sonnet _To Lady Beaumont_ may have been
written in 1806, the "Inscription" _For a Seat in the Groves of
Coleorton_, beginning--

      Beneath yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound,

was written, not in 1808 (as stated by Wordsworth himself), but in 1811;
and that the other "Inscription" designed for a Niche in the
Winter-garden at Coleorton, belongs (I think) to the same year; a year
in which he also wrote the sonnet on Sir George Beaumont's picture of
Bredon Hill and Cloud Hill, beginning--

      Praised be the Art whose subtle power could stay.

When the dates are so difficult to determine, there is a natural fitness
in bringing all the poems referring to Coleorton together, so far as
this can be done without seriously interfering with chronological order.
The two "Inscriptions" intended for the Coleorton grounds, which were
written at Grasmere in 1811, are therefore printed along with the poems
of 1807; the precise date of each being given--so far as it can be
ascertained--underneath its title.

Several political sonnets, and others, were written in 1807; also the
_Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle_, and the first and larger part of
_The White Doe of Rylstone_, with a few minor fragments. But, for
reasons stated in the notes to _The White Doe of Rylstone_ (see p.
191), I have assigned that poem to the year 1808. The _Song at the Feast
of Brougham Castle_ forms as natural a preface to _The White Doe_, as
_The Force of Prayer, a Tradition of Bolton Abbey_, is its natural
appendix. The latter was written, however, before _The White Doe of
Rylstone_ was finished.

It would be easier to fix the date of some of the poems written between
the years 1806 and 1808, if we knew the exact month in which the two
volumes of 1807 were published; but this, I fear, it is impossible to
discover now.

On November 10th, 1806, Wordsworth wrote to Sir George Beaumont from
Coleorton, "In a day or two I mean to send a sheet or two of my intended
volume to the press" (evidently referring to the "Poems" of 1807). On
the following day--11th November 1806--Dorothy Wordsworth wrote to Lady
Beaumont, "William has written two other poems, which you will see when
they are printed. He composes frequently in the grove.... We have not
yet received a sheet from the printer." On the 15th November 1806 she
again wrote to Lady Beaumont (from Coleorton), "My brother works very
hard at his poems, preparing them for the press. Miss Hutchinson is the
transcriber." In a subsequent letter from Coleorton, undated, but
bearing the post-mark February 18, 1807, she is speaking of her
brother's poetical labour, and says, "He must go on, when he begins: and
any interruptions (such as attending to the progress of the workmen and
planning the garden) are of the greatest use to him; for, after a
certain time, the progress is by no means proportioned to the labour in
composition; and if he is called from it by other thoughts, he returns
to it with ten times the pleasure, and the work goes on proportionately
the more rapidly." From this we may infer that the years 1806-7 were
productive ones, but it is disappointing that the dates of the
composition of the poems are so difficult to determine.--ED.




TO LADY BEAUMONT

Composed 1807.--Published 1807


[The winter garden of Coleorton, fashioned out of an old quarry, under
the superintendence and direction of Mrs. Wordsworth and my sister
Dorothy, during the winter and spring we resided there.--I. F.]

One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.


    Lady! the songs of Spring were in the grove
    While I was shaping beds for[1] winter flowers;
    While I was planting green unfading bowers,
    And shrubs--to hang upon the warm alcove,
    And sheltering wall; and still, as Fancy wove                5
    The dream, to time and nature's blended powers
    I gave this paradise for winter hours,
    A labyrinth, Lady! which your feet shall rove.
    Yes! when the sun of life more feebly shines,
    Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom                 10
    Or of high gladness you shall hither bring;
    And these perennial bowers and murmuring pines
    Be gracious as the music and the bloom
    And all the mighty ravishment of spring.


The title, _To Lady Beaumont_, was first given in 1845. In 1807 it was
_To the ----_; in 1815, _To the Lady ----_; and from 1820 to 1843, _To
the Lady Beaumont_.

This winter garden, fashioned by the Wordsworths out of the old quarry
at Coleorton, during Sir George and Lady Beaumont's absence in 1807,
exists very much as it was at the beginning of the century. The
"perennial bowers and murmuring pines" may still be seen, little altered
since 1807. The late Sir George Beaumont (whose grandfather was
first-cousin to the artist Sir George, Wordsworth's friend), with strong
reverence for the past, and for the traditions of literary men which
have made the district famous since the days of his ancestor Beaumont
the dramatist, and especially for the memorials of Wordsworth's ten
months' residence at Coleorton,--took a pleasure in preserving these
memorials, very much as they were when he entered in possession of the
estates of his ancestors. Such a reverence for the past is not only
consistent with the "improvement" of an estate, and its belongings; it
is a part of it. Wordsworth, and his wife and sister, were adepts in the
laying out of grounds. (See the reference to the poet's joint labour
with Wilkinson at Yanwath, p. 2.) It was the Wordsworths also, I
believe, who designed the grounds of Fox How--Dr. Arnold's residence,
near Ambleside. Similar memorials of the poet survive at Hallsteads,
Ullswater. The following is an extract from the letter of Dorothy
Wordsworth to Lady Beaumont above referred to, and having the post-mark
of February 18, 1807. "For more than a week we have had the most
delightful weather. If William had but waited a few days, it would have
been no anticipation when he said to you, 'the songs of Spring were in
the grove;' for all this week the birds have chanted from morn till
evening, larks, blackbirds, thrushes, and far more than I can name, and
the busy rooks have joined their happy voices."

Wordsworth, writing to Sir George Beaumont, November 16, 1811, says, "I
remember, Mr. Bowles, the poet, objected to the word 'ravishment' at the
end of the sonnet to the winter-garden; yet it has the authority of all
the first-rate poets, for instance, Milton:

      'In whose sight all things joy, _with ravishment_,
      Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze'...."
                                                           ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

      ... framing beds of ...                            1807.

      ... for ...                                        1815.




A PROPHECY. FEBRUARY, 1807

Composed 1807.--Published 1807


Included among the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty," re-named in 1845,
"Poems dedicated to National Independence and Liberty."--ED.


    High deeds, O Germans, are to come from you!
    Thus in your books the record shall be found,
    "A watchword was pronounced, a potent sound--
    ARMINIUS![A]--all the people quaked like dew
    Stirred by the breeze; they rose, a Nation, true,            5
    True to herself[1]--the mighty Germany,
    She of the Danube and the Northern Sea,
    She rose, and off at once the yoke she threw.
    All power was given her in the dreadful trance;
    Those new-born Kings she withered like a flame."[B]         10
    --Woe to them all! but heaviest woe and shame
    To that Bavarian who could[2] first advance
    His banner in accursed league with France,[C]
    First open traitor to the German name![3]


VARIANTS:

[1] 1820.

      ... itself ...                                     1807.

[2] 1837.

      ... did ...                                        1807.

[3] 1837.

      ... to her sacred name!                            1807.

      ... to a ...                                       1820.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] Arminius, or Hermann, the liberator of Germany from the Roman power,
A.D. 9-17. Tacitus says of him, "He was without doubt the deliverer of
Germany; and, unlike other kings and generals, he attacked the Roman
people, not at the commencement, but in the fullness of their power: in
battles he was not always successful, but he was invincible in war. He
still lives in the songs of the barbarians."--ED.

[B] The "new-born Kings" were the lesser German potentates, united in
the Confederation of the Rhine. By a treaty signed at Paris (July 12th,
1806), by Talleyrand, and the ministers of twelve sovereign houses of
the Empire, these princes declared themselves perpetually severed from
Germany, and united together as the Confederate States of the Rhine, of
which the Emperor of the French was declared Protector.--ED.

[C] On December 11, 1806, Napoleon concluded a treaty with Frederick
Augustus, the Elector of Saxony--who had been secretly on the side of
France for some time--to whom he gave additional territories, and the
title of King, admitting him into "the Confederation of the Rhine." He
had fallen, as one of the Prussian statesmen put it, into "that lowest
of degradations, to steal at another man's bidding."--ED.




THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND

Composed 1807.--Published 1807


[This was composed while pacing to and fro between the Hall of
Coleorton, then rebuilding, and the principal Farmhouse of the Estate,
in which we lived for nine or ten months. I will here mention that the
_Song on the Restoration of Lord Clifford_, as well as that on the
_Feast of Brougham Castle_, were produced on the same ground.--I. F.]

This sonnet was classed among those "dedicated to Liberty," re-named in
1845, "Poems dedicated to National Independence and Liberty."--ED.


    Two Voices are there; one is of the sea,
    One of the mountains; each a mighty Voice:
    In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
    They were thy chosen music, Liberty!
    There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee                      5
    Thou fought'st against him; but hast vainly striven:
    Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,
    Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.
    Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft:
    Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left;          10
    For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be
    That Mountain floods should thunder as before,
    And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
    And neither awful Voice be heard by thee!


In 1807 the whole of the Continent of Europe was prostrate under the
power of Napoleon. It is impossible to say to what special incident, if
to any in particular, Wordsworth refers in the phrase, "with holy glee
thou fought'st against him;" but, as the sonnet was composed at
Coleorton in 1807--after the battles of Austerlitz and Jena, and
Napoleon's practical mastery of Europe--our knowing the particular event
or events in Swiss history to which he refers, would not add much to our
understanding of the poem.

In the Fenwick note Wordsworth incorrectly separates his _Song on the
Restoration of Lord Clifford_ from the _Feast of Brougham Castle_. They
are the same song.--ED.




TO THOMAS CLARKSON, ON THE FINAL PASSING OF THE BILL FOR THE ABOLITION
  OF THE SLAVE TRADE, MARCH, 1807

Composed 1807.--Published 1807


One of the "Poems dedicated to National Independence and Liberty."--ED.


    Clarkson! it was an obstinate hill to climb:
    How toilsome--nay, how dire--it was, by thee
    Is known; by none, perhaps, so feelingly:
    But thou, who, starting in thy fervent prime,
    Didst first lead forth that enterprise[1] sublime,           5
    Hast heard the constant Voice its charge repeat,
    Which, out of thy young heart's oracular seat,
    First roused thee.--O true yoke-fellow of Time,
    Duty's intrepid liegeman, see,[2] the palm
    Is won, and by all Nations shall be worn!                   10
    The blood-stained Writing is for ever torn;
    And thou henceforth wilt have[3] a good man's calm,
    A great man's happiness; thy zeal shall find
    Repose at length, firm friend of human kind!


On the 25th of March 1807, the Royal assent was given to the Bill for
the Abolition of the Slave Trade. The movement for its abolition was
begun by Wilberforce, and carried on by Clarkson. Its abolition was
voted by the House of Lords on the motion of Lord Grenville, and by the
Commons on the motion of Charles James Fox, on the 10th of June 1806.
The bill was read a second time in the Lords on the 5th of February, and
became law on the 25th of March 1807.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

      ... this pilgrimage ...                            1807.

[2] 1837.

      With unabating effort, see, ...                    1807.

[3] 1837.

      The bloody Writing is for ever torn,
      And Thou henceforth shalt have ...                 1807.




THE MOTHER'S RETURN

BY MY SISTER

Composed 1807.--Published 1815


[Written at Town-end, Grasmere.--I. F.]

One of the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."--ED.


    A month, sweet Little-ones, is past
    Since your dear Mother went away,--
    And she to-morrow will return;
    To-morrow is the happy day.

    O blessed tidings! thought of joy!                           5
    The eldest heard with steady glee;
    Silent he stood; then laughed amain,--
    And shouted, "Mother, come to me!"

    Louder and louder did he shout,
    With witless hope to bring her near;                        10
    "Nay, patience! patience, little boy!
    Your tender mother cannot hear."

    I told of hills, and far-off towns,
    And long, long vales to travel through;--
    He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed,                        15
    But he submits; what can he do?

    No strife disturbs his sister's breast;
    She wars not with the mystery
    Of time and distance, night and day;
    The bonds of our humanity.                                  20

    Her joy is like an instinct, joy
    Of kitten, bird, or summer fly;
    She dances, runs without an aim,
    She chatters in her ecstasy.

    Her brother now takes up the note,                          25
    And echoes back his sister's glee;
    They hug the infant in my arms,
    As if to force his sympathy.

    Then, settling into fond discourse,
    We rested in the garden bower;                              30
    While sweetly shone the evening sun
    In his departing hour.

    We told o'er all that we had done,--
    Our rambles by the swift brook's side
    Far as the willow-skirted pool,                             35
    Where two fair swans together glide.

    We talked of change, of winter gone,
    Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray,
    Of birds that build their nests and sing,
    And all "since Mother went away!"                           40

    To her these tales they will repeat,
    To her our new-born tribes will show,
    The goslings green, the ass's colt,
    The lambs that in the meadow go.

    --But, see, the evening star comes forth!                   45
    To bed the children must depart;
    A moment's heaviness they feel,
    A sadness at the heart:

    'Tis gone--and in a merry fit
    They run up stairs in gamesome race;                        50
    I, too, infected by their mood,
    I could have joined the wanton chase.

    Five minutes past--and, O the change!
    Asleep upon their beds they lie;
    Their busy limbs in perfect rest,                           55
    And closed the sparkling eye.


The Fenwick note is inaccurate. These lines were written by Dorothy
Wordsworth at Coleorton, on the eve of her brother and sister's return
from London, in the spring of 1807, whither they had gone for a
month--Dorothy remaining at Coleorton, in charge of the children.
Previous to 1845, the poem was attributed to "a female Friend of the
Author."--ED.




GIPSIES

Composed 1807.--Published 1807


[Composed at Coleorton. I had observed them, as here described, near
Castle Donnington, on my way to and from Derby.--I. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Imagination."--ED.


    Yet are they here the same unbroken knot
    Of human Beings, in the self-same spot!
        Men, women, children, yea the frame
        Of the whole spectacle the same!
    Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light,                5
    Now deep and red, the colouring of night;
        That on their Gipsy-faces falls,
        Their bed of straw and blanket-walls.
    --Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours are gone, while I
    Have been a traveller under open sky,                       10
        Much witnessing of change and cheer,
        Yet as I left I find them here!
    The weary Sun betook himself to rest;--
    Then issued Vesper from the fulgent west,
        Outshining like a visible God                           15
        The glorious path in which he trod.
    And now, ascending, after one dark hour
    And one night's diminution of her power,
        Behold the mighty Moon! this way
        She looks as if at them--but they                       20
    Regard not her:--oh better wrong and strife
    (By nature transient) than this torpid life;
        Life which the very stars reprove[A]
        As on their silent tasks they move![1][B]
    Yet, witness all that stirs in heaven or[2] earth!          25
    In scorn I speak not;--they are what their birth
        And breeding suffer[3] them to be;
        Wild outcasts of society![4]


See S. T. Coleridge's criticism of this poem in his _Biographia
Literaria_, vol. ii. p. 156 (edition 1847).--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1836.

      Regard not her:--oh better wrong and strife
      Better vain deeds or evil than such life!
          The silent Heavens have goings on;[C]
          The stars have tasks--but these have none.     1807.

                            ... wrong and strife,
      (By nature transient) than such torpid life!
          The silent Heavens have goings-on;
          The stars have tasks--but these have none!     1820.

      (By nature transient) than such torpid life;
          Life which the very stars reprove
          As on their silent tasks they move!            1827.

[2] 1827.

      ... and ...                                        1820.

[3] 1836.

      ... suffers ...                                    1820.

[4] The last four lines were added in 1820.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare the _Ode to Duty_, l. 47 (vol. iii. p. 41).--ED.

[B] Compare, in the _Ode to Duty_, l. 48--

      And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.--
                                                           ED.

[C] Compare, in the Fragment, vol. viii., beginning "No doubt if you in
terms direct had asked," the phrase--

                ... the goings on
      Of earth and sky.                                    ED.




"O NIGHTINGALE! THOU SURELY ART"

Composed 1807 (probably).--Published 1807


[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. (Mrs. W. says, in a note,--"At
Coleorton.")--I. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Imagination."--ED.


    O Nightingale! thou surely art
    A creature of a "fiery heart:"--[A][1]
    These notes of thine--they pierce and pierce;
    Tumultuous harmony and fierce!
    Thou sing'st as if the God of wine                           5
    Had helped thee to a Valentine;[B]
    A song in mockery and despite
    Of shades, and dews, and silent night;
    And steady bliss, and all the loves
    Now sleeping in these peaceful groves.                      10

    I heard a Stock-dove sing or say
    His homely tale, this very day;
    His voice was buried among trees,
    Yet to be come-at by the breeze:
    He did not cease; but cooed--and cooed;                     15
    And somewhat pensively he wooed:
    He sang of love, with quiet blending,
    Slow to begin, and never ending;
    Of serious faith, and inward glee;
    That was the song--the song for me!                         20


Mrs. Wordsworth corrected her husband's note to Miss Fenwick, by adding
in the MS., "at Coleorton"; and at Coleorton the Wordsworths certainly
spent the winter of 1806, the Town-end Cottage at Grasmere being too
small for their increasing household. It is more likely that Wordsworth
wrote the poem at Coleorton than at Grasmere, and it looks as if it had
been an evening impromptu, after hearing both the nightingale and the
stock-dove. There are no nightingales at Grasmere,--they are not heard
further north than the Trent valley,--while they used to abound in the
"peaceful groves" of Coleorton. If the locality was--as Mrs. Wordsworth
states--Coleorton, and if the lines were written after hearing the
nightingale, the year would be 1807, and not 1806 (the poet's own date).
The nightingale is a summer visitor in this country, and could not have
been heard by Wordsworth at Coleorton in 1806, as he did not go south to
Leicestershire till November in that year. But it is quite possible that
it was "the stock-dove's voice" that alone suggested the lines, and that
they were written either in 1806, or (as I think more likely), very
early in 1807. In the month of January Wordsworth was corresponding with
Scott about the poems in this edition of 1807.--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1807.

      A Creature of ebullient heart:--                   1815.

    The text of 1820 returns to that of 1807.[C]


FOOTNOTES:

[A] See Shakespeare's _King Henry VI._, Part III., act I. scene iv. l.
87.--ED.

[B] Compare the lines in _The Cuckoo and the Nightingale_, vol. ii. p.
255--

      I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing,
      That her clear voice made a loud rioting,
      Echoing through all the green wood wide.             ED.

[C] Henry Crabb Robinson, in his _Diary_ (May 9, 1815), anticipates this
return to the text of 1807.--ED.




"THOUGH NARROW BE THAT OLD MAN'S CARES, AND NEAR"

Composed 1807.--Published 1807


      ----"gives to airy nothing
      A local habitation and a name."

[Written at Coleorton. This old man's name was Mitchell. He was, in all
his ways and conversation, a great curiosity, both individually and as a
representative of past times. His chief employment was keeping watch at
night by pacing round the house, at that time building, to keep off
depredators. He has often told me gravely of having seen the Seven
Whistlers, and the Hounds as here described. Among the groves of
Coleorton, where I became familiar with the habits and notions of old
Mitchell, there was also a labourer of whom, I regret, I had no personal
knowledge; for, more than forty years after, when he was become an old
man, I learned that while I was composing verses, which I usually did
aloud, he took much pleasure, unknown to me, in following my steps that
he might catch the words I uttered; and, what is not a little
remarkable, several lines caught in this way kept their place in his
memory. My volumes have lately been given to him by my informant, and
surely he must have been gratified to meet in print his old
acquaintances.--I. F.]

In 1815 this sonnet was one of the "Poems belonging to the Period of Old
Age"; in 1820 it was transferred to the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.


    Though narrow be that old Man's cares, and near,
    The poor old Man is greater than he seems:
    For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams;
    An ample sovereignty of eye and ear.
    Rich are his walks with supernatural cheer;                  5
    The region of his inner spirit teems
    With vital sounds and monitory gleams
    Of high astonishment and pleasing fear.
    He the seven birds hath seen, that never part,
    Seen the SEVEN WHISTLERS in their nightly rounds,           10
    And counted them: and oftentimes will start--
    For overhead are sweeping GABRIEL'S HOUNDS[A]
    Doomed, with their impious Lord, the flying Hart
    To chase for ever, on aerial grounds!


To bring all the poems referring to Coleorton together, so far as
possible, this and the next sonnet are transferred from their places in
the chronological list, and placed beside the Coleorton "Inscriptions."

I am indebted to Mr. William Kelly of Leicester for the following note
on the Leicestershire superstition of the Seven Whistlers.

  "There is an old superstition, which it is not easy to get to the
  bottom of, concerning a certain cry or sound heard in the night,
  supposed to be produced by the Seven Whistlers. What or who those
  whistlers are is an unsolved problem. In some districts they are
  popularly believed to be witches, in others ghosts, in others
  devils, while in the Midland Counties they are supposed to be
  birds, either plovers or martins--some say swifts. In
  Leicestershire it is deemed a bad omen to hear the Seven
  Whistlers, and our old writers supply many passages illustrative
  of the popular credulity. Spenser, in his _Faerie Queene_, book
  II. canto xii. stanza 36, speaks of

      The whistler shrill, that whoso hears doth die.

  Sir Walter Scott, in _The Lady of the Lake_, names the bird with
  which his character associated the cry--

      And in the plover's shrilly strain
      The signal whistlers heard again.

  "When the colliers of Leicestershire are flush of money, we are
  told, and indulge in a drinking bout, they sometimes hear the
  warning voice of the Seven Whistlers, get sobered and frightened,
  and will not descend the pit again till next day. Wordsworth
  speaks of a countryman who

             ... the seven birds hath seen, that never part,
      Seen the Seven Whistlers in their nightly rounds,
      And counted them.

  "A few years ago, during a thunderstorm which passed over
  Leicestershire, and while vivid lightning was darting through the
  sky, immense flocks of birds were seen flying about, uttering
  doleful, affrighted cries as they passed, and keeping up for a
  long time a continual whistling like that made by some kinds of
  sea-birds. The number must have been immense, for the local
  newspapers mentioned the same phenomenon in different parts of the
  neighbouring counties of Northampton, Leicester, and Lincoln. A
  gentleman, conversing with a countryman on the following day,
  asked him what kind of birds he supposed them to have been. The
  man answered, 'They are what we call the Seven Whistlers,' and
  added that 'whenever they are heard it is considered a sign of
  some great calamity, and that the last time he had heard them was
  on the night before the deplorable explosion of fire damp at the
  Hartley Colliery.'"

In _Notes and Queries_ there are several allusions to this local
superstition. In the Fifth Series (vol. ii. p. 264), Oct. 3, 1874, the
editor gives a summary of several notes on the subject in vol. viii. of
the Fourth Series (pp. 68, 134, 196, and 268), with additional
information. He says "record was made of their having been heard in
Leicestershire; and that the develin or martin, the swift, and the
plover were probably of the whistling fraternity that frightened men. At
p. 134 it was shown that Wordsworth had spoken of one who

           ... the seven birds hath seen, that never part,
      Seen the Seven Whistlers in their nightly rounds,
      And counted them.

On the same page, the swift is said to be the true whistler (but, as
noted at page 196, the swifts never make nightly rounds), and the
superstition is said to be common in our Midland Counties. At page 268,
Mr. Pearson put on record that in Lancashire the plovers, whistling as
they fly, are accounted heralds of ill, though sometimes of trivial
accident, and that they are there called 'Wandering Jews,' and are said
to be, or to carry with them, the ever-restless souls of those Jews who
assisted at the Crucifixion. At page 336, the whistlers are chronicled
as having been the harbingers of the great Hartley Colliery explosion. A
correspondent, VIATOR, added, that on the Bosphorus there are flocks of
birds, the size of a thrush, which fly up and down the channel, and are
never seen to rest on land or water. The men who rowed Viator's caique
told him that they were the souls of the damned, condemned to perpetual
motion. The Seven Whistlers have not furnished chroniclers with later
circumstances of their tuneful and awful progresses till a week or two
ago.... The whistlers are also heard and feared in Portugal. See _The
New Quarterly_ for July 1874, for a record of some travelling experience
in that country."

Another extract from _Notes and Queries_ is to the following effect:--

  "'Your Excellency laughs at ghosts. But there is no lie about the
  Seven Whistlers. Many a man besides me has heard them.'

  "'Who are the Seven Whistlers? and have you seen them yourself?'

  "'Not seen, thank Heaven; but I have heard them plenty of times.
  Some say they are the ghosts of children unbaptized, who are to
  know no rest till the judgment day. Once last winter I was going
  with donkeys and a mule to Caia. Just at the moment I stopped by
  the river bank to tighten the mule's girth, I heard the accursed
  whistlers coming down the wind along the river. I buried my head
  under the mule, and never moved till the danger was over; but they
  passed very near, for I heard the flap and rustle of their wings.'

  "'What was the danger?'

  "'If a man once sees them, heaven only knows what will not happen
  to him--death and damnation at the very least.'

  "'I have seen them many times. I shot, or tried to shoot them!'

  "'Holy Mother of God! you English are an awful people! You shot
  the Seven Whistlers?'

  "'Yes; we call them marecos (teal or widgeon) in our country, and
  shoot them whenever we can. They are better to eat than wild
  ducks.'"

_Gabriel's Hounds._--"At Wednesbury in Staffordshire, the colliers going
to their pits early in the morning hear the noise of a pack of hounds in
the air, to which they give the name of Gabriel's Hounds, though the
more sober and judicious take them only to be wild geese making this
noise in their flight." Kennet MS., Lansd. 1033. (See Halliwell's
_Dictionary of Archaic and Provincial Words_, vol. i. p. 388.) The
peculiar cry or cackle, both of the Brent Goose and of the Bean or
Harvest Goose (_Anser Segetum_), has often been likened to that of a
pack of hounds in full cry--especially when the birds are on the wing
during night. For some account of the superstition of "Gabriel's
Hounds," see _Notes and Queries_, First Series, vol. v. pp. 534 and 596;
and vol. xii. p. 470; Second Series, vol. i. p. 80; and Fourth Series,
vol. vii. p. 299. In the last note these hounds are said to be popularly
believed to be "the souls of unbaptized children wandering in the air
till the day of judgment." They are also explained as "a thing in the
air, that is said in these parts (Sheffield) to foretell calamity,
sounding like a great pack of beagles in full cry." This quotation is
from Charles Reade's _Put yourself in his place_, which contains many
scraps of local folk-lore. The following is from the _Statistical
History of Kirkmichael_, by the Rev. John Grant. "In the autumnal
season, when the moon shines from a serene sky, often is the wayfaring
traveller arrested by the music of the hills. Often struck with a more
sober scene, he beholds the visionary hunters engaged in the chase, and
pursuing the deer of the clouds, while the hollow rocks in long
sounding echoes reverberate their cries." "There are several now living
who assert that they have seen and heard this aerial hunting." See the
_Statistical History of Scotland_, edited by Sir J. Sinclair, vol. xii.
pp. 461, 462. Compare note to _An Evening Walk_, vol. i. p. 19.--ED.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] Both these superstitions are prevalent in the midland Counties of
England: that of "Gabriel's Hounds" appears to be very general over
Europe; being the same as the one upon which the German Poet, Buerger,
has founded his Ballad of _The Wild Huntsman_.--W. W. 1807.




COMPOSED BY THE SIDE OF GRASMERE LAKE. 1807

Composed 1806.--Published 1819


This sonnet was first published along with _The Waggoner_ in 1819. In
1820 it was classed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets," and in 1827 it
was transferred to the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty." Previous to 1837
this sonnet had no title.--ED.


    Clouds, lingering yet, extend[1] in solid bars
    Through the grey west; and lo! these waters, steeled
    By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield
    A vivid repetition[2] of the stars;
    Jove, Venus, and the ruddy crest of Mars                     5
    Amid his fellows beauteously revealed
    At happy distance from earth's groaning field,
    Where ruthless mortals wage incessant wars.
    Is it a mirror?--or the nether Sphere
    Opening to view the abyss in which she feeds                10
    Her own calm fires?[3]--But list! a voice is near;
    Great Pan himself low-whispering through the reeds,
    "Be thankful, thou; for, if unholy deeds
    Ravage the world, tranquillity is here!"


VARIANTS:

[1] 1827.

      Eve's lingering clouds extend ...          MS. and 1819.

[2] 1819.

      A bright re-duplication ...                          MS.

[3] 1837.

      Opening a vast abyss, while fancy feeds
      On the rich show? ...                                MS.

      Opening its vast abyss, ...                        1819.

      Opening to view the abyss in which it feeds
      Its own calm fires?-- ...                          1827.




IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON, THE SEAT OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART.,
  LEICESTERSHIRE

Composed 1808.--Published 1815


[In the grounds of Coleorton these verses are engraved on a stone placed
near the Tree, which was thriving and spreading when I saw it in the
summer of 1841.--I. F.]

Included among the "Inscriptions."--ED.


    The embowering rose, the acacia, and the pine,
    Will[1] not unwillingly their place resign;
    If but the Cedar thrive that near them stands,
    Planted by Beaumont's and by Wordsworth's hands.
    One wooed the silent Art with studious pains:                5
    These groves have heard the Other's pensive strains;
    Devoted thus, their spirits did unite
    By interchange of knowledge and delight.
    May Nature's kindliest powers sustain the Tree,
    And Love protect it from all injury!                        10
    And when its potent branches, wide out-thrown,
    Darken the brow of this memorial Stone,
    [2]Here may some Painter sit in future days,
    Some future Poet meditate his lays;
    Not mindless of that distant age renowned                   15
    When Inspiration hovered o'er this ground,
    The haunt of him who sang how spear and shield
    In civil conflict met on Bosworth-field;
    And of that famous Youth, full soon removed
    From earth, perhaps by Shakspeare's self approved,          20
    Fletcher's Associate, Jonson's Friend beloved.


About twelve years after the last visit of Wordsworth to Coleorton,
referred to in the Fenwick note--of which the date should, I think, be
1842, not 1841--this cedar tree fell, uprooted during a storm. It was,
however, as the Coleorton gardener who was then on the estate told me,
replanted with much labour, and protected with care; although, the top
branches being injured, it was never quite the same as it had been.
During the night of the great storm on the 13th October 1880, however,
it fell a second time, and perished irretrievably. The memorial stone
remains, injured a good deal by the wear and tear of time; and the
inscription is more than half obliterated. It is in a situation much
more exposed to the elements than the other two inscriptions at
Coleorton. He

                 who sang how spear and shield
      In civil conflict met on Bosworth-field,

was Sir John Beaumont, the brother of the dramatist, who wrote a poem on
the battle of Bosworth. (See one of Wordsworth's notes to the _Song at
the Feast of Brougham Castle_, p. 84.) The

               famous Youth, full soon removed
      From earth,

was Francis Beaumont, the dramatist, who wrote in conjunction with
Fletcher. He died at the age of twenty-nine.

In an undated letter addressed to Sir George Beaumont, Wordsworth wrote,
"I like your ancestor's verses the more, the more I see of them. They
are manly, dignified, and extremely harmonious. I do not remember in any
author of that age such a series of well-tuned couplets."

In another letter written from Grasmere (probably in 1811) to Sir
George, he says in reference to his own poems, "These inscriptions have
all one fault, they are too long; but I was unable to do justice to the
thoughts in less room. The second has brought Sir John Beaumont and his
brother Francis so livelily to my mind that I recur to the plan of
republishing the former's poems, perhaps in connection with those of
Francis."

On November 16, 1811, he wrote to him again, "I am glad that the
inscriptions please you. It did always appear to me, that inscriptions,
particularly those in verse, or in a dead language, were never supposed
_necessarily_ to be the composition of those in whose name they
appeared. If a more striking or more dramatic effect could be produced,
I have always thought, that in an epitaph or memorial of any kind, a
father or husband, etc., might be introduced speaking, without any
absolute deception being intended; that is, the reader is understood to
be at liberty to say to himself,--these verses, or this Latin, may be
the composition of some unknown person, and not that of the father,
widow, or friend, from whose hand or voice they profess to proceed.... I
have altered the verses, and I have only to regret that the alteration
is not more happily done. But I never found anything more difficult. I
wished to preserve the expression _patrimonial grounds_,[A] but I found
this impossible, on account of the awkwardness of the pronouns, he and
his, as applied to Reynolds, and to yourself. This, even when it does
not produce confusion, is always inelegant. I was, therefore, obliged to
drop it; so that we must be content, I fear, with the inscription as it
stands below. I hope it will do. I tried a hundred different ways, but
cannot hit upon anything better...."--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1815.

      Shall ...                                          1820.

    The text of 1827 returns to that of 1815.

[2]   And to a favourite resting-place invite,
      For coolness grateful and a sober light;

    Inserted only in the editions of 1815 and 1820, and in a MS. letter
    to Sir George Beaumont, 1811.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] See p. 79, l. 13.--ED.




IN A GARDEN OF THE SAME

Composed 1811.--Published 1815


[This Niche is in the sandstone-rock in the winter-garden at Coleorton,
which garden, as has been elsewhere said, was made under our direction
out of an old unsightly quarry. While the labourers were at work, Mrs.
Wordsworth, my sister and I used to amuse ourselves occasionally in
scooping this seat out of the soft stone. It is of the size, with
something of the appearance, of a stall in a Cathedral. This inscription
is not engraven, as the former and the two following are, in the
grounds.--I. F.]

Classed by Wordsworth among his "Inscriptions."--ED.


    Oft is the medal faithful to its trust
    When temples, columns, towers, are laid in dust;
    And 'tis a common ordinance of fate
    That things obscure and small outlive the great:
    Hence, when yon mansion and the flowery trim                 5
    Of this fair garden, and its alleys dim,
    And all its stately trees, are passed away,
    This little Niche, unconscious of decay,
    Perchance may still survive. And be it known
    That it was scooped within[1] the living stone,--           10
    Not by the sluggish and ungrateful pains
    Of labourer plodding for his daily gains,
    But by an industry that wrought in love;
    With help from female hands, that proudly strove[2]
    To aid the work, what time these walks and bowers           15
    Were shaped to cheer dark winter's lonely hours.[3]


This niche is still to be seen, although not quite "unconscious of
decay." The growth of yew-trees, over and around it, has darkened the
seat; and constant damp has decayed the soft stone. The niche having
been scooped out by Mrs. Wordsworth and Dorothy, as well as by
Wordsworth, suggests the cutting of the inscriptions on the Rock of
Names in 1800, in which they all took part. (See vol. iii. pp. 61, 62.)
On his return to Grasmere from Coleorton, Wordsworth wrote thus to Sir
George Beaumont, in an undated letter, about this inscription:--"What
follows I composed yesterday morning, thinking there might be no
impropriety in placing it so as to be visible only to a person sitting
within the niche, which is hollowed out of the sandstone in the
winter-garden. I am told that this is, in the present form of the
niche, impossible; but I shall be most ready, when I come to Coleorton,
to scoop out a place for it, if Lady Beaumont think it worth while."
Then follows the--

                   INSCRIPTION.

      Oft is the medal faithful to its trust.

On Nov. 16, 1811, writing again to Sir George on this subject of the
"Inscriptions," and evidently referring to this one on the "Niche," he
says, "As to the 'Female,' and 'Male,' I know not how to get rid of it;
for that circumstance gives the recess an appropriate interest.... On
this account, the lines had better be suppressed, for it is not
improbable that the altering of them might cost me more trouble than
writing a hundred fresh ones."--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1815.

      That it was fashioned in ...                         MS.

[2] 1815.

      But by prompt hands of Pleasure and of Love,
      Female and Male; that emulously strove               MS.

[3] 1827.

      To shape the work, what time these walks and bowers
      Were framed to cheer dark winter's lonely hours.   1815.

      ... bleak ...                                        MS.




WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART., AND IN HIS NAME,
  FOR AN URN, PLACED BY HIM AT THE TERMINATION OF A NEWLY-PLANTED
  AVENUE, IN THE SAME GROUNDS

Composed 1808.--Published 1815


One of the "Inscriptions."--ED.


    Ye Lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed Urn,
    Shoot forth with lively power at Spring's return;
    And be not slow a stately growth to rear
    Of pillars, branching off from year to year,
    Till they have learned to frame a darksome aisle;--          5
    That may recal to mind that awful Pile[1]
    Where Reynolds, 'mid our country's noblest dead,
    In the last sanctity of fame is laid.
    --There, though by right the excelling Painter sleep
    Where Death and Glory a joint sabbath keep,                 10
    Yet not the less his Spirit would hold dear
    Self-hidden praise, and Friendship's private tear:
    Hence, on my patrimonial grounds, have I
    Raised this frail tribute to his memory;
    From youth a zealous follower of the Art[2]                 15
    That he professed; attached to him in heart;
    Admiring, loving, and with grief and pride
    Feeling what England lost when Reynolds died.


These Lime-trees now form "a stately growth of pillars," "a darksome
aisle"; and the urn remains, as set up in 1807, at the end of the
avenue.

The "awful Pile," where Reynolds lies, and where--

      ... Death and Glory a joint sabbath keep,

is, of course, Westminster Abbey.

After Wordsworth's return from Coleorton and Stockton to Grasmere, he
wrote thus to Sir George Beaumont:--

  "MY DEAR SIR GEORGE,

  "Had there been room at the end of the small avenue of lime-trees
  for planting a spacious circle of the same trees, the Urn might
  have been placed in the centre, with the inscription thus altered,

      "Ye lime-trees ranged around this hallowed urn,
      Shoot forth with lively power at spring's return!
      And be not slow a stately growth to rear,
      Bending your docile boughs from year to year,
      Till in a solemn concave they unite;
      Like that Cathedral Dome beneath whose height
      Reynolds, among our country's noble Dead,
      In the last sanctity of fame is laid.
      Here may some Painter sit in future days.
      Some future poet meditate his lays!
      Not mindless of that distant age, renowned,
      When inspiration hovered o'er this ground,
      The haunt of him who sang, how spear and shield
      In civil conflict met on Bosworth field,
      And of that famous youth (full soon removed
      From earth!) by mighty Shakespeare's self approved,
      Fletcher's associate, Jonson's friend beloved.

  "The first couplet of the above, as it before stood, would have
  appeared ludicrous, if the stone had remained after the trees
  might have been gone. The couplet relating to the household
  virtues did not accord with the painter and the poet; the former
  being allegorical figures; the latter, living men."

This letter--which is not now in the Beaumont collection at Coleorton
Hall--seems to imply that Wordsworth thought of combining the first
couplet on the Urn with the last nine lines of the inscription for the
stone behind the Cedar tree. But this was never carried out. The
inscriptions are printed in the text as they were carved at
Coleorton.--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1820.

      Till ye have framed, at length, a darksome aisle,
      Like a recess within that sacred pile

    MS. letter to Sir George Beaumont, 1811.

      Till they at length have framed a darksome Aisle;--
      Like a recess within that awful Pile               1815.

[2] 1815.

      Hence, an obscure Memorial, without blame,
      In these domestic Grounds, may bear his name;
      Unblamed this votive Urn may oft renew
      Some mild sensations to his Genius due
      From One--a humble Follower of the Art

    Five lines instead of three in MS. letter to Sir George Beaumont,
    16th November, 1811.




FOR A SEAT IN THE GROVES OF COLEORTON

Composed November 19, 1811.--Published 1815


One of the "Inscriptions."--ED.


    Beneath yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound,
    Rugged and high, of Charnwood's forest ground,
    Stand yet, but, Stranger! hidden from thy view
    The ivied Ruins of forlorn GRACE DIEU;
    Erst a religious House, which[1] day and night               5
    With hymns resounded, and the chanted rite:
    And when those rites had ceased, the Spot gave birth
    To honourable Men of various worth:[2]
    There, on the margin of a streamlet wild,
    Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager child;                 10
    There, under shadow of the neighbouring rocks,
    Sang youthful tales of shepherds and their flocks;
    Unconscious prelude to heroic themes,
    Heart-breaking tears, and melancholy dreams
    Of slighted love, and scorn, and jealous rage,              15
    With which his genius shook[3] the buskined stage.
    Communities are lost, and Empires die,
    And things of holy use unhallowed lie;[A]
    They perish;--but the Intellect can raise,[4]
    From airy words alone, a Pile that ne'er decays.            20


Charnwood forest, in Leicestershire, is an almost treeless wold of
between fifteen and sixteen thousand acres. The

               eastern ridge, the craggy bound,
      Rugged and high,

refers probably to High Cadmon. The nunnery of Grace Dieu was a
religious house, in a retired spot near the centre of the forest; and
was built between 1236 and 1242. The English monasteries were suppressed
in 1536; but Grace Dieu, with thirty others of the smaller monasteries,
was allowed to continue some time longer. It was finally suppressed in
1539, when the site of the priory, with the demesne lands, was granted
to Sir Humphrey Foster, who conveyed the whole to John Beaumont. Francis
Beaumont, the dramatic poet, was born at Grace Dieu in 1586. He died in
1615, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.

"William and I went to Grace Dieu last week. We were enchanted with the
little valley and its nooks, and the rocks of Charnwood upon the
hill."--Dorothy Wordsworth to Lady Beaumont, November 17, 1806.

This "Inscription" was composed at Grasmere, November 19, 1811, as the
following extract from a letter of Wordsworth's to Lady Beaumont
indicates:--"Grasmere, Wednesday, November 20, 1811.--My Dear Lady
Beaumont--When you see this you will think I mean to overrun you with
inscriptions. I do not mean to tax you with putting them up, only with
reading them. The following I composed yesterday morning in a walk from
Brathay, whither I had been to accompany my sister:--

        FOR A SEAT IN THE GROVES OF COLEORTON.

      Beneath yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound.

The thought of writing this inscription occurred to me many years
ago."--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1820.

      ... that ...                                       1815.

[2] 1815.

      But, when the formal Mass had long been stilled,
      And wise and mighty changes were fulfilled;
      That Ground gave birth to men of various Parts
      For Knightly Services and liberal Arts.

    MS. letter to Lady Beaumont, 20th November, 1811.

[3] 1815.

      With which his skill inspired ...                    MS.

[4] 1815.

      But Truth and Intellectual Power can raise,

    MS. letter to Lady Beaumont, 20th November, 1811.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] In the editions of 1815 and 1820, Wordsworth appended the following
line from Daniel, as a note to the third last line of this "Inscription"--

      Strait all that holy was unhallowed lies.

                                         DANIEL.           ED.




SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE,

UPON THE RESTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD, THE SHEPHERD, TO THE ESTATES AND
  HONOURS OF HIS ANCESTORS

Composed 1807.--Published 1807


[See the note. This poem was composed at Coleorton while I was walking
to and fro along the path that led from Sir George Beaumont's
Farmhouse, where we resided, to the Hall, which was building at that
time.--I. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Imagination."--ED.


    High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate,
    And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song.--
    The words of ancient time I thus translate,
    A festal strain that hath been silent long:--

    "From town to town, from tower to tower,                     5
    The red rose is a gladsome flower.
    Her thirty years of winter past,
    The red rose is revived at last;
    She lifts her head for endless spring,
    For everlasting blossoming:[A]                              10
    Both roses flourish, red and white:
    In love and sisterly delight
    The two that were at strife are blended,
    And all old troubles[1] now are ended.--
    Joy! joy to both! but most to her                           15
    Who is the flower of Lancaster!
    Behold her how She smiles to-day
    On this great throng, this bright array!
    Fair greeting doth she send to all
    From every corner of the hall;                              20
    But chiefly from above the board
    Where sits in state our rightful Lord,
    A Clifford to his own restored!

      "They came with banner, spear, and shield;
    And it was proved in Bosworth-field.                        25
    Not long the Avenger was withstood--
    Earth helped him with the cry of blood:[B]
    St George was for us, and the might
    Of blessed Angels crowned the right.
    Loud voice the Land has[2] uttered forth,                   30
    We loudest in the faithful north:
    Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring,
    Our streams proclaim a welcoming;
    Our strong-abodes and castles see
    The glory of their loyalty.[3]                              35

      "How glad is Skipton at this hour--
    Though lonely, a deserted Tower;[4]
    Knight, squire, and yeoman, page and groom:[5]
    We have them at the feast of Brough'm.
    How glad Pendragon--though the sleep                        40
    Of years be on her!--She shall reap
    A taste of this great pleasure, viewing
    As in a dream her own renewing.
    Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem
    Beside her little humble stream;                            45
    And she that keepeth watch and ward
    Her statelier Eden's course to guard;
    They both are happy at this hour,
    Though each is but a lonely Tower:--
    But here is perfect joy and pride                           50
    For one fair House by Emont's side,
    This day, distinguished without peer
    To see her Master and to cheer--
    Him, and his Lady-mother dear!

      "Oh! it was a time forlorn                                55
    When the fatherless was born--
    Give her wings that she may fly,
    Or she sees her infant die!
    Swords that are with slaughter wild
    Hunt the Mother and the Child.                              60
    Who will take them from the light?
    --Yonder is a man in sight--
    Yonder is a house--but where?
    No, they must not enter there.
    To the caves, and to the brooks,                            65
    To the clouds of heaven she looks;
    She is speechless, but her eyes
    Pray in ghostly agonies.
    Blissful Mary, Mother mild,
    Maid and Mother undefiled,                                  70
    Save a Mother and her Child!

      "Now Who is he that bounds with joy
    On Carrock's side, a Shepherd-boy?
    No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass
    Light as the wind along the grass.                          75
    Can this be He who hither came
    In secret, like a smothered flame?
    O'er whom such thankful tears were shed
    For shelter, and a poor man's bread!
    God loves the Child; and God hath willed                    80
    That those dear words should be fulfilled,
    The Lady's words, when forced away
    The last she to her Babe did say:
    'My own, my own, thy Fellow-guest
    I may not be; but rest thee, rest,                          85
    For lowly shepherd's life is best!'

      "Alas! when evil men are strong
    No life is good, no pleasure long.
    The Boy must part from Mosedale's groves,
    And leave Blencathara's rugged coves,[C]                    90
    And quit the flowers that summer brings[D]
    To Glenderamakin's lofty springs;
    Must vanish, and his careless cheer
    Be turned to heaviness and fear.
    --Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise!                       95
    Hear it, good man, old in days!
    Thou tree of covert and of rest
    For this young Bird that is distrest;
    Among thy branches safe he lay,
    And he was free to sport and play,                         100
    When falcons were abroad for prey.

      "A recreant harp, that sings of fear
    And heaviness in Clifford's ear!
    I said, when evil men are strong,
    No life is good, no pleasure long,                         105
    A weak and cowardly untruth!
    Our Clifford was a happy Youth,
    And thankful through a weary time,
    That brought him up to manhood's prime.
    --Again he wanders forth at will,                          110
    And tends a flock from hill to hill:[6]
    His garb is humble; ne'er was seen
    Such garb with such a noble mien;
    Among the shepherd grooms no mate
    Hath he, a Child of strength and state!                    115
    Yet lacks not friends for simple[7] glee,
    Nor yet for higher sympathy.[8]
    To his side the fallow-deer
    Came, and rested without fear;
    The eagle, lord of land and sea,                           120
    Stooped down to pay him fealty;[E]
    And both the undying fish that swim
    Through Bowscale-tarn did wait on him;[F]
    The pair were servants of his eye
    In their immortality;                                      125
    And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright,
    Moved to and fro, for his delight.[9]
    He knew the rocks which Angels haunt
    Upon[10] the mountains visitant;
    He hath kenned[11] them taking wing:                       130
    And into caves[12] where Faeries sing
    He hath entered; and been told
    By Voices how men lived of old.
    Among the heavens his eye can see
    The face of thing[13] that is to be;                       135
    And, if that men report him right,
    His tongue could whisper words of might.[14]
    --Now another day is come,
    Fitter hope, and nobler doom;
    He hath thrown aside his crook,                            140
    And hath buried deep his book;
    Armour rusting in his halls
    On the blood of Clifford calls;--[G]
    'Quell the Scot,' exclaims the Lance--
    Bear me to the heart of France,                            145
    Is the longing of the Shield--
    Tell thy name, thou trembling Field;
    Field of death, where'er thou be,
    Groan thou with our victory!
    Happy day, and mighty hour,                                150
    When our Shepherd, in his power,
    Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword,
    To his ancestors restored
    Like a re-appearing Star,
    Like a glory from afar,                                    155
    First shall head the flock of war!"

    Alas! the impassioned minstrel did not know
    How, by Heaven's grace, this Clifford's heart was framed:
    How he, long forced in humble walks to go,[15]
    Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed.             160

    Love had he found in huts where poor men lie;
    His daily teachers had been woods and rills,
    The silence that is in[16] the starry sky,
    The sleep that is among the lonely hills.

    In him the savage virtue of the Race,                      165
    Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead:
    Nor did he change; but kept in lofty place
    The wisdom which adversity had bred.

    Glad were the vales, and every cottage-hearth;
    The Shepherd-lord was honoured more and more;              170
    And, ages after he was laid in earth,
    "The good Lord Clifford" was the name he bore.


The original text of this _Song_ was altered but little in succeeding
editions, and was not changed at all till 1836 and 1845. The following
is Wordsworth's explanatory note, appended to the poem in all the
editions:--

  "Henry Lord Clifford, etc. etc., who is the subject of this Poem,
  was the son of John, Lord Clifford, who was slain at Towton
  Field,[H] which John, Lord Clifford, as is known to the Reader of
  English History, was the person who after the battle of Wakefield
  slew, in the pursuit, the young Earl of Rutland, Son of the Duke
  of York who had fallen in the battle, 'in part of revenge' (say
  the Authors of the _History of Cumberland and Westmoreland_); 'for
  the Earl's Father had slain his.' A deed which worthily blemished
  the author (saith Speed); But who, as he adds, 'dare promise any
  thing temperate of himself in the heat of martial fury? chiefly,
  when it was resolved not to leave any branch of the York line
  standing; for so one maketh this Lord to speak.' This, no doubt, I
  would observe by the bye, was an action sufficiently in the
  vindictive spirit of the times, and yet not altogether so bad as
  represented; 'for the Earl was no child, as some writers would
  have him, but able to bear arms, being sixteen or seventeen years
  of age, as is evident from this (say the Memoirs of the Countess
  of Pembroke, who was laudably anxious to wipe away, as far as
  could be, this stigma from the illustrious name to which she was
  born); that he was the next Child to King Edward the Fourth, which
  his mother had by Richard Duke of York, and that King was then
  eighteen years of age: and for the small distance betwixt her
  Children, see Austin Vincent in his book of Nobility, page 622,
  where he writes of them all. It may further be observed, that Lord
  Clifford, who was then himself only twenty-five years of age, had
  been a leading Man and Commander, two or three years together in
  the Army of Lancaster, before this time; and, therefore, would be
  less likely to think that the Earl of Rutland might be entitled to
  mercy from his youth.--But, independent of this act, at best a
  cruel and savage one, the Family of Clifford had done enough to
  draw upon them the vehement hatred of the House of York: so that
  after the Battle of Towton there was no hope for them but in
  flight and concealment. Henry, the subject of the Poem, was
  deprived of his estate and honours during the space of twenty-four
  years; all which time he lived as a shepherd in Yorkshire, or in
  Cumberland, where the estate of his Father-in-law (Sir Lancelot
  Threlkeld) lay. He was restored to his estate and honours in the
  first year of Henry the Seventh. It is recorded that, 'when called
  to parliament, he behaved nobly and wisely; but otherwise came
  seldom to London or the Court; and rather delighted to live in the
  country, where he repaired several of his Castles, which had gone
  to decay during the late troubles.' Thus far is chiefly collected
  from Nicholson and Burn; and I can add, from my own knowledge,
  that there is a tradition current in the village of Threlkeld and
  its neighbourhood, his principal retreat, that, in the course of
  his shepherd life, he had acquired great astronomical knowledge. I
  cannot conclude this note without adding a word upon the subject
  of those numerous and noble feudal Edifices, spoken of in the
  Poem, the ruins of some of which are, at this day, so great an
  ornament to that interesting country. The Cliffords had always
  been distinguished for an honourable pride in these Castles; and
  we have seen that after the wars of York and Lancaster they were
  rebuilt; in the civil Wars of Charles the First, they were again
  laid waste, and again restored almost to their former magnificence
  by the celebrated Lady Anne Clifford, Countess of Pembroke, etc.
  etc. Not more than twenty-five years after this was done, when the
  Estates of Clifford had passed into the Family of Tufton, three of
  these Castles, namely Brough, Brougham, and Pendragon, were
  demolished, and the timber and other materials sold by Thomas Earl
  of Thanet. We will hope that, when this order was issued, the Earl
  had not consulted the text of Isaiah, 58th Chap. 12th Verse, to
  which the inscription placed over the gate of Pendragon Castle, by
  the Countess of Pembroke (I believe his Grandmother) at the time
  she repaired that structure, refers the reader. '_And they that
  shall be of thee shall build the old waste places; thou shalt
  raise up the foundations of many generations, and thou shalt be
  called the repairer of the breach, the restorer of paths to dwell
  in._' The Earl of Thanet, the present possessor of the Estates,
  with a due respect for the memory of his ancestors, and a proper
  sense of the value and beauty of these remains of antiquity, has
  (I am told) given orders that they shall be preserved from all
  depredations."

Compare the reference to the "Shepherd-lord" in the first canto of _The
White Doe of Rylstone_, p. 116, and the topographical allusions there,
with this _Song_. Compare also the life of Anne Clifford, in Hartley
Coleridge's _Lives of Distinguished Northerners_.

      _High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate,
      And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song._

Brougham Castle, past which the river Emont flows, is about two miles
out of Penrith, on the Appleby Road. It is now a ruin, but was once a
place of importance. The larger part of it was built by Roger, Lord
Clifford, son of Isabella de Veteripont, who placed over the inner door
the inscription, "This made Roger." His grandson added the eastern part.
The castle was frequently laid waste by the Scottish Bands, and during
the Wars of the Roses. The Earl of Cumberland entertained James I.
within it, in 1617, on the occasion of the king's last return from
Scotland; but it seems to have "layen ruinous" from that date, and to
have suffered much during the civil wars in the reign of Charles I. In
1651-52 it was repaired by Lady Anne Clifford, Countess Dowager of
Pembroke, who wrote thus--"After I had been there myself to direct the
building of it, did I cause my old decayed castle of Brougham to be
repaired, and also the tower called the "Roman Tower," in the same old
castle, and the court-house, for keeping my courts in, with some dozen
or fourteen rooms to be built in it upon the old foundation." (_Pembroke
Memoirs_, i. p. 216.) After the time of the Countess Anne, the castle
was neglected, and much of the stone, timber, and lead disposed of at
public sales: the wainscotting being purchased by the neighbouring
villagers.

      _Her thirty years of winter past,
      The red rose is revived at last._

This refers to the thirty years interval between 1455 (the first battle
of St. Albans in the wars of the Roses) and 1485 (the battle of Bosworth
and the accession of Henry VII.)

      _Both roses flourish, red and white_,

Alluding to the marriage of Henry VII. with Elizabeth, which united the
two warring lines of York and Lancaster.

      _And it was proved in Bosworth-field._

The battle of Bosworth Field, in Leicestershire, was fought in 1485.

      _Not long the Avenger was withstood--
      Earth helped him with the cry of blood._

Henry VII.--who, as Henry, Earl of Richmond, last scion of the line of
Lancaster, had fled to Brittany--returned with Morton, the exiled Bishop
of Ely, landed at Milford, advanced through Wales, and met the royal
army at Bosworth, where Richard was slain, and Henry crowned king on the
battlefield. The "cry of blood" refers, doubtless, to the murder of the
young princes in the Tower.

      _How glad is Skipton at this hour--
      Though lonely, a deserted Tower._

Skipton is the "capital" of the Craven district of Yorkshire, as Barrow
is the capital of the Furness district of Lancashire and Westmoreland.
The castle of Skipton was the chief residence of the Cliffords.
Architecturally it is of two periods: the round tower dating from the
reign of Edward II., and the rest from that of Henry VIII. From the time
of Robert de Clifford, who fell at Bannockburn (1314), until the
seventeenth century, the estates of the Cliffords extended from Skipton
to Brougham Castle--seventy miles--with only a short interruption of ten
miles. The "Shepherd-lord" Clifford of this poem was attainted--as
explained in Wordsworth's note--by the triumphant House of York. He was
"committed by his mother to the care of certain shepherds, whose wives
had served her," and who kept him concealed both in Cumberland, and at
Londesborough, in Yorkshire, where his mother's (Lady Margaret Vesci)
own estates lay. The old "Tower" of Skipton Castle was "deserted" during
these years when the "Shepherd-lord" was concealed in Cumberland.

      _How glad Pendragon--though the sleep
      Of years be on her!_

Pendragon Castle, in a narrow dell in the forest of Mallerstang, near
the source of the Eden, south of Kirkby-Stephen, was another of the
castles of the Cliffords. Its building was traditionally ascribed to
Uter Pendragon, of Stonehenge celebrity, who was fabled to have tried to
make the Eden flow round the castle of Pendragon: hence the distich--

      Let Uter Pendragon do what he can,
      Eden will run where Eden ran.

In the Countess of Pembroke's _Memoirs_ (vol. i. pp. 22, 228), we are
told that Idonea de Veteripont "made a great part of her residence in
Westmoreland at Brough Castle, near Stanemore, and at Pendragon Castle,
in Mallerstang." The castle was burned and destroyed by Scottish raiders
in 1341, and for 140 years it was in a ruinous state. It is probably to
this that reference is made in the phrase, "though the sleep of years be
on her." During the attainder of Henry Lord Clifford, in the reign of
Edward IV., part of this estate of Mallerstang was granted to Sir
William Parr of Kendal Castle. It was again destroyed during the civil
wars of the Stuarts, and was restored, along with Skipton and Brougham,
by Lady Anne Clifford, in 1660, who put up an inscription "... Repaired
in 1660, so as she came to lye in it herself for a little while in
October 1661, after it had lain ruinous without timber or any other
covering since 1541. Isaiah, chap. lviii. ver. 12." It was again
demolished in 1685.

      _Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem
      Beside her little humble stream._

Brough--the Verterae of the Romans--is called, for distinction's sake,
"Brough-under-Stainmore" (or "Stanemore"). The "little humble stream" is
Hillbeck, formerly Hellebeck--(it was said to derive its name from the
waters rushing or "helleing" down the channel)--which descends from
Warcop Fell, runs through Market Brough, and joins the Eden below it.
The date of the building of the castle of Brough is uncertain, but it is
probably older than the Conquest. It was sacked by the Scottish King
William in 1174. It was "one of the chief residences" of Idonea de
Veteripont (above referred to); for "then it was in its prime." (_Pemb.
Mem._, vol. i. p. 22.) Probably she rebuilt it, and changed it from a
tower--like Pendragon--into a castle. In the _Pembroke Memoirs_ (i. p.
108), we read of its subsequent destruction by fire. "A great misfortune
befell Henry Lord Clifford, some two years before his death, which
happened in 1521; his ancient and great castle of Brough-under-Stanemore
was set on fire by a casual mischance, a little after he had kept a
great Christmas there, so as all the timber and lead were utterly
consumed, and nothing left but the bare walls, which since are more and
more consumed, and quite ruinated." This same Countess Anne Pembroke
began to repair it in April 1660, "at her exceeding great charge and
cost." She put up an inscription over the gate similar to the one which
she inscribed at Pendragon.

      _And she that keepeth watch and ward
      Her statelier Eden's course to guard._

Doubtless Appleby Castle. Its origin is equally uncertain. Before 1422,
John Lord Clifford, "builded that strong and fine artificial gate-house,
all arched with stone, and decorated with the arms of the Veteriponts,
Cliffords, and Percys, which with several parts of the castle walls was
defaced and broken down in the civil war of 1648." His successor,
Thomas, Lord Clifford, "built the chiefest part of the castle towards
the east, as the hall, the chapel, and the great chamber." This was in
1454. The Countess Anne Pembroke wrote of Appleby Castle thus (_Pemb.
Mem._, vol. i. p. 187): "In 1651 I continued to live in Appleby Castle a
whole year, and spent much time in repairing it and Brougham Castle, to
make them as habitable as I could, though Brougham was very ruinous, and
much out of repair. And in this year, the 21st of April, I helped to lay
the foundation stone of the middle wall of the great tower of Appleby
Castle, called "Caesar's Tower," to the end it might be repaired again,
and made habitable, if it pleased God (Is. lviii. 12), after it had
stood without a roof or covering, or one chamber habitable in it, since
about 1567," etc. etc.

      _One fair House by Emont's side._

Brougham Castle.

      _Him, and his Lady-mother dear!_

Lady Margaret, daughter and heiress of Lord Vesci, who married John,
Lord Clifford--the Clifford of Shakespeare's _Henry VI._ He was killed
at Ferrybridge near Knottingley in 1461. Their son was Henry, "the
Shepherd-lord." His mother is buried in Londesborough Church, near
Market Weighton.

      _Now Who is he that bounds with joy
      On Carrock's side, a Shepherd-boy?_

Carrock-fell is three miles south-west from Castle Sowerby, in
Cumberland.

      _The Boy must part from Mosedale's groves,
      And leave Blencathara's rugged coves._

There are many "Mosedales" in the English Lake District. The one
referred to here is to the north of Blencathara or Saddleback.

      _And quit the flowers that summer brings
      To Glenderamakin's lofty springs._

The river Glenderamakin rises in the lofty ground to the north of
Blencathara.

      _--Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise!_
                      ...
      _Thou tree of covert and of rest
      For this young Bird that is distrest._

It was on Sir Lancelot Threlkeld's estates in Cumberland that the young
Lord was concealed, disguised as a shepherd-boy. He was the "tree of
covert" for the young "Bird" Henry Clifford. Compare _The Waggoner_, ll.
628-39 (vol. iii. p. 100)--

      And see, beyond that hamlet small,
      The ruined towers of Threlkeld-hall,
      Lurking in a double shade,
      By trees and lingering twilight made!
      There, at Blencathara's rugged feet,
      Sir Lancelot gave a safe retreat
      To noble Clifford; from annoy
      Concealed the persecuted boy,
      Well pleased in rustic garb to feed
      His flock, and pipe on shepherd's reed
      Among this multitude of hills,
      Crags, woodlands, waterfalls, and rills.

The old hall of Threlkeld has long been a ruin. Its only habitable part
has been a farmhouse for many years.

      _And both the undying fish that swim
      Through Bowscale-tarn did wait on him._

Bowscale Tarn is to the north of Blencathara. Its stream joins the
Caldew river.

      _And into caves where Faeries sing
      He hath entered._

Compare the previous reference to Blencathara's "rugged coves." There
are many such on this mountain.

      _Alas! the impassioned minstrel did not know
      How, by Heaven's grace, this Clifford's heart was framed:
      How he, long forced in humble walks to go,
      Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed._

After restoration to his ancestral estates, the Shepherd-lord preferred
to live in comparative retirement. He spent most of his time at Barden
Tower (see notes to _The White Doe of Rylstone_), which he enlarged, and
where he lived with a small retinue. He was much at Bolton (which was
close at hand), and there he studied astronomy and alchemy, aided by the
monks. It is to the time when he lived at Threlkeld, however--wandering
as a shepherd-boy, over the ridges and around the coves of Blencathara,
amongst the groves of Mosedale, and by the lofty springs of
Glenderamakin--that Wordsworth refers in the lines,

      _Love had he found in huts where poor men lie;
      His daily teachers had been woods and rills,
      The silence that is in the starry sky,
      The sleep that is among the lonely hills._

He was at Flodden in 1513, when nearly sixty years of age, leading there
the "flower of Craven."

      From Penigent to Pendle Hill,
        From Linton to long Addingham,
      And all that Craven's coasts did till,
        They with the lusty Clifford came.

Compare, in the first canto of _The White Doe of Rylstone_ (p. 117)--

                when he, with spear and shield,
      Rode full of years to Flodden-field.

He died in 1523, and was buried in the choir of Bolton Priory.

The following is Sarah Coleridge's criticism of the _Song at the Feast
of Brougham Castle_, in the editorial note to her father's _Biographia
Literaria_ (vol. ii. ch. ix. p. 152, ed. 1847):--

  "The transitions and vicissitudes in this noble lyric I have
  always thought rendered it one of the finest specimens of modern
  subjective poetry which our age has seen. The ode commences in a
  tone of high gratulation and festivity--a tone not only glad, but
  _comparatively_ even jocund and light-hearted. The Clifford is
  restored to the home, the honours and estates of his ancestors.
  Then it sinks and falls away to the remembrance of
  tribulation--times of war and bloodshed, flight and terror, and
  hiding away from the enemy--times of poverty and distress, when
  the Clifford was brought, a little child, to the shelter of a
  northern valley. After a while it emerges from those depths of
  sorrow--gradually rises into a strain of elevated tranquillity and
  contemplative rapture; through the power of imagination, the
  beautiful and impressive aspects of nature are brought into
  relationship with the spirit of him, whose fortunes and character
  form the subject of the piece, and are represented as gladdening
  and exalting it, whilst they keep it _pure and unspotted from the
  world_. Suddenly the Poet is carried on with greater animation and
  passion: he has returned to the point whence he started--flung
  himself back into the tide of stirring life and moving events.
  All is to come over again, struggle and conflict, chances and
  changes of war, victory and triumph, overthrow and desolation. I
  know nothing, in lyric poetry, more beautiful or affecting than
  the final transition from this part of the ode, with its rapid
  metre, to the slow elegiac stanzas at the end, when, from the
  warlike fervour and eagerness, the jubilant strain which has just
  been described, the Poet passes back into the sublime silence of
  Nature, gathering amid her deep and quiet bosom a more subdued and
  solemn tenderness than he had manifested before; it is as if from
  the heights of the imaginative intellect, his spirit had retreated
  into the recesses of a profoundly thoughtful Christian heart."

Professor Henry Reed said of this poem--"Had he never written another
ode, this alone would set him at the head of the lyric poets of
England."--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1815.

      ... sorrows ...                                    1807.

[2] 1827.

      ... hath ...                                       1807.

[3] 1807.

      ... royalty.                                       1815.

    The text of 1820 returns to that of 1807.

[4] 1845.

      Though she is but a lonely Tower!
      Silent, deserted of her best,
      Without an Inmate or a Guest,                      1807.

      Deserted, emptied of her best.                       MS.

      To vacancy and silence left;
      Of all her guardian sons bereft--                  1820.

[5] 1836.

      Knight, Squire, or Yeoman, Page, or Groom;         1807.

[6] 1807.

      ... on vale and hill:                                MS.

[7] 1845.

      ... solemn ...                                     1807.

[8] 1845. This line was previously three lines--

      And a chearful company,
      That learn'd of him submissive ways;
      And comforted his private days.                    1807.

      A spirit-soothing company,                         1836.

[9] 1836.

      They moved about in open sight,
      To and fro, for his delight.                       1807.

[10] 1836.

      On ...                                             1807.

[11] 1807.

      ... heard ...                                        MS.

[12] 1836.

      And the Caves ...                                  1807.

[13] 1836.

      Face of thing ...                                  1807.

[14] C. and 1840.

      And, if Men report him right,
      He can whisper words of might.                     1807.

      He could whisper ...                               1827.

      And, if that men report him right,
      He could whisper ...                               1836.

[15] 1845.

      Alas! the fervent Harper did not know
      That for a tranquil Soul the Lay was framed,
      Who, long compell'd in humble walks to go,         1807.

[16] 1807.

      ... of ...                                           MS.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare _Hudibras_, part II. canto i. ll. 567-8--

      That shall infuse Eternal Spring
      And everlasting flourishing.                         ED.

[B] This line is from _The Battle of Bosworth Field_, by Sir John
Beaumont (Brother to the Dramatist), whose poems are written with so
much spirit, elegance, and harmony, that it is supposed, as the Book is
very scarce, a new edition of it would be acceptable to Scholars and Men
of taste, and, accordingly, it is in contemplation to give one.--W. W.
1807.

Beaumont's line in _The Battle of Bosworth Field_ is--

      The earth assists thee with the cry of blood.        ED.

[C] "No three words could better describe the gulfs on the side of
Saddleback." (H. D. Rawnsley.)

[D] "Rugged patches of Hawkweed, golden rod, and white water ranunculus
in the pools." (H. D. Rawnsley.)

[E] The eagle nested in Borrowdale as late as 1785.--ED.

[F] It is imagined by the people of the Country that there are two
immortal Fish, Inhabitants of this Tarn, which lies in the mountains not
far from Threlkeld. Blencathara, mentioned before, is the old and proper
name of the mountain vulgarly called Saddle-back.--W. W. 1807.

[G] The martial character of the Cliffords is well known to the readers
of English History; but it may not be improper here to say, by way of
comment on these lines and what follows, that, besides several others
who perished in the same manner, the four immediate Progenitors of the
person in whose hearing this is supposed to be spoken, all died in the
Field.--W. W. 1807.

Compare _The Borderers_, act III. l. 56 (vol. i. p. 173)--

      They say, Lord Clifford is a savage man.             ED.

[H] He was killed at Ferrybridge the day before the battle of
Towton.--ED.




1808


The poems referring to Coleorton are all transferred to the year 1807,
and _The Force of Prayer_ was written in that year. Those composed in
1808 were few in number. With the exception of _The White Doe of
Rylstone_--to which additions were made in that year--they include only
the two sonnets _Composed while the Author was engaged in writing a
Tract, occasioned by the Convention of Cintra_, and the fragment on
_George and Sarah Green_. The latter poem Wordsworth gave to De Quincey,
who published it in his "Recollections of Grasmere," which appeared in
_Tait's Edinburgh Magazine_ in September 1839; but it never found a
place in any edition of Wordsworth's own poems. In this edition it is
printed in the appendix to volume viii.

The reasons which have led me to assign _The White Doe of Rylstone_ to
the year 1808, are stated in a note to the poem (see p. 191). I infer
that it was practically finished in April 1808, because Dorothy
Wordsworth, in a letter to Lady Beaumont, dated April 20, 1808, says,
"The poem is to be published. Longman has consented--in spite of the
odium under which my brother labours as a poet--to give him 100 guineas
for 1000 copies, according to his demand." She gives no indication of
the name of the poem referred to. As it must, however, have been one
which was to be published separately, she can only refer to _The White
Doe_ or to _The Excursion_; but the latter poem was not finished in
1808.

It is probable, from the remark made in a subsequent letter to Lady
Beaumont, February 1810, that Wordsworth intended either to add to what
he had written in 1808, or to alter some passages before publication; or
by "completing" the poem, he may have meant simply adding the
Dedication, which was not written till 1815.

All things considered, it seems the best arrangement that the poems of
1808 should begin with _The White Doe of Rylstone_. In the year 1891 I
edited this poem for the Clarendon Press. A few additional details have
come to light since then, and are introduced into the notes. S. T.
Coleridge's criticism of the poem in _Biographia Literaria_, vol. ii.
chap. xxii. p. 176 (edition 1817), should be consulted.--ED.




THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE;

OR, THE FATE OF THE NORTONS

Composed 1807-10.--Published 1815


ADVERTISEMENT

During the Summer of 1807, I visited, for the first time, the beautiful
country that surrounds Bolton Priory, in Yorkshire; and the Poem of the
WHITE DOE, founded upon a Tradition connected with that place, was
composed at the close of the same year.--W. W.[A]


[The earlier half of this poem was composed at Stockton-upon-Tees, when
Mrs. Wordsworth and I were on a visit to her eldest brother, Mr.
Hutchinson, at the close of the year 1807. The country is flat, and the
weather was rough. I was accustomed every day to walk to and fro under
the shelter of a row of stacks, in a field at a small distance from the
town, and there poured forth my verses aloud as freely as they would
come. Mrs. Wordsworth reminds me that her brother stood upon the
punctilio of not sitting down to dinner till I joined the party; and it
frequently happened that I did not make my appearance till too late, so
that she was made uncomfortable. I here beg her pardon for this and
similar transgressions during the whole course of our wedded life. To my
beloved sister the same apology is due.

When, from the visit just mentioned, we returned to Town-end, Grasmere,
I proceeded with the poem; and it may be worth while to note, as a
caution to others who may cast their eye on these memoranda, that the
skin having been rubbed off my heel by my wearing too tight a shoe,
though I desisted from walking, I found that the irritation of the
wounded part was kept up, by the act of composition, to a degree that
made it necessary to give my constitution a holiday. A rapid cure was
the consequence. Poetic excitement, when accompanied by protracted
labour in composition, has throughout my life brought on more or less
bodily derangement. Nevertheless, I am at the close of my seventy-third
year, in what may be called excellent health; so that intellectual
labour is not necessarily unfavourable to longevity. But perhaps I ought
here to add that mine has been generally carried on out of doors.

Let me here say a few words of this poem in the way of criticism. The
subject being taken from feudal times has led to its being compared to
some of Walter Scott's poems that belong to the same age and state of
society. The comparison is inconsiderate. Sir Walter pursued the
customary and very natural course of conducting an action, presenting
various turns of fortune, to some outstanding point on which the mind
might rest as a termination or catastrophe. The course I have attempted
to pursue is entirely different. Everything that is attempted by the
principal personages in _The White Doe_ fails, so far as its object is
external and substantial. So far as it is moral and spiritual it
succeeds. The heroine of the poem knows that her duty is not to
interfere with the current of events, either to forward or delay them,
but

                          to abide
      The shock, and finally secure
      O'er pain and grief a triumph pure.

This she does in obedience to her brother's injunction, as most suitable
to a mind and character that, under previous trials, has been proved to
accord with his. She achieves this not without aid from the
communication with the inferior Creature, which often leads her thoughts
to revolve upon the past with a tender and humanising influence that
exalts rather than depresses her. The anticipated beatification, if I
may so say, of her mind, and the apotheosis of the companion of her
solitude, are the points at which the Poem aims, and constitute its
legitimate catastrophe, far too spiritual a one for instant or
widely-spread sympathy, but not, therefore, the less fitted to make a
deep and permanent impression upon that class of minds who think and
feel more independently, than the many do, of the surfaces of things and
interests transitory, because belonging more to the outward and social
forms of life than to its internal spirit. How insignificant a thing,
for example, does personal prowess appear compared with the fortitude of
patience and heroic martyrdom; in other words, with struggles for the
sake of principle, in preference to victory gloried in for its own
sake.--I. F.]


                   DEDICATION

                       I

    In trellised shed with clustering roses gay,[B]
    And, MARY! oft beside our blazing fire,
    When years of wedded life were as a day
    Whose current answers to the heart's desire,
    Did we together read in Spenser's Lay                        5
    How Una, sad of soul--in sad attire,
    The gentle Una, of celestial birth,[1]
    To seek her Knight went wandering o'er the earth.


                       II

    Ah, then, Beloved! pleasing was the smart,
    And the tear precious in compassion shed                    10
    For Her, who, pierced by sorrow's thrilling dart,
    Did meekly bear the pang unmerited;
    Meek as that emblem of her lowly heart
    The milk-white Lamb which in a line she led,--[C]
    And faithful, loyal in her innocence,                       15
    Like the brave Lion slain in her defence.


                      III

    Notes could we hear as of a faery shell
    Attuned to words with sacred wisdom fraught;
    Free Fancy prized each specious miracle,
    And all its finer inspiration caught;                       20
    Till in the bosom of our rustic Cell,
    We by a lamentable change were taught
    That "bliss with mortal Man may not abide:"[D]
    How nearly joy and sorrow are allied!


                       IV

    For us the stream of fiction ceased to flow,                25
    For us the voice of melody was mute.
    --But, as soft gales dissolve the dreary snow,
    And give the timid herbage leave to shoot,
    Heaven's breathing influence failed not to bestow
    A timely promise of unlooked-for fruit,                     30
    Fair fruit of pleasure and serene content
    From blossoms wild of fancies innocent.


                       V

    It soothed us--it beguiled us--then, to hear
    Once more of troubles wrought by magic spell;
    And griefs whose aery motion comes not near                 35
    The pangs that tempt the Spirit to rebel:
    Then, with mild Una in her sober cheer,
    High over hill and low adown the dell
    Again we wandered, willing to partake
    All that she suffered for her dear Lord's sake.             40


                       VI

    Then, too, this Song _of mine_ once more could please,
    Where anguish, strange as dreams of restless sleep,
    Is tempered and allayed by sympathies
    Aloft ascending, and descending deep,
    Even to the inferior Kinds; whom forest-trees               45
    Protect from beating sunbeams, and the sweep
    Of the sharp winds;--fair Creatures!--to whom Heaven
    A calm and sinless life, with love, hath given.


                      VII

    This tragic Story cheered us; for it speaks
    Of female patience winning firm repose;                     50
    And, of the recompense that[2] conscience seeks,
    A bright, encouraging, example shows;
    Needful when o'er wide realms the tempest breaks,
    Needful amid life's ordinary woes;--
    Hence, not for them unfitted who would bless                55
    A happy hour with holier happiness.


                     VIII

    He serves the Muses erringly and ill,
    Whose aim is pleasure light and fugitive:
    O, that my mind were equal to fulfil
    The comprehensive mandate which they give--                 60
    Vain aspiration of an earnest will!
    Yet in this moral Strain a power may live,
    Beloved Wife! such solace to impart
    As it hath yielded to thy tender heart.

  RYDAL MOUNT, WESTMORELAND,
     _April 20, 1815_.


      "Action is transitory--a step, a blow,                    65
    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 has the nature of infinity.                             70
    Yet through that darkness (infinite though it seem
    And irremovable) gracious openings lie,
    By which the soul--with patient steps of thought
    Now toiling, wafted now on wings of prayer--
    May pass in hope, and, though from mortal bonds             75
    Yet undelivered, rise with sure ascent
    Even to the fountain-head of peace divine."[E]


  "They that deny a God, destroy Man's nobility: for certainly Man
  is of kinn to the Beast by his Body; and if he be not of kinn to
  God by his Spirit, he is a base ignoble Creature. It destroys
  likewise Magnanimity, and the raising of humane Nature: for take
  an example of a Dogg, and mark what a generosity and courage he
  will put on, when he finds himself maintained by a Man, who to him
  is instead of a God, or Melior Natura. Which courage is manifestly
  such, as that Creature without that confidence of a better Nature
  than his own could never attain. So Man, when he resteth and
  assureth himself upon Divine protection and favour, gathereth a
  force and faith which human Nature in itself could not obtain."

                               LORD BACON.[F]


    CANTO FIRST

    From Bolton's old monastic tower[G]
    The bells ring loud with gladsome power;
    The sun shines[3] bright; the fields are gay
    With people in their best array
    Of stole and doublet, hood and scarf,                        5
    Along the banks of crystal Wharf,[4]
    Through the Vale retired and lowly,
    Trooping to that summons holy.
    And, up among the moorlands, see
    What sprinklings of blithe company!                         10
    Of lasses and of shepherd grooms,
    That down the steep hills force their way,
    Like cattle through the budded brooms;
    Path, or no path, what care they?
    And thus in joyous mood they hie                            15
    To Bolton's mouldering Priory.[H]

      What would they there!--full fifty years
    That sumptuous Pile, with all its peers,
    Too harshly hath been doomed to taste
    The bitterness of wrong and waste:                          20
    Its courts are ravaged; but the tower
    Is standing with a voice of power,[I]
    That ancient voice which wont to call
    To mass or some high festival;
    And in the shattered fabric's heart                         25
    Remaineth one protected part;
    A Chapel, like a wild-bird's nest,
    Closely embowered and trimly drest;[5][J]
    And thither young and old repair,
    This Sabbath-day, for praise and prayer.                    30

      Fast the church-yard fills;--anon
    Look again, and they all are gone;
    The cluster round the porch, and the folk
    Who sate in the shade of the Prior's Oak![K]
    And scarcely have they disappeared                          35
    Ere the prelusive hymn is heard:--
    With one consent the people rejoice,
    Filling the church with a lofty voice!
    They sing a service which they feel:
    For 'tis the sunrise now of zeal;                           40
    Of a pure faith the vernal prime--[6]
    In great Eliza's golden time.

      A moment ends the fervent din,
    And all is hushed, without and within;
    For though the priest, more tranquilly,                     45
    Recites the holy liturgy,
    The only voice which you can hear
    Is the river murmuring near.
    --When soft!--the dusky trees between,
    And down the path through the open green,                   50
    Where is no living thing to be seen;
    And through yon gateway, where is found,
    Beneath the arch with ivy bound,
    Free entrance to the church-yard ground--
    [7]Comes gliding in with lovely gleam,                      55
    Comes gliding in serene and slow,
    Soft and silent as a dream,
    A solitary Doe!
    White she is as lily of June,
    And beauteous as the silver moon                            60
    When out of sight the clouds are driven
    And she is left alone in heaven;
    Or like a ship some gentle day
    In sunshine sailing far away,
    A glittering ship, that hath the plain                      65
    Of ocean for her own domain.

      Lie silent in your graves, ye dead!
    Lie quiet in your church-yard bed!
    Ye living, tend your holy cares;
    Ye multitude, pursue your prayers;                          70
    And blame not me if my heart and sight
    Are occupied with one delight!
    'Tis a work for sabbath hours
    If I with this bright Creature go:
    Whether she be of forest bowers,                            75
    From the bowers of earth below;
    Or a Spirit for one day given,
    A pledge[8] of grace from purest heaven.

      What harmonious pensive changes
    Wait upon her as she ranges                                 80
    Round and through this Pile of state
    Overthrown and desolate!
    Now a step or two her way
    Leads through[9] space of open day,
    Where the enamoured sunny light                             85
    Brightens her that was so bright;[L]
    Now doth a delicate shadow fall,
    Falls upon her like a breath,
    From some lofty arch or wall,
    As she passes underneath:                                   90
    Now some gloomy nook partakes
    Of the glory that she makes,--
    High-ribbed vault of stone, or cell,
    With perfect cunning framed as well
    Of stone, and ivy, and the spread                           95
    Of the elder's bushy head;
    Some jealous and forbidding cell,
    That doth the living stars repel,
    And where no flower hath leave to dwell.

      The presence of this wandering Doe                       100
    Fills many a damp obscure recess
    With lustre of a saintly show;
    And, reappearing, she no less
    Sheds on the flowers that round her blow
    A more than sunny liveliness.[10]                          105
    But say, among these holy places,
    Which thus assiduously she paces,
    Comes she with a votary's task,
    Rite to perform, or boon to ask?
    Fair Pilgrim! harbours she a sense                         110
    Of sorrow, or of reverence?
    Can she be grieved for quire or shrine,
    Crushed as if by wrath divine?
    For what survives of house where God
    Was worshipped, or where Man abode;                        115
    For old magnificence undone;
    Or for the gentler work begun
    By Nature, softening and concealing,
    And busy with a hand of healing?[M]
    Mourns she for lordly chamber's hearth                     120
    That to the sapling ash gives birth;
    For dormitory's length laid bare
    Where the wild rose blossoms fair;[N]
    Or altar, whence the cross was rent,
    Now rich with mossy ornament?[11]                          125
    --She sees a warrior carved in stone,
    Among the thick weeds, stretched alone;[O]
    A warrior, with his shield of pride
    Cleaving humbly to his side,
    And hands in resignation prest,                            130
    Palm to palm, on his tranquil breast;
    As little she regards the sight[12]
    As a common creature might:
    If she be doomed to inward care,
    Or service, it must lie elsewhere.                         135
    --But hers are eyes serenely bright,
    And on she moves--with pace how light!
    Nor spares to stoop her head, and taste
    The dewy turf with flowers bestrown;
    And thus she fares, until at last[13]                      140
    Beside the ridge of a grassy grave
    In quietness she lays her down;
    Gentle[14] as a weary wave
    Sinks, when the summer breeze hath died,
    Against an anchored vessel's side;                         145
    Even so, without distress, doth she
    Lie down in peace, and lovingly.

      The day is placid in its going,
    To a lingering motion bound,
    Like the crystal stream now flowing                        150
    With its softest summer sound:[15]
    So the balmy minutes pass,
    While this radiant Creature lies
    Couched upon the dewy grass,
    Pensively with downcast eyes.                              155
    --But now again the people raise
    With awful cheer a voice of praise;[16]
    It is the last, the parting song;
    And from the temple forth they throng,
    And quickly spread themselves abroad,                      160
    While each pursues his several road.
    But some--a variegated band
    Of middle-aged, and old, and young,
    And little children by the hand
    Upon their leading mothers hung--                          165
    With mute obeisance gladly paid
    Turn towards the spot, where, full in view,
    The white Doe, to her service true,[17]
    Her sabbath couch has made.

      It was a solitary mound;                                 170
    Which two spears' length of level ground
    Did from all other graves divide:
    As if in some respect of pride;
    Or melancholy's sickly mood,
    Still shy of human neighbourhood;                          175
    Or guilt, that humbly would express
    A penitential loneliness.

      "Look, there she is, my Child! draw near;
    She fears not, wherefore should we fear?
    She means no harm;"--but still the Boy,                    180
    To whom the words were softly said,
    Hung back, and smiled, and blushed for joy,
    A shamed-faced blush of glowing red!
    Again the Mother whispered low,
    "Now you have seen the famous Doe;                         185
    From Rylstone she hath found her way
    Over the hills this sabbath day;
    Her work, whate'er it be, is done,
    And she will depart when we are gone;
    Thus doth she keep, from year to year,                     190
    Her sabbath morning, foul or fair."

      [18]Bright was[19] the Creature, as in dreams
    The Boy had seen her, yea, more bright;
    But is she truly what she seems?
    He asks with insecure delight,                             195
    Asks of himself, and doubts,--and still
    The doubt returns against his will:
    Though he, and all the standers-by,
    Could tell a tragic history
    Of facts divulged, wherein appear                          200
    Substantial motive, reason clear,
    Why thus the milk-white Doe is found
    Couchant beside that lonely mound;
    And why she duly loves to pace
    The circuit of this hallowed place.                        205
    Nor to the Child's inquiring mind
    Is such perplexity confined:
    For, spite of sober Truth that sees
    A world of fixed remembrances
    Which to this mystery belong,                              210
    If, undeceived, my skill can trace
    The characters of every face,
    There lack not strange delusion here,
    Conjecture vague, and idle fear,
    And superstitious fancies strong,                          215
    Which do the gentle Creature wrong.

      That bearded, staff-supported Sire--
    Who in his boyhood often fed[20]
    Full cheerily on convent-bread
    And heard old tales by the convent-fire,                   220
    And to his grave will go with scars,
    Relics of long and distant wars--[21]
    That Old Man, studious to expound
    The spectacle, is mounting[22] high
    To days of dim antiquity;                                  225
    When Lady Aaeliza mourned
    Her Son,[P] and felt in her despair
    The pang of unavailing prayer;
    Her Son in Wharf's abysses drowned,
    The noble Boy of Egremound.[Q]                             230
    From which affliction--when the grace
    Of God had in her heart found place--[23]
    A pious structure, fair to see,
    Rose up, this stately Priory!
    The Lady's work;--but now laid low;                        235
    To the grief of her soul that doth come and go,
    In the beautiful form of this innocent Doe:
    Which, though seemingly doomed in its breast to sustain
    A softened remembrance of sorrow and pain,
    Is spotless, and holy, and gentle, and bright;             240
    And glides o'er the earth like an angel of light.

      Pass, pass who will, yon chantry door;[R]
    And, through the chink in the fractured floor
    Look down, and see a griesly sight;
    A vault where the bodies are buried upright![S]            245
    There, face by face, and hand by hand,
    The Claphams and Mauleverers stand;
    And, in his place, among son and sire,
    Is John de Clapham, that fierce Esquire,
    A valiant man, and a name of dread                         250
    In the ruthless wars of the White and Red;
    Who dragged Earl Pembroke from Banbury church
    And smote off his head on the stones of the porch!
    Look down among them, if you dare;
    Oft does the White Doe loiter there,                       255
    Prying into the darksome rent;
    Nor can it be with good intent:
    So thinks that Dame of haughty air,
    Who hath a Page her book to hold,
    And wears a frontlet edged with gold.                      260
    Harsh thoughts with her high mood agree--
    Who counts among her ancestry[24]
    Earl Pembroke, slain so impiously!

      That slender Youth, a scholar pale,
    From Oxford come to his native vale,                       265
    He also hath his own conceit:
    It is, thinks he, the gracious Fairy,
    Who loved the Shepherd-lord to meet[T]
    In his wanderings solitary:
    Wild notes she in his hearing sang,                        270
    A song of Nature's hidden powers;
    That whistled like the wind, and rang
    Among the rocks and holly bowers.
    'Twas said that She all shapes could wear;
    And oftentimes before him stood,                           275
    Amid the trees of some thick wood,
    In semblance of a lady fair;
    And taught him signs, and showed him sights,
    In Craven's dens, on Cumbrian[25] heights;
    When under cloud of fear he lay,                           280
    A shepherd clad in homely grey;
    Nor left him at his later day.
    And hence, when he, with spear and shield,
    Rode full of years to Flodden-field,
    His eye could see the hidden spring,                       285
    And how the current was to flow;
    The fatal end of Scotland's King,
    And all that hopeless overthrow.
    But not in wars did he delight,
    _This_ Clifford wished for worthier might;                 290
    Nor in broad pomp, or courtly state;
    Him his own thoughts did elevate,--
    Most happy in the shy recess
    Of Barden's lowly[26] quietness.[U]
    And choice of studious friends had he                      295
    Of Bolton's dear fraternity;
    Who, standing on this old church tower,
    In many a calm propitious hour,
    Perused, with him, the starry sky;
    Or, in their cells, with him did pry                       300
    For other lore,--by keen desire
    Urged to close toil with chemic fire;[27]
    In quest belike of transmutations
    Rich as the mine's most bright creations.[28]
    But they and their good works are fled,                    305
    And all is now disquieted--
    And peace is none, for living or dead!

      Ah, pensive Scholar, think not so,
    But look again at the radiant Doe!
    What quiet watch she seems to keep,                        310
    Alone, beside that grassy heap!
    Why mention other thoughts unmeet
    For vision so composed and sweet?
    While stand the people in a ring,
    Gazing, doubting, questioning;                             315
    Yea, many overcome in spite
    Of recollections clear and bright;
    Which yet do unto some impart
    An undisturbed repose of heart.
    And all the assembly own a law                             320
    Of orderly respect and awe;
    But see--they vanish one by one,
    And last, the Doe herself is gone.

      Harp! we have been full long beguiled
    By vague thoughts, lured by fancies wild;[29]              325
    To which, with no reluctant strings,
    Thou hast attuned thy murmurings;
    And now before this Pile we stand
    In solitude, and utter peace:
    But, Harp! thy murmurs may not cease--                     330
    A Spirit, with his angelic wings,
    In soft and breeze-like visitings,
    Has touched thee--and a Spirit's hand:[30]
    A voice is with us--a command
    To chant, in strains of heavenly glory,                    335
    A tale of tears, a mortal story!


    CANTO SECOND

    The Harp in lowliness obeyed;
    And first we sang of the green-wood shade
    And a solitary Maid;
    Beginning, where the song must end,
    With her, and with her sylvan Friend;                        5
    The Friend, who stood before her sight,
    Her only unextinguished light;
    Her last companion in a dearth
    Of love, upon a hopeless earth.

      For She it was--this Maid, who wrought[31]                10
    Meekly, with foreboding thought,
    In vermeil colours and in gold
    An unblest work; which, standing by,
    Her Father did with joy behold,--
    Exulting in its[32] imagery;                                15
    A Banner, fashioned to fulfil[33]
    Too perfectly his headstrong will:
    For on this Banner had her hand
    Embroidered (such her Sire's command)[34]
    The sacred Cross; and figured there                         20
    The five dear wounds our Lord did bear;
    Full soon to be uplifted high,
    And float in rueful company!

      It was the time when England's Queen                      24
    Twelve years had reigned, a Sovereign dread;[V]
    Nor yet the restless crown had been
    Disturbed upon her virgin head;
    But now the inly-working North
    Was ripe to send its thousands forth,
    A potent vassalage, to fight                                30
    In Percy's and in Neville's right,[W]
    Two Earls fast leagued in discontent,
    Who gave their wishes open vent;
    And boldly urged a general plea,
    The rites of ancient piety                                  35
    To be triumphantly restored,
    By the stern justice of the sword![35]
    And that same Banner on whose breast
    The blameless Lady had exprest
    Memorials chosen to give life                               40
    And sunshine to a dangerous strife;
    That[36] Banner, waiting for the Call,
    Stood quietly in Rylstone-hall.

      It came; and Francis Norton said,
    "O Father! rise not in this fray--                          45
    The hairs are white upon your head;
    Dear Father, hear me when I say
    It is for you too late a day!
    Bethink you of your own good name:
    A just and gracious queen have we,                          50
    A pure religion, and the claim
    Of peace on our humanity.--
    'Tis meet that I endure your scorn;
    I am your son, your eldest born;
    But not for lordship or for land,                           55
    My Father, do I clasp your knees;
    The Banner touch not, stay your hand,
    This multitude of men disband,
    And live at home in blameless[37] ease;
    For these my brethren's sake, for me;                       60
    And, most of all, for Emily!"

      Tumultuous noises filled the hall;[38]
    And scarcely could the Father hear
    That name--pronounced with a dying fall--[39][X]
    The name of his only Daughter dear,                         65
    As on[40] the banner which stood near
    He glanced a look of holy pride,
    And his moist[41] eyes were glorified;
    Then did he seize the staff, and say:[42]
    "Thou, Richard, bear'st thy father's name,                  70
    Keep thou this ensign till the day
    When I of thee require the same:
    Thy place be on my better hand;--
    And seven as true as thou, I see,
    Will cleave to this good cause and me."                     75
    He spake, and eight brave sons straightway
    All followed him, a gallant band!

      Thus, with his sons, when forth he came
    The sight was hailed with loud acclaim
    And din of arms and minstrelsy,[43]                         80
    From all his warlike tenantry,
    All horsed and harnessed with him to ride,--
    A voice[44] to which the hills replied!

      But Francis, in the vacant hall,
    Stood silent under dreary weight,--                         85
    A phantasm, in which roof and wall
    Shook, tottered, swam before his sight;
    A phantasm like a dream of night!
    Thus overwhelmed, and desolate,
    He found his way to a postern-gate;                         90
    And, when he waked, his languid eye[45]
    Was on the calm and silent sky;
    With air about him breathing sweet,
    And earth's green grass beneath his feet;
    Nor did he fail ere long to hear                            95
    A sound of military cheer,
    Faint--but it reached that sheltered spot;
    He heard, and it disturbed him not.

      There stood he, leaning on a lance
    Which he had grasped unknowingly,                          100
    Had blindly grasped in that strong trance,
    That dimness of heart-agony;
    There stood he, cleansed from the despair
    And sorrow of his fruitless prayer.
    The past he calmly hath reviewed:                          105
    But where will be the fortitude
    Of this brave man, when he shall see
    That Form beneath the spreading tree,
    And know that it is Emily?[46]

      He saw her where in open view                            110
    She sate beneath the spreading yew--
    Her head upon her lap, concealing
    In solitude her bitter feeling:
    [47]"Might ever son _command_ a sire,
    The act were justified to-day."                            115
    This to himself--and to the Maid,
    Whom now he had approached, he said--
    "Gone are they,--they have their desire;
    And I with thee one hour will stay,
    To give thee comfort if I may."                            120

      She heard, but looked not up, nor spake;
    And sorrow moved him to partake
    Her silence; then his thoughts turned round,[48]
    And fervent words a passage found.

      "Gone are they, bravely, though misled;                  125
    With a dear Father at their head!
    The Sons obey a natural lord;
    The Father had given solemn word
    To noble Percy; and a force
    Still stronger, bends him to his course.                   130
    This said, our tears to-day may fall
    As at an innocent funeral.
    In deep and awful channel runs
    This sympathy of Sire and Sons;
    Untried our Brothers have been loved[49]                   135
    With heart by simple nature moved;[50]
    And now their faithfulness is proved:
    For faithful we must call them, bearing
    That soul of conscientious daring.
    --There were they all in circle--there                     140
    Stood Richard, Ambrose, Christopher,
    John with a sword that will not fail,
    And Marmaduke in fearless mail,
    And those bright Twins were side by side;
    And there, by fresh hopes beautified,                      145
    Stood He,[51] whose arm yet lacks the power
    Of man, our youngest, fairest flower!
    I, by the right[52] of eldest born,
    And in a second father's place,
    Presumed to grapple with[53] their scorn,                  150
    And meet their pity face to face;
    Yea, trusting in God's holy aid,
    I to my Father knelt and prayed;
    And one, the pensive Marmaduke,
    Methought, was yielding inwardly,                          155
    And would have laid his purpose by,
    But for a glance of his Father's eye,
    Which I myself could scarcely brook.

      "Then be we, each and all, forgiven!
    Thou, chiefly thou,[54] my Sister dear,                    160
    Whose pangs are registered in heaven--
    The stifled sigh, the hidden tear,
    And smiles, that dared to take their place,
    Meek filial smiles, upon thy face,
    As that unhallowed Banner grew                             165
    Beneath a loving old Man's view.
    Thy part is done--thy painful part;
    Be thou then satisfied in heart!
    A further, though far easier, task
    Than thine hath been, my duties ask;                       170
    With theirs my efforts cannot blend,
    I cannot for such cause contend;
    Their aims I utterly forswear;
    But I in body will be there.
    Unarmed and naked will I go,                               175
    Be at their side, come weal or woe:
    On kind occasions I may wait,
    See, hear, obstruct, or mitigate.
    Bare breast I take and an empty hand."--[Y]
    Therewith he threw away the lance,                         180
    Which he had grasped in that strong trance;
    Spurned it, like something that would stand
    Between him and the pure intent
    Of love on which his soul was bent.

      "For thee, for thee, is left the sense                   185
    Of trial past without offence
    To God or man; such innocence,
    Such consolation, and the excess
    Of an unmerited distress;
    In that thy very strength must lie.                        190
    --O Sister, I could prophesy!
    The time is come that rings the knell
    Of all we loved, and loved so well:
    Hope nothing, if I thus may speak
    To thee, a woman, and thence weak:                         195
    Hope nothing, I repeat; for we
    Are doomed to perish utterly:
    'Tis meet that thou with me divide
    The thought while I am by thy side,
    Acknowledging a grace in this,                             200
    A comfort in the dark abyss.
    But look not for me when I am gone,
    And be no farther wrought upon:
    Farewell all wishes, all debate,
    All prayers for this cause, or for that!                   205
    Weep, if that aid thee; but depend
    Upon no help of outward friend;
    Espouse thy doom at once, and cleave
    To fortitude without reprieve.
    For we must fall, both we and ours--                       210
    This Mansion and these pleasant bowers,
    Walks, pools, and arbours, homestead, hall--
    Our fate is theirs, will reach them all;[Z]
    The young horse must forsake his manger,
    And learn to glory in a Stranger;                          215
    The hawk forget his perch; the hound
    Be parted from his ancient ground:
    The blast will sweep us all away--
    One desolation, one decay!
    And even this Creature!" which words saying,               220
    He pointed to a lovely Doe,
    A few steps distant, feeding, straying;
    Fair creature, and more white than snow!
    "Even she will to her peaceful woods
    Return, and to her murmuring floods,                       225
    And be in heart and soul the same
    She was before she hither came;
    Ere she had learned to love us all,
    Herself beloved in Rylstone-hall.
    --But thou, my Sister, doomed to be                        230
    The last leaf on a blasted tree;[55]
    If not in vain we breathed[56] the breath
    Together of a purer faith;
    If hand in hand we have been led,
    And thou, (O happy thought this day!)                      235
    Not seldom foremost in the way;
    If on one thought our minds have fed,
    And we have in one meaning read;
    If, when at home our private weal
    Hath suffered from the shock of zeal,                      240
    Together we have learned to prize
    Forbearance and self-sacrifice;
    If we like combatants have fared,
    And for this issue been prepared;
    If thou art beautiful, and youth                           245
    And thought endue thee with all truth--
    Be strong;--be worthy of the grace
    Of God, and fill thy destined place:
    A Soul, by force of sorrows high,
    Uplifted to the purest sky                                 250
    Of undisturbed humanity!"

      He ended,--or she heard no more;
    He led her from the yew-tree shade,
    And at the mansion's silent door,
    He kissed the consecrated Maid;                            255
    And down the valley then pursued,[57]
    Alone, the armed Multitude.


    CANTO THIRD

    Now joy for you who from the towers
    Of Brancepeth look in doubt and fear,[AA][58]
    Telling melancholy hours!
    Proclaim it, let your Masters hear
    That Norton with his band is near!                           5
    The watchmen from their station high
    Pronounced the word,--and the Earls descry,
    Well-pleased, the armed Company[59]
    Marching down the banks of Were.

      Said fearless Norton to the pair                          10
    Gone forth to greet[60] him on the plain
    "This meeting, noble Lords! looks fair,
    I bring with me a goodly train;
    Their hearts are with you: hill and dale
    Have helped us: Ure we crossed, and Swale,                  15
    And horse and harness followed--see
    The best part of their Yeomanry!
    --Stand forth, my Sons!--these eight are mine,
    Whom to this service I commend;
    Which way soe'er our fate incline,                          20
    These will be faithful to the end;
    They are my all"--voice failed him here--
    "My all save one, a Daughter dear!
    Whom I have left, Love's mildest birth,[61]
    The meekest Child on this blessed earth.                    25
    I had--but these are by my side,
    These Eight, and this is a day of pride!
    The time is ripe. With festive din
    Lo! how the people are flocking in,--
    Like hungry fowl to the feeder's hand                       30
    When snow lies heavy upon the land."

      He spake bare truth; for far and near
    From every side came noisy swarms
    Of Peasants in their homely gear;
    And, mixed with these, to Brancepeth came                   35
    Grave Gentry of estate and name,
    And Captains known for worth in arms;
    And prayed the Earls in self-defence
    To rise, and prove their innocence.--
    "Rise, noble Earls, put forth your might                    40
    For holy Church, and the People's right!"

      The Norton fixed, at this demand,
    His eye upon Northumberland,
    And said; "The Minds of Men will own
    No loyal rest while England's Crown                         45
    Remains without an Heir, the bait
    Of strife and factions desperate;
    Who, paying deadly hate in kind
    Through all things else, in this can find
    A mutual hope, a common mind;                               50
    And plot, and pant to overwhelm
    All ancient honour in the realm.
    --Brave Earls! to whose heroic veins
    Our noblest blood is given in trust,
    To you a suffering State complains,                         55
    And ye must raise her from the dust.
    With wishes of still bolder scope
    On you we look, with dearest hope;
    Even for our Altars--for the prize
    In Heaven, of life that never dies;                         60
    For the old and holy Church we mourn,
    And must in joy to her return.
    Behold!"--and from his Son whose stand
    Was on his right, from that guardian hand
    He took the Banner, and unfurled                            65
    The precious folds--"behold," said he,
    "The ransom of a sinful world;
    Let this your preservation be;
    The wounds of hands and feet and side,
    And the sacred Cross on which Jesus died!                   70
    --This bring I from an ancient hearth,
    These Records wrought in pledge of love
    By hands of no ignoble birth,
    A Maid o'er whom the blessed Dove
    Vouchsafed in gentleness to brood                           75
    While she the holy work pursued."
    "Uplift the Standard!" was the cry
    From all the listeners that stood round,
    "Plant it,--by this we live or die."
    The Norton ceased not for that sound,                       80
    But said; "The prayer which ye have heard,
    Much injured Earls! by these preferred,
    Is offered to the Saints, the sigh
    Of tens of thousands, secretly."
    "Uplift it!" cried once more the Band,                      85
    And then a thoughtful pause ensued:
    "Uplift it!" said Northumberland--
    Whereat, from all the multitude
    Who saw the Banner reared on high
    In all its dread emblazonry,                                90
    [62]A voice of uttermost joy brake out:
    The transport was rolled down the river of Were,
    And Durham, the time-honoured Durham, did hear,
    And the towers of Saint Cuthbert were stirred by the shout![BB]

      Now was the North in arms:--they shine                    95
    In warlike trim from Tweed to Tyne,
    At Percy's voice: and Neville sees
    His Followers gathering in from Tees,
    From Were, and all the little rills
    Concealed among the forked hills--                         100
    Seven hundred Knights, Retainers all
    Of Neville, at their Master's call
    Had sate together in Raby Hall![CC]
    Such strength that Earldom held of yore;
    Nor wanted at this time rich store                         105
    Of well-appointed chivalry.
    --Not both the sleepy lance to wield,
    And greet the old paternal shield,
    They heard the summons;--and, furthermore,
    Horsemen and Foot of each degree,[63]                      110
    Unbound by pledge of fealty,
    Appeared, with free and open hate
    Of novelties in Church and State;
    night, burgher, yeoman, and esquire;
    And Romish priest,[64] in priest's attire.                 115
    And thus, in arms, a zealous Band
    Proceeding under joint command,
    To Durham first their course they bear;
    And in Saint Cuthbert's ancient seat
    Sang mass,--and tore the book of prayer,--                 120
    And trod the bible beneath their feet.

      Thence marching southward smooth and free
    "They mustered their host at Wetherby,
    Full sixteen thousand fair to see;"[DD]
    The Choicest Warriors of the North!                        125
    But none for beauty and for worth[65]
    Like those eight Sons--who, in a ring,[66]
    (Ripe men, or blooming in life's spring)[67]
    Each with a lance, erect and tall,
    A falchion, and a buckler small,                           130
    Stood by their Sire, on Clifford-moor,[EE]
    [68]To guard the Standard which he bore.
    On foot they girt their Father round;
    And so will keep the appointed ground
    Where'er their march: no steed will he[69]                 135
    Henceforth bestride;--triumphantly,
    He stands upon the grassy sod,[70]
    Trusting himself to the earth, and God.
    Rare sight to embolden and inspire!
    Proud was the field of Sons and Sire;                      140
    Of him the most; and, sooth to say,
    No shape of man in all the array
    So graced the sunshine of that day.
    The monumental pomp of age
    Was with this goodly Personage;                            145
    A stature undepressed in size,
    Unbent, which rather seemed to rise,
    In open victory o'er the weight
    Of seventy years, to loftier[71] height;
    Magnific limbs of withered state;                          150
    A face to fear and venerate;
    Eyes dark and strong; and on his head
    Bright[72] locks of silver hair, thick spread,
    Which a brown morion half-concealed,
    Light as a hunter's of the field;                          155
    And thus, with girdle round his waist,
    Whereon the Banner-staff might rest
    At need, he stood, advancing high
    The glittering, floating Pageantry.

      Who sees him?--thousands see,[73] and One                160
    With unparticipated gaze;
    Who, 'mong those[74] thousands, friend hath none,
    And treads in solitary ways.
    He, following wheresoe'er he might,
    Hath watched the Banner from afar,                         165
    As shepherds watch a lonely star,
    Or mariners the distant light
    That guides them through[75] a stormy night.
    And now, upon a chosen plot
    Of rising ground, yon heathy spot!                         170
    He takes alone[76] his far-off stand,
    With breast unmailed, unweaponed hand.
    Bold is his aspect; but his eye
    Is pregnant with anxiety,
    While, like a tutelary Power,                              175
    He there stands fixed from hour to hour:
    Yet sometimes in more humble guise,
    Upon the turf-clad height he lies
    Stretched, herdsman-like, as if to bask
    In sunshine were his only task,[77]                        180
    Or by his mantle's help to find
    A shelter from the nipping wind:
    And thus, with short oblivion blest,
    His weary spirits gather rest.
    Again he lifts his eyes; and lo!                           185
    The pageant glancing to and fro;
    And hope is wakened by the sight,
    He[78] thence may learn, ere fall of night,
    Which way the tide is doomed to flow.

      To London were the Chieftains bent;                      190
    But what avails the bold intent?
    A Royal army is gone forth
    To quell the RISING OF THE NORTH;
    They march with Dudley at their head,
    And, in seven days' space, will to York be led!--
    Can such a mighty Host be raised                           196
    Thus suddenly, and brought so near?
    The Earls upon each other gazed,
    And Neville's cheek grew pale with fear;
    For, with a high and valiant name,                         200
    He bore a heart of timid frame;[79]
    And bold if both had been, yet they
    "Against so many may not stay."[FF]
    Back therefore will they hie to seize[80]
    A strong Hold on the banks of Tees;                        205
    There wait a favourable hour,
    Until Lord Dacre with his power
    From Naworth come;[81][GG] and Howard's aid
    Be with them openly displayed.

      While through the Host, from man to man,                 210
    A rumour of this purpose ran,
    The Standard trusting[82] to the care
    Of him who heretofore did bear
    That charge, impatient Norton sought
    The Chieftains to unfold his thought,                      215
    And thus abruptly spake;--"We yield
    (And can it be?) an unfought field!--
    How oft has strength, the strength of heaven,[83]
    To few triumphantly been given!
    Still do our very children boast                           220
    Of mitred Thurston--what a Host
    He conquered![HH]--Saw we not the Plain
    (And flying shall behold again)
    Where faith was proved?--while to battle moved
    The Standard, on the Sacred Wain                           225
    That bore it, compassed round by a bold
    Fraternity of Barons old;
    And with those grey-haired champions stood,
    Under the saintly ensigns three,
    The infant Heir of Mowbray's blood--                       230
    All confident of victory!--[84]
    Shall Percy blush, then, for his name?
    Must Westmoreland be asked with shame
    Whose were the numbers, where the loss,
    In that other day of Neville's Cross?[II]                  235
    When the Prior of Durham with holy hand
    Raised, as the Vision gave command,
    Saint Cuthbert's Relic--far and near
    Kenned on the point of a lofty spear;
    While the Monks prayed in Maiden's Bower                   240
    To God descending in his power.[85]
    Less would not at our need be due
    To us, who war against the Untrue;--
    The delegates of Heaven we rise,
    Convoked the impious to chastise:                          245
    We, we, the sanctities of old
    Would re-establish and uphold:
    Be warned"--His zeal the Chiefs confounded,[86]
    But word was given, and the trumpet sounded:
    Back through the melancholy Host                           250
    Went Norton, and resumed his post.
    Alas! thought he, and have I borne
    This Banner raised with joyful pride,[87]
    This hope of all posterity,
    By those dread symbols sanctified;[88]                     255
    Thus to become at once the scorn
    Of babbling winds as they go by,
    A spot of shame to the sun's bright eye,
    To the light[89] clouds a mockery!
    --"Even these poor eight of mine would stem"--
    Half to himself, and half to them                          261
    He spake--"would stem, or quell, a force
    Ten times their number, man and horse;
    This by their own unaided might,
    Without their father in their sight,                       265
    Without the Cause for which they fight;
    A Cause, which on a needful day
    Would breed us thousands brave as they."
    --So speaking, he his reverend head
    Raised towards that Imagery once more:[90]                 270
    But the familiar prospect shed
    Despondency unfelt before:
    A shock of intimations vain,
    Dismay,[91] and superstitious pain,
    Fell on him, with the sudden thought                       275
    Of her by whom the work was wrought:--
    Oh wherefore was her countenance bright
    With love divine and gentle light?
    She would not, could not, disobey,[92]
    But her Faith leaned another way.                          280
    Ill tears she wept; I saw them fall,
    I overheard her as she spake
    Sad words to that mute Animal,
    The White Doe, in the hawthorn brake;
    She steeped, but not for Jesu's sake,                      285
    This Cross in tears: by her, and One
    Unworthier far we are undone--
    Her recreant Brother--he prevailed
    Over that tender Spirit--assailed
    Too oft alas! by her whose head[93]                        290
    In the cold grave hath long been laid:
    She first, in reason's dawn beguiled
    Her docile, unsuspecting Child:[94]
    Far back--far back my mind must go
    To reach the well-spring of this woe!                      295

      While thus he brooded, music sweet
    Of border tunes was played to cheer
    The footsteps of a quick retreat;
    But Norton lingered in the rear,
    Stung with sharp thoughts; and ere the last                300
    From his distracted brain was cast,
    Before his Father, Francis stood,
    And spake in firm and earnest mood.[95]

      "Though here I bend a suppliant knee
    In reverence, and unarmed, I bear                          305
    In your indignant thoughts my share;
    Am grieved this backward march to see
    So careless and disorderly.
    I scorn your Chiefs--men who would lead,
    And yet want courage at their need:                        310
    Then look at them with open eyes!
    Deserve they further sacrifice?--
    If--when they shrink, nor dare oppose
    In open field their gathering foes,
    (And fast, from this decisive day,                         315
    Yon multitude must melt away;)
    If now I ask a grace not claimed
    While ground was left for hope; unblamed
    Be an endeavour that can do
    No injury to them or you.[96]                              320
    My Father! I would help to find
    A place of shelter, till the rage
    Of cruel men do like the wind
    Exhaust itself and sink to rest;
    Be Brother now to Brother joined!                          325
    Admit me in the equipage
    Of your misfortunes, that at least,
    Whatever fate remain[97] behind,
    I may bear witness in my breast
    To your nobility of mind!"                                 330

      "Thou Enemy, my bane and blight!
    Oh! bold to fight the Coward's fight
    Against all good"--but why declare,
    At length, the issue of a prayer
    Which love had prompted, yielding scope                    335
    Too free to one bright moment's hope?[98]
    Suffice it that the Son, who strove
    With fruitless effort to allay
    That passion, prudently gave way;[99]
    Nor did he turn aside to prove                             340
    His Brothers' wisdom or their love--
    But calmly from the spot withdrew;
    His best endeavours[100] to renew,
    Should e'er a kindlier time ensue.


    CANTO FOURTH

    'Tis night: in silence looking down,
    The Moon, from cloudless ether, sees[101]
    A Camp, and a beleaguered Town,
    And Castle like a stately crown
    On the steep rocks of winding Tees;--                        5
    And southward far, with moor between,
    Hill-top, and flood, and forest green,[102]
    The bright Moon sees that valley small
    Where Rylstone's old sequestered Hall
    A venerable image yields                                    10
    Of quiet to the neighbouring fields;
    While from one pillared chimney breathes
    The smoke, and mounts in silver wreaths.[103]
    --The courts are hushed;--for timely sleep
    The grey-hounds to their kennel creep;                      15
    The peacock in the broad ash tree
    Aloft is roosted for the night,
    He who in proud prosperity
    Of colours manifold and bright
    Walked round, affronting the daylight;                      20
    And higher still, above the bower
    Where he is perched, from yon lone Tower
    The hall-clock in the clear moonshine
    With glittering finger points at nine.

      Ah! who could think that sadness here                     25
    Hath[104] any sway? or pain, or fear?
    A soft and lulling sound is heard
    Of streams inaudible by day;[JJ]
    The garden pool's dark surface, stirred
    By the night insects in their play,                         30
    Breaks into dimples small and bright;
    A thousand, thousand rings of light
    That shape themselves and disappear
    Almost as soon as seen:--and lo!
    Not distant far, the milk-white Doe--                       35
    The same who quietly was feeding
    On the green herb, and nothing heeding,
    When Francis, uttering to the Maid[105]
    His last words in the yew-tree shade,
    Involved whate'er by love was brought                       40
    Out of his heart, or crossed his thought,
    Or chance presented to his eye,
    In one sad sweep of destiny--[106]
    The same fair Creature, who hath found
    Her way into forbidden ground;                              45
    Where now--within this spacious plot
    For pleasure made, a goodly spot,
    With lawns and beds of flowers, and shades
    Of trellis-work in long arcades,
    And cirque and crescent framed by wall                      50
    Of close-clipt foliage green and tall,
    Converging walks, and fountains gay,
    And terraces in trim array--
    Beneath yon cypress spiring high,
    With pine and cedar spreading wide                          55
    Their darksome boughs on either side,
    In open moonlight doth she lie;
    Happy as others of her kind,
    That, far from human neighbourhood,
    Range unrestricted as the wind,                             60
    Through park, or chase, or savage wood.

      But see the consecrated Maid
    Emerging from a cedar shade[107]
    To open moonshine, where the Doe
    Beneath the cypress-spire is laid;                          65
    Like a patch of April snow--
    Upon a bed of herbage green,
    Lingering in a woody glade
    Or behind a rocky screen--
    Lonely relic! which, if seen                                70
    By the shepherd, is passed by
    With an inattentive eye.
    Nor more regard doth She bestow
    Upon the uncomplaining Doe[108]
    Now couched at ease, though oft this day                    75
    Not unperplexed nor free from pain,
    When she had tried, and tried in vain,
    Approaching in her gentle way,
    To win some look of love, or gain
    Encouragement to sport or play;                             80
    Attempts which still the heart-sick Maid
    Rejected, or with slight repaid.[109]

      Yet Emily is soothed;--the breeze
    Came fraught with kindly sympathies.
    As she approached yon rustic Shed[110]                      85
    Hung with late-flowering woodbine, spread
    Along the walls and overhead,
    The fragrance of the breathing flowers
    Revived[111] a memory of those hours
    When here, in this remote alcove,                           90
    (While from the pendent woodbine came
    Like odours, sweet as if the same)
    A fondly-anxious Mother strove
    To teach her salutary fears
    And mysteries above her years.                              95
    Yes, she is soothed: an Image faint,
    And yet not faint--a presence bright
    Returns to her--that blessed Saint[112]
    Who with mild looks and language mild
    Instructed here her darling Child,                         100
    While yet a prattler on the knee,
    To worship in simplicity
    The invisible God, and take for guide
    The faith reformed and purified.

      'Tis flown--the Vision, and the sense                    105
    Of that beguiling influence;
    "But oh! thou Angel from above,
    Mute Spirit[113] of maternal love,
    That stood'st before my eyes, more clear
    Than ghosts are fabled to appear                           110
    Sent upon embassies of fear;
    As thou thy presence hast to me
    Vouchsafed, in radiant ministry
    Descend on Francis; nor forbear
    To greet him with a voice, and say;--                      115
    'If hope be a rejected stay,
    Do thou, my Christian Son, beware
    Of that most lamentable snare,
    The self-reliance of despair!'"[114]

      Then from within the embowered retreat                   120
    Where she had found a grateful seat
    Perturbed she issues. She will go!
    Herself will follow to the war,
    And clasp her Father's knees;--ah, no!
    She meets the insuperable bar,                             125
    The injunction by her Brother laid;
    His parting charge--but ill obeyed--
    That interdicted all debate,
    All prayer for this cause or for that;
    All efforts that would turn aside                          130
    The headstrong current of their fate:
    _Her duty is to stand and wait_;[115][KK]
    In resignation to abide
    The shock, AND FINALLY SECURE
    O'ER PAIN AND GRIEF A TRIUMPH PURE.[115]                   135
    --She feels it, and her pangs are checked.[116]
    But now, as silently she paced
    The turf, and thought by thought was chased,
    Came One who, with sedate respect,
    Approached, and, greeting her, thus spake;[117]            140
    "An old man's privilege I take:
    Dark is the time--a woeful day!
    Dear daughter of affliction, say
    How can I serve you? point the way."

      "Rights have you, and may well be bold:                  145
    You with my Father have grown old
    In friendship--strive--for his sake go--
    Turn from us all the coming woe:[118]
    This would I beg; but on my mind
    A passive stillness is enjoined.                           150
    On you, if room for mortal aid
    Be left, is no restriction laid;[119]
    You not forbidden to recline
    With hope upon the Will divine."

      "Hope," said the old Man, "must abide                    155
    With all of us, whate'er betide.[120]
    In Craven's Wilds is many a den,
    To shelter persecuted men:[LL]
    Far under ground is many a cave,
    Where they might lie as in the grave,                      160
    Until this storm hath ceased to rave:
    Or let them cross the River Tweed,
    And be at once from peril freed!"

      "Ah tempt me not!" she faintly sighed;
    "I will not counsel nor exhort,                            165
    With my condition satisfied;
    But you, at least, may make report
    Of what befals;--be this your task--
    This may be done;--'tis all I ask!"

      She spake--and from the Lady's sight                     170
    The Sire, unconscious of his age,
    Departed promptly as a Page
    Bound on some errand of delight.
    --The noble Francis--wise as brave,
    Thought he, may want not skill[121] to save.               175
    With hopes in tenderness concealed,
    Unarmed he followed to the field;
    Him will I seek: the insurgent Powers
    Are now besieging Barnard's Towers,--[MM]
    "Grant that the Moon which shines this night               180
    May guide them in a prudent flight!"

      But quick the turns of chance and change,
    And knowledge has a narrow range;
    Whence idle fears, and needless pain,
    And wishes blind, and efforts vain.--                      185
    The Moon may shine, but cannot be
    Their guide in flight--already she[122]
    Hath witnessed their captivity.
    She saw the desperate assault
    Upon that hostile castle made;--                           190
    But dark and dismal is the vault
    Where Norton and his sons are laid!
    Disastrous issue!--he had said
    "This night yon faithless[123] Towers must yield,
    Or we for ever quit the field.                             195
    --Neville is utterly dismayed,
    For promise fails of Howard's aid;
    And Dacre to our call replies
    That _he_[124] is unprepared to rise.
    My heart is sick;--this weary pause                        200
    Must needs be fatal to our cause.[125]
    The breach is open--on the wall,
    This night,--the Banner shall be planted!"
    --'Twas done: his Sons were with him--all;
    They belt him round with hearts undaunted                  205
    And others follow;--Sire and Son
    Leap down into the court;--"'Tis won"--
    They shout aloud--but Heaven decreed
    That with their joyful shout should close
    The triumph of a desperate deed[126]                       210
    Which struck with terror friends and foes!
    The friend shrinks back--the foe recoils
    From Norton and his filial band;
    But they, now caught within the toils,
    Against a thousand cannot stand;--                         215
    The foe from numbers courage drew,
    And overpowered that gallant few.
    "A rescue for the Standard!" cried
    The Father from within the walls;
    But, see, the sacred Standard falls!--                     220
    Confusion through the Camp spread[127] wide:
    Some fled; and some their fears detained:
    But ere the Moon had sunk to rest
    In her pale chambers of the west,
    Of that rash levy nought remained.                         225


    CANTO FIFTH

    High on a point of rugged ground
    Among the wastes of Rylstone Fell
    Above the loftiest ridge or mound
    Where foresters or shepherds dwell,
    An edifice of warlike frame                                  5
    Stands single--Norton Tower its name--[NN]
    It fronts all quarters, and looks round
    O'er path and road, and plain and dell,
    Dark moor, and gleam of pool and stream
    Upon a prospect without bound.                              10

      The summit of this bold ascent--
    Though bleak and bare, and seldom free[128]
    As Pendle-hill or Pennygent
    From wind, or frost, or vapours wet--
    Had often heard the sound of glee                           15
    When there the youthful Nortons met,
    To practice games and archery:
    How proud and happy they! the crowd
    Of Lookers-on how pleased and proud!
    And from the scorching noon-tide sun,[129]                  20
    From showers, or when the prize was won,
    They to the Tower withdrew, and there[130]
    Would mirth run round, with generous fare;
    And the stern old Lord of Rylstone-hall,
    Was happiest, proudest,[131] of them all!                   25

      But now, his Child, with anguish pale,
    Upon the height walks to and fro;
    'Tis well that she hath heard the tale,
    Received the bitterness of woe:
    [132]For she _had_[133] hoped, had hoped and feared,        30
    Such rights did feeble nature claim;
    And oft her steps had hither steered,
    Though not unconscious of self-blame;
    For she her brother's charge revered,
    His farewell words; and by the same,                        35
    Yea by her brother's very name,
    Had, in her solitude, been cheered.

      Beside the lonely watch-tower stood[134]
    That grey-haired Man of gentle blood,
    Who with her Father had grown old                           40
    In friendship; rival hunters they,
    And fellow warriors in their day:
    To Rylstone he the tidings brought;
    Then on this height the Maid had sought,
    And, gently as he could, had told                           45
    The end of that dire Tragedy,[135]
    Which it had been his lot to see.

      To him the Lady turned; "You said
    That Francis lives, _he_ is not dead?"

      "Your noble brother hath been spared;                     50
    To take his life they have not dared;
    On him and on his high endeavour
    The light of praise shall shine for ever!
    Nor did he (such Heaven's will) in vain
    His solitary course maintain;                               55
    Not vainly struggled in the might
    Of duty, seeing with clear sight;
    He was their comfort to the last,
    Their joy till every pang was past.

      "I witnessed when to York they came--                     60
    What, Lady, if their feet were tied;
    They might deserve a good Man's blame;
    But marks of infamy and shame--
    These were their triumph, these their pride;
    Nor wanted 'mid the pressing crowd                          65
    Deep feeling, that found utterance loud,[136]
    'Lo, Francis comes,' there were who cried,[137]
    'A Prisoner once, but now set free!
    'Tis well, for he the worst defied
    Through force of[138] natural piety;                        70
    He rose not in this quarrel, he,
    For concord's sake and England's good,
    Suit to his Brothers often made
    With tears, and of his Father prayed--
    And when he had in vain withstood                           75
    Their purpose--then did he divide,[139]
    He parted from them; but at their side
    Now walks in unanimity.
    Then peace to cruelty and scorn,
    While to the prison they are borne,                         80
    Peace, peace to all indignity!'

      "And so in Prison were they laid--
    Oh hear me, hear me, gentle Maid,
    For I am come with power to bless,
    By scattering gleams,[140] through your distress,           85
    Of a redeeming happiness.
    Me did a reverent pity move
    And privilege of ancient love;
    And, in your service, making bold,
    Entrance I gained to that strong-hold.[141]                 90

      "Your Father gave me cordial greeting;
    But to his purposes, that burned
    Within him, instantly returned:
    He was commanding and entreating,
    And said--'We need not stop, my Son!                        95
    Thoughts press, and time is hurrying on'--[142]
    And so to Francis he renewed
    His words, more calmly thus pursued.

      "'Might this our enterprise have sped,
    Change wide and deep the Land had seen,                    100
    A renovation from the dead,
    A spring-tide of immortal green:
    The darksome altars would have blazed
    Like stars when clouds are rolled away;
    Salvation to all eyes that gazed,                          105
    Once more the Rood had been upraised
    To spread its arms, and stand for aye.
    Then, then--had I survived to see
    New life in Bolton Priory;
    The voice restored, the eye of Truth                       110
    Re-opened that inspired my youth;
    To see[143] her in her pomp arrayed--
    This Banner (for such vow I made)
    Should on the consecrated breast
    Of that same Temple have found rest:                       115
    I would myself have hung it high,
    Fit[144] offering of glad victory!

      "'A shadow of such thought remains
    To cheer this sad and pensive time;
    A solemn fancy yet sustains                                120
    One feeble Being--bids me climb
    Even to the last--one effort more
    To attest my Faith, if not restore.

      "'Hear then,' said he, 'while I impart,
    My Son, the last wish of my heart.                         125
    The Banner strive thou to regain;
    And, if the endeavour prove not[145] vain,
    Bear it--to whom if not to thee
    Shall I this lonely thought consign?--
    Bear it to Bolton Priory,                                  130
    And lay it on Saint Mary's shrine;
    To wither in the sun and breeze
    'Mid those decaying sanctities.
    There let at least the gift be laid,
    The testimony there displayed;                             135
    Bold proof that with no selfish aim,
    But for lost Faith and Christ's dear name,
    I helmeted a brow though white,
    And took a place in all men's sight;
    Yea offered up this noble[146] Brood,                      140
    This fair unrivalled Brotherhood,
    And turned away from thee, my Son!
    And left--but be the rest unsaid,
    The name untouched, the tear unshed;--
    My wish is known, and I have done:                         145
    Now promise, grant this one request,
    This dying prayer, and be thou blest!'

      "Then Francis answered--'Trust thy Son,
    For, with God's will, it shall be done!'--[147]

      "The pledge obtained, the solemn word[148]               150
    Thus scarcely given, a noise was heard,
    And Officers appeared in state
    To lead the prisoners to their fate.
    They rose, oh! wherefore should I fear
    To tell, or, Lady, you to hear?                            155
    They rose--embraces none were given--
    They stood like trees when earth and heaven
    Are calm; they knew each other's worth,
    And reverently the Band went forth.
    They met, when they had reached the door,                  160
    One with profane and harsh intent
    Placed there--that he might go before
    And, with that rueful Banner borne
    Aloft in sign of taunting scorn,[149]
    Conduct them to their punishment:                          165
    So cruel Sussex, unrestrained
    By human feeling, had ordained.
    The unhappy Banner Francis saw,
    And, with a look of calm command
    Inspiring universal awe,                                   170
    He took it from the soldier's hand;
    And all the people that stood round[150]
    Confirmed the deed in peace profound.
    --High transport did the Father shed
    Upon his Son--and they were led,                           175
    Led on, and yielded up their breath;
    Together died, a happy death!--
    But Francis, soon as he had braved
    That insult, and the Banner saved,
    Athwart the unresisting tide[151]                          180
    Of the spectators occupied
    In admiration or dismay,
    Bore instantly[152] his Charge away."

      These things, which thus had in the sight
    And hearing passed of Him who stood                        185
    With Emily, on the Watch-tower height,
    In Rylstone's woeful neighbourhood,
    He told; and oftentimes with voice
    Of power to comfort[153] or rejoice;
    For deepest sorrows that aspire,                           190
    Go high, no transport ever higher.
    "Yes--God is rich in mercy," said
    The old Man to the silent Maid,
    "Yet, Lady! shines, through this black night,
    One star of aspect heavenly bright;[154]                   195
    Your Brother lives--he lives--is come
    Perhaps already to his home;
    Then let us leave this dreary place."
    She yielded, and with gentle pace,
    Though without one uplifted look,                          200
    To Rylstone-hall her way she took.


    CANTO SIXTH

    Why comes not Francis?--From the doleful City
    He fled,--and, in his flight, could hear
    The death-sounds of the Minster-bell:[155]
    That sullen stroke pronounced farewell
    To Marmaduke, cut off from pity!                             5
    To Ambrose that! and then a knell
    For him, the sweet half-opened Flower!
    For all--all dying in one hour!
    --Why comes not Francis? Thoughts of love
    Should bear him to his Sister dear                          10
    With the fleet motion of a dove;[156]
    Yea, like a heavenly messenger
    Of speediest wing, should he appear.[157]
    Why comes he not?--for westward fast
    Along the plain of York he past;                            15
    Reckless of what impels or leads,
    Unchecked he hurries on;--nor heeds
    The sorrow, through the Villages,
    Spread by triumphant cruelties[158]
    Of vengeful military force,                                 20
    And punishment without remorse.
    He marked not, heard not, as he fled;
    All but the suffering heart was dead
    For him abandoned to blank awe,
    To vacancy, and horror strong:[159]                         25
    And the first object which he saw,
    With conscious sight, as he swept along--
    It was the Banner in his hand!
    He felt--and made a sudden stand.

      He looked about like one betrayed:                        30
    What hath he done? what promise made?
    Oh weak, weak moment! to what end
    Can such a vain oblation tend,
    And he the Bearer?--Can he go
    Carrying this instrument of woe,                            35
    And find, find any where, a right
    To excuse him in his Country's sight?
    No; will not all men deem the change
    A downward course, perverse and strange?
    Here is it;--but how? when? must she,                       40
    The unoffending Emily,
    Again this piteous object see?

      Such conflict long did he maintain,
    Nor liberty nor rest could gain:[160]
    His own life into danger brought                            45
    By this sad burden--even that thought,
    Exciting self-suspicion strong,
    Swayed the brave man to his wrong.[161]
    And how--unless it were the sense
    Of all-disposing Providence,                                50
    Its will unquestionably shown--
    How has the Banner clung so fast
    To a palsied, and unconscious hand;
    Clung to the hand to which it passed
    Without impediment? And why                                 55
    But that Heaven's purpose might be known,
    Doth now no hindrance meet his eye,
    No intervention, to withstand
    Fulfilment of a Father's prayer
    Breathed to a Son forgiven, and blest                       60
    When all resentments were at rest,
    And life in death laid the heart bare?--
    Then, like a spectre sweeping by,
    Rushed through his mind the prophecy
    Of utter desolation made                                    65
    To Emily in the yew-tree shade:
    He sighed, submitting will and power
    To the stern embrace of that grasping hour.[162]
    "No choice is left, the deed is mine--
    Dead are they, dead!--and I will go,                        70
    And, for their sakes, come weal or woe,
    Will lay the Relic on the shrine."

      So forward with a steady will
    He went, and traversed plain and hill;
    And up the vale of Wharf his way                            75
    Pursued;--and, at the dawn of day,
    Attained a summit whence his eyes[163]
    Could see the Tower of Bolton rise.
    There Francis for a moment's space
    Made halt--but hark! a noise behind                         80
    Of horsemen at an eager pace!
    He heard, and with misgiving mind.
    --'Tis Sir George Bowes who leads the Band:
    They come, by cruel Sussex sent;
    Who, when the Nortons from the hand                         85
    Of death had drunk their punishment,
    Bethought him, angry and ashamed,
    How Francis, with the Banner claimed
    As his own charge, had disappeared,[164]
    By all the standers-by revered.                             90
    His whole bold carriage (which had quelled
    Thus far the Opposer, and repelled
    All censure, enterprise so bright
    That even bad men had vainly striven
    Against that overcoming light)                              95
    Was then reviewed, and prompt word given,
    That to what place soever fled
    He should be seized, alive or dead.

      The troop of horse have gained the height
    Where Francis stood in open sight.                         100
    They hem him round--"Behold the proof,"
    They cried, "the Ensign in his hand![165]
    _He_ did not arm, he walked aloof!
    For why?--to save his Father's land;--
    Worst Traitor of them all is he,                           105
    A Traitor dark and cowardly!"

      "I am no Traitor," Francis said,
    "Though this unhappy freight I bear;
    And must not part with. But beware;--
    Err not, by hasty zeal misled,[166]                        110
    Nor do a suffering Spirit wrong,
    Whose self-reproaches are too strong!"
    At this he from the beaten road
    Retreated towards a brake of thorn,
    That[167] like a place of vantage showed;                  115
    And there stood bravely, though forlorn.
    In self-defence with warlike brow[168]
    He stood,--nor weaponless was now;
    He from a Soldier's hand had snatched
    A spear,--and, so protected, watched                       120
    The Assailants, turning round and round;
    But from behind with treacherous wound
    A Spearman brought him to the ground.
    The guardian lance, as Francis fell,
    Dropped from him; but his other hand                       125
    The Banner clenched; till, from out the Band,
    One, the most eager for the prize,
    Rushed in; and--while, O grief to tell!
    A glimmering sense still left, with eyes
    Unclosed the noble Francis lay--                           130
    Seized it, as hunters seize their prey;
    But not before the warm life-blood
    Had tinged more deeply, as it flowed,
    The wounds the broidered Banner showed,
    Thy fatal work, O Maiden, innocent as good![169]           135

      Proudly the Horsemen bore away
    The Standard; and where Francis lay[170]
    There was he left alone, unwept,
    And for two days unnoticed slept.
    For at that time bewildering fear                          140
    Possessed the country, far and near;
    But, on the third day, passing by
    One of the Norton Tenantry
    Espied the uncovered Corse; the Man
    Shrunk as he recognised the face,                          145
    And to the nearest homesteads ran
    And called the people to the place.
    --How desolate is Rylstone-hall!
    This was the instant thought of all;
    And if the lonely Lady there                               150
    Should be; to her they cannot bear
    This weight of anguish and despair.
    So, when upon sad thoughts had prest
    Thoughts sadder still, they deemed it best
    That, if the Priest should yield assent                    155
    And no one hinder their intent,[171]
    Then, they, for Christian pity's sake,
    In holy ground a grave would make;
    And straightway[172] buried he should be
    In the Church-yard of the Priory.                          160

      Apart, some little space, was made
    The grave where Francis must be laid.
    In no confusion or neglect
    This did they,--but in pure respect
    That he was born of gentle blood;                          165
    And that there was no neighbourhood
    Of kindred for him in that ground:
    So to the Church-yard they are bound,
    Bearing the body on a bier;
    And psalms they sing--a holy sound                         170
    That hill and vale with sadness hear.[173]

      But Emily hath raised her head,
    And is again disquieted;
    She must behold!--so many gone,
    Where is the solitary One?                                 175
    And forth from Rylstone-hall stepped she,
    To seek her Brother forth she went,
    And tremblingly her course she bent
    Toward[174] Bolton's ruined Priory.
    She comes, and in the vale hath heard                      180
    The funeral dirge;--she sees the knot
    Of people, sees them in one spot--
    And darting like a wounded bird
    She reached the grave, and with her breast
    Upon the ground received the rest,--                       185
    The consummation, the whole ruth
    And sorrow of this final truth!


    CANTO SEVENTH

                        "Powers there are
      That touch each other to the quick--in modes
      Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive,
      No soul to dream of."[OO]

    Thou Spirit, whose angelic hand
    Was to the harp a strong command,
    Called the submissive strings to wake
    In glory for this Maiden's sake,
    Say, Spirit! whither hath she fled                           5
    To hide her poor afflicted head?
    What mighty forest in its gloom
    Enfolds her?--is a rifted tomb
    Within the wilderness her seat?
    Some island which the wild waves beat--                     10
    Is that the Sufferer's last retreat?
    Or some aspiring rock, that shrouds
    Its perilous front in mists and clouds?
    High-climbing rock, low[175] sunless dale,
    Sea, desert, what do these avail?                           15
    Oh take her anguish and her fears
    Into a deep[176] recess of years!

      'Tis done;--despoil and desolation
    O'er Rylstone's fair domain have blown;[PP]
    Pools, terraces, and walks are sown[177]                    20
    With weeds; the bowers are overthrown,
    Or have given way to slow mutation,
    While, in their ancient habitation
    The Norton name hath been unknown.
    The lordly Mansion of its pride                             25
    Is stripped; the ravage hath spread wide
    Through park and field, a perishing
    That mocks the gladness of the Spring!
    And, with this silent gloom agreeing,
    Appears[178] a joyless human Being,                         30
    Of aspect such as if the waste
    Were under her dominion placed.
    Upon a primrose bank, her throne
    Of quietness, she sits alone;
    [179]Among the ruins of a wood,                             35
    Erewhile a covert bright and green,
    And where full many a brave tree stood,
    That used to spread its boughs, and ring
    With the sweet bird's carolling.
    Behold her, like a virgin Queen,                            40
    Neglecting in imperial state
    These outward images of fate,
    And carrying inward a serene
    And perfect sway, through many a thought
    Of chance and change, that hath been brought                45
    To the subjection of a holy,
    Though stern and rigorous, melancholy!
    The like authority, with grace
    Of awfulness, is in her face,--
    There hath she fixed it; yet it seems                       50
    To o'ershadow by no native right
    That face, which cannot lose the gleams,
    Lose utterly the tender gleams,
    Of gentleness and meek delight,
    And loving-kindness ever bright:                            55
    Such is her sovereign mien:--her dress
    (A vest with woollen cincture tied,
    A hood of mountain-wool undyed)
    Is homely,--fashioned to express
    A wandering Pilgrim's humbleness.                           60

      And she _hath_ wandered, long and far,
    Beneath the light of sun and star;
    Hath roamed in trouble and in grief,
    Driven forward like a withered leaf,
    Yea like a ship at random blown                             65
    To distant places and unknown.
    But now she dares to seek a haven
    Among her native wilds of Craven;
    Hath seen again her Father's roof,
    And put her fortitude to proof;                             70
    The mighty sorrow hath[180] been borne,
    And she is thoroughly forlorn:
    Her soul doth in itself stand fast,
    Sustained by memory of the past
    And strength of Reason; held above                          75
    The infirmities of mortal love;
    Undaunted, lofty, calm, and stable,
    And awfully impenetrable.

      And so--beneath a mouldered tree,
    A self-surviving leafless oak                               80
    By unregarded age from stroke
    Of ravage saved--sate Emily.
    There did she rest, with head reclined,
    Herself most like a stately flower,
    (Such have I seen) whom chance of birth                     85
    Hath separated from its kind,
    To live and die in a shady bower,
    Single on the gladsome earth.

      When, with a noise like distant thunder,
    A troop of deer came sweeping by;                           90
    And, suddenly, behold a wonder!
    For One, among those rushing deer,[181]
    A single One, in mid career
    Hath stopped, and fixed her[182] large full eye
    Upon the Lady Emily;                                        95
    A Doe most beautiful, clear-white,
    A radiant creature, silver-bright!

      Thus checked, a little while it stayed;
    A little thoughtful pause it made;
    And then advanced with stealth-like pace,                  100
    Drew softly near her, and more near--
    Looked round--but saw no cause for fear;
    So to her feet the Creature came,[183]
    And laid its head upon her knee,
    And looked into the Lady's face,                           105
    A look of pure benignity,
    And fond unclouded memory.
    It is, thought Emily, the same,
    The very Doe of other years!--
    The pleading look the Lady viewed,                         110
    And, by her gushing thoughts subdued,
    She melted into tears--
    A flood of tears, that flowed apace,
    Upon the happy Creature's face.

      Oh, moment ever blest! O Pair                            115
    Beloved of Heaven, Heaven's chosen[184] care,
    This was for you a precious greeting;
    And may it prove a fruitful meeting![185]
    Joined are they, and the sylvan Doe
    Can she depart? can she forego                             120
    The Lady, once her playful peer,
    And now her sainted Mistress dear?
    And will not Emily receive
    This lovely chronicler of things
    Long past, delights and sorrowings?                        125
    Lone Sufferer! will not she believe
    The promise in that speaking face;
    And welcome, as a gift of grace,[186]
    The saddest thought the Creature brings?[187]

      That day, the first of a re-union                        130
    Which was to teem with high communion,
    That day of balmy April weather,
    They tarried in the wood together.
    And when, ere fall of evening dew,
    She from her[188] sylvan haunt withdrew,                   135
    The White Doe tracked with faithful pace
    The Lady to her dwelling-place;
    That nook where, on paternal ground,
    A habitation she had found,
    The Master of whose humble board                           140
    Once owned her Father for his Lord;
    A hut, by tufted trees defended,
    Where Rylstone brook with Wharf is blended.[QQ]

      When Emily by morning light
    Went forth, the Doe stood there[189] in sight.             145
    She shrunk:--with one frail shock of pain
    Received and followed by a prayer,
    She saw the Creature once again;[190]
    Shun will she not, she feels, will bear;--
    But, wheresoever she looked round,                         150
    All now was trouble-haunted ground;
    And therefore now she deems it good
    Once more this restless neighbourhood[191]
    To leave. Unwooed, yet unforbidden,
    The White Doe followed up the vale,                        155
    Up to another cottage, hidden
    In the deep fork of Amerdale;[RR]
    And there may Emily restore
    Herself, in spots unseen before.
    --Why tell of mossy rock, or tree,                         160
    By lurking Dernbrook's pathless side,[SS]
    Haunts of a strengthening amity
    That calmed her, cheered, and fortified?
    For she hath ventured now to read
    Of time, and place, and thought, and deed--                165
    Endless history that lies
    In her silent Follower's eyes;
    Who with a power like human reason
    Discerns the favourable season,
    Skilled to approach or to retire,--                        170
    From looks conceiving her desire;
    From look, deportment, voice, or mien,
    That vary to the heart within.
    If she too passionately wreathed[192]
    Her arms, or over-deeply breathed,                         175
    Walked quick or slowly, every mood
    In its degree was understood;
    Then well may their accord be true,
    And kindliest[193] intercourse ensue.
    --Oh! surely 'twas a gentle rousing                        180
    When she by sudden glimpse espied
    The White Doe on the mountain browsing,
    Or in the meadow wandered wide!
    How pleased, when down the Straggler sank
    Beside her, on some sunny bank!                            185
    How soothed, when in thick bower enclosed,
    They, like a nested pair, reposed!
    Fair Vision! when it crossed the Maid
    Within some rocky cavern laid,
    The dark cave's portal gliding by,                         190
    White as whitest[194] cloud on high
    Floating through the[195] azure sky.
    --What now is left for pain or fear?
    That Presence, dearer and more dear,
    While they, side by side, were straying,                   195
    And the shepherd's pipe was playing,
    Did now a very gladness yield
    At morning to the dewy field,[196]
    And with a deeper peace endued
    The hour of moonlight solitude.                            200

      With her Companion, in such frame
    Of mind, to Rylstone back she came;
    And, ranging[197] through the wasted groves,
    Received the memory of old loves,
    Undisturbed and undistrest,                                205
    Into a soul which now was blest
    With a soft spring-day of holy,
    Mild, and grateful, melancholy:[198]
    Not sunless gloom or unenlightened,
    But by tender fancies brightened.                          210

      When the bells of Rylstone played
    Their sabbath music--"=God us ayde!="[TT]
    That was the sound they seemed to speak;
    Inscriptive legend which I ween
    May on those holy bells be seen,                           215
    That legend and her Grandsire's name;
    And oftentimes the Lady meek
    Had in her childhood read the same;
    Words which she slighted at that day;
    But now, when such sad change was wrought,                 220
    And of that lonely name she thought,
    The bells of Rylstone seemed to say,
    While she sate listening in the shade,
    With vocal music, "=God us ayde;="
    And all the hills were glad to bear                        225
    Their part in this effectual prayer.

      Nor lacked she Reason's firmest power;
    But with the White Doe at her side
    Up would she climb to Norton Tower,
    And thence look round her far and wide,                    230
    Her fate there measuring;--all is stilled,--
    The weak One hath subdued her heart;[199]
    Behold the prophecy fulfilled,
    Fulfilled, and she sustains her part!
    But here her Brother's words have failed;                  235
    Here hath a milder doom prevailed;
    That she, of him and all bereft,
    Hath yet this faithful Partner left;
    This one Associate[200] that disproves
    His words, remains for her, and loves.                     240
    If tears are shed, they do not fall
    For loss of him--for one, or all;
    Yet, sometimes, sometimes doth she weep
    Moved gently in her soul's soft sleep;
    A few tears down her cheek descend                         245
    For this her last and living Friend.

      Bless, tender Hearts, their mutual lot,
    And bless for both this savage spot;
    Which Emily doth sacred hold
    For reasons dear and manifold--                            250
    Here hath she, here before her sight,
    Close to the summit of this height,
    The grassy rock-encircled Pound[UU]
    In which the Creature first was found.
    So beautiful the timid Thrall                              255
    (A spotless Youngling white as foam)
    Her youngest Brother brought it home;
    The youngest, then a lusty boy,
    Bore it, or led, to Rylstone-hall
    With heart brimful of pride and joy![201]                  260

      But most to Bolton's sacred Pile,
    On favouring nights, she loved to go;
    There ranged through cloister, court, and aisle,
    Attended by the soft-paced Doe;
    Nor feared she in the still moonshine[202]                 265
    To look upon Saint Mary's shrine;[VV]
    Nor on the lonely turf that showed
    Where Francis slept in his last abode.
    For that she came; there oft she sate
    Forlorn, but not disconsolate:[203]                        270
    And, when she from the abyss returned
    Of thought, she neither shrunk nor mourned;
    Was happy that she lived to greet
    Her mute Companion as it lay
    In love and pity at her feet;                              275
    How happy in its[204] turn to meet
    The[205] recognition! the mild glance
    Beamed from that gracious countenance;
    Communication, like the ray
    Of a new morning, to the nature                            280
    And prospects of the inferior Creature!

      A mortal Song we sing,[206] by dower
    Encouraged of celestial power;
    Power which the viewless Spirit shed
    By whom we were first visited;                             285
    Whose voice we heard, whose hand and wings
    Swept like a breeze the conscious strings,
    When, left in solitude, erewhile
    We stood before this ruined Pile,
    And, quitting unsubstantial dreams,                        290
    Sang in this Presence kindred themes;
    Distress and desolation spread
    Through human hearts, and pleasure dead,--
    Dead--but to live again on earth,
    A second and yet nobler birth;                             295
    Dire overthrow, and yet how high
    The re-ascent in sanctity!
    From fair to fairer; day by day
    A more divine and loftier way!
    Even such this blessed Pilgrim trod,                       300
    By sorrow lifted towards her God;
    Uplifted to the purest sky
    Of undisturbed mortality.
    Her own thoughts loved she; and could bend
    A dear look to her lowly Friend;                           305
    There stopped; her thirst was satisfied
    With what this innocent spring supplied:
    Her sanction inwardly she bore,
    And stood apart from human cares:
    But to the world returned no more,                         310
    Although with no unwilling mind
    Help did she give at need, and joined
    The Wharfdale peasants in their prayers.
    At length, thus faintly, faintly tied
    To earth, she was set free, and died.                      315
    Thy soul, exalted Emily,
    Maid of the blasted family,
    Rose to the God from whom it came!
    --In Rylstone Church her mortal frame
    Was buried by her Mother's side.                           320

      Most glorious sunset! and a ray
    Survives--the twilight of this day--
    In that fair Creature whom the fields
    Support, and whom the forest shields;
    Who, having filled a holy place,                           325
    Partakes, in her degree, Heaven's grace;
    And bears a memory and a mind
    Raised far above the law of kind;[WW]
    Haunting the spots with lonely cheer
    Which her dear Mistress once held dear:                    330
    Loves most what Emily loved most--
    The enclosure of this church-yard ground;
    Here wanders like a gliding ghost,
    And every sabbath here is found;
    Comes with the people when the bells                       335
    Are heard among the moorland dells,
    Finds entrance through yon arch, where way
    Lies open on the sabbath-day;
    Here walks amid the mournful waste
    Of prostrate altars, shrines defaced,                      340
    And floors encumbered with rich show
    Of fret-work imagery laid low;
    Paces softly, or makes halt,
    By fractured cell, or tomb, or vault;
    By plate of monumental brass                               345
    Dim-gleaming among weeds and grass,
    And sculptured Forms of Warriors brave:
    But chiefly by that single grave,
    That one sequestered hillock green,
    The pensive visitant is seen.                              350
    There doth the gentle Creature lie
    With those adversities unmoved;
    Calm spectacle, by earth and sky
    In their benignity approved!
    And aye, methinks, this hoary Pile,                        355
    Subdued by outrage and decay,
    Looks down upon her with a smile,
    A gracious smile, that seems to say--
    "Thou, thou art not a Child of Time,
    But Daughter of the Eternal Prime!"                        360


The following is the full text of the first "note" to _The White Doe of
Rylstone_, published in the quarto edition of 1815. The other notes to
that edition are printed in this, at the foot of the pages where they
occur:--

  "The Poem of _The White Doe of Rylstone_ is founded on a local
  tradition, and on the Ballad in Percy's Collection, entitled _The
  Rising of the North_. The tradition is as follows: 'About this
  time,' not long after the Dissolution, 'a White Doe, say the aged
  people of the neighbourhood, long continued to make a weekly
  pilgrimage from Rylstone over the fells of Bolton, and was
  constantly found in the Abbey Church-yard during divine service;
  after the close of which she returned home as regularly as the
  rest of the congregation.'--Dr. WHITAKER'S _History of the Deanery
  of Craven_.--Rylstone was the property and residence of the
  Nortons, distinguished in that ill-advised and unfortunate
  Insurrection, which led me to connect with this tradition the
  principal circumstances of their fate, as recorded in the Ballad
  which I have thought it proper to annex.

      _The Rising in the North._

  "The subject of this ballad is the great Northern Insurrection in
  the 12th year of Elizabeth, 1569, which proved so fatal to Thomas
  Percy, the seventh Earl of Northumberland.

  "There had not long before been a secret negociation entered into
  between some of the Scottish and English nobility, to bring about
  a marriage between Mary Q. of Scots, at that time a prisoner in
  England, and the Duke of Norfolk, a nobleman of excellent
  character. This match was proposed to all the most considerable of
  the English nobility, and among the rest to the Earls of
  Northumberland and Westmoreland, two noblemen very powerful in the
  North. As it seemed to promise a speedy and safe conclusion of the
  troubles in Scotland, with many advantages to the crown of
  England, they all consented to it, provided it should prove
  agreeable to Queen Elizabeth. The Earl of Leicester (Elizabeth's
  favourite) undertook to break the matter to her, but before he
  could find an opportunity, the affair had come to her ears by
  other hands, and she was thrown into a violent flame. The Duke of
  Norfolk, with several of his friends, was committed to the Tower,
  and summons were sent to the Northern Earls instantly to make
  their appearance at court. It is said that the Earl of
  Northumberland, who was a man of a mild and gentle nature,[XX] was
  deliberating with himself whether he should not obey the message,
  and rely upon the Queen's candour and clemency, when he was forced
  into desperate measures by a sudden report at midnight, Nov. 14,
  that a party of his enemies were come to seize his person. The
  Earl was then at his house at Topcliffe in Yorkshire. When, rising
  hastily out of bed, he withdrew to the Earl of Westmoreland at
  Brancepeth, where the country came in to them, and pressed them to
  take up arms in their own defence. They accordingly set up their
  standards, declaring their intent was to restore the ancient
  Religion, to get the succession of the crown firmly settled, and
  to prevent the destruction of the ancient nobility, etc. Their
  common banner (on which was displayed the cross, together with the
  five wounds of Christ) was borne by an ancient gentleman, Richard
  Norton, Esquire, who, with his sons (among whom, Christopher,
  Marmaduke, and Thomas, are expressly named by Camden),
  distinguished himself on this occasion. Having entered Durham,
  they tore the Bible, etc., and caused mass to be said there; they
  then marched on to Clifford-moor near Wetherby, where they
  mustered their men.... The two Earls, who spent their large
  estates in hospitality, and were extremely beloved on that
  account, were masters of little ready money; the E. of
  Northumberland bringing with him only 8000 crowns, and the E. of
  Westmoreland nothing at all, for the subsistence of their forces,
  they were not able to march to London, as they had at first
  intended. In these circumstances, Westmoreland began so visibly to
  despond, that many of his men slunk away, though Northumberland
  still kept up his resolution, and was master of the field till
  December 13, when the Earl of Sussex, accompanied with Lord
  Hunsden and others, having marched out of York at the head of a
  large body of forces, and being followed by a still larger army
  under the command of Ambrose Dudley, Earl of Warwick, the
  insurgents retreated northward towards the borders, and there
  dismissing their followers, made their escape into Scotland.
  Though this insurrection had been suppressed with so little
  bloodshed, the Earl of Sussex and Sir George Bowes, marshal of the
  army, put vast numbers to death by martial law, without any
  regular trial. The former of these caused at Durham sixty-three
  constables to be hanged at once. And the latter made his boast,
  that for sixty miles in length, and forty in breadth, betwixt
  Newcastle and Wetherby, there was hardly a town or village wherein
  he had not executed some of the inhabitants. This exceeds the
  cruelties practised in the West after Monmouth's rebellion.

  "Such is the account collected from Stow, Speed, Camden, Guthrie,
  Carte, and Rapin; it agrees, in most particulars, with the
  following Ballad, apparently the production of some northern
  minstrel.--


      "Listen, lively lordings all,
        Lithe and listen unto mee,
      And I will sing of a noble earle,
        The noblest earle in the north countrie.

      Earle Percy is into his garden gone,
        And after him walks his fair leddie:
      I heard a bird sing in mine ear,
        That I must either fight, or flee.

      Now heaven forefend, my dearest lord,
        That ever such harm should hap to thee:
      But goe to London to the court,
        And fair fall truth and honestie.

      Now nay, now nay, my ladye gay,
        Alas! thy counsell suits not mee;
      Mine enemies prevail so fast,
        That at the court I may not bee.

      O goe to the court yet, good my lord,
        And take thy gallant men with thee;
      If any dare to do you wrong,
        Then your warrant they may bee.

      Now nay, now nay, thou ladye faire,
        The court is full of subtiltie:
      And if I goe to the court, ladye,
        Never more I may thee see.

      Yet goe to the court, my lord, she sayes,
        And I myselfe will ryde wi' thee:
      At court then for my dearest lord,
        His faithful borrowe I will bee.

      Now nay, now nay, my ladye deare;
        Far lever had I lose my life,
      Than leave among my cruell foes
        My love in jeopardy and strife.

      But come thou hither, my little foot-page,
        Come thou hither unto mee,
      To Maister Norton thou must goe
        In all the haste that ever may bee.

      Commend me to that gentleman,
        And beare this letter here fro mee;
      And say that earnestly I praye,
        He will ryde in my companie.

      One while the little foot-page went,
        And another while he ran;
      Untill he came to his journey's end,
        The little foot-page never blan.

      When to that gentleman he came,
        Down he kneeled on his knee;
      And took the letter betwixt his hands,
        And lett the gentleman it see.

      And when the letter it was redd,
        Affore that goodlye companie,
      I wis if you the truthe wold know,
        There was many a weeping eye.

      He sayd, Come thither, Christopher Norton,
        A gallant youth thou seem'st to bee;
      What dost thou counsell me, my sonne,
        Now that good earle's in jeopardy?

      Father, my counselle's fair and free;
        That erle he is a noble lord,
      And whatsoever to him you hight,
        I would not have you breake your word.

      Gramercy, Christopher, my sonne,
        Thy counsell well it liketh mee,
      And if we speed and 'scape with life,
        Well advanced shalt thou bee.

      Come you hither, my nine good sonnes,
        Gallant men I trowe you bee:
      How many of you, my children deare,
        Will stand by that good erle and mee?

      Eight of them did answer make,
        Eight of them spake hastilie,
      O Father, till the day we dye
        We'll stand by that good erle and thee.

      Gramercy, now, my children deare,
        You shew yourselves right bold and brave,
      And whethersoe'er I live or dye,
        A father's blessing you shall have.

      But what say'st thou, O Francis Norton,
        Thou art mine eldest sonne and heire:
      Somewhat lies brooding in thy breast;
        Whatever it bee, to mee declare.

      Father, you are an aged man,
        Your head is white, your beard is gray;
      It were a shame at these your years
        For you to ryse in such a fray.

      Now fye upon thee, coward Francis,
        Thou never learned'st this of mee;
      When thou wert young and tender of age,
        Why did I make soe much of thee?

      But, father, I will wend with you,
        Unarm'd and naked will I bee;
      And he that strikes against the crowne,
        Ever an ill death may he dee.

      Then rose that reverend gentleman,
        And with him came a goodlye band
      To join with the brave Earle Percy,
        And all the flower o' Northumberland.

      With them the noble Nevill came,
        The erle of Westmoreland was hee;
      At Wetherbye they mustered their host,
        Thirteen thousand fair to see.

      Lord Westmorland his ancyent raisde,
        The Dun Bull he rays'd on hye,
      And three Dogs with golden collars
        Were there set out most royallye.

      Erle Percy there his ancyent spread,
        The Halfe Moone shining all soe faire;
      The Nortons ancyent had the Crosse,
        And the five wounds our Lord did beare.

      Then Sir George Bowes he straitwaye rose,
        After them some spoile to make:
      Those noble erles turned back againe,
        And aye they vowed that knight to take.

      That baron he to his castle fled,
        To Barnard castle then fled hee.
      The uttermost walles were eathe to win.
        The earles have wonne them presentlie.

      The uttermost walles were lime and bricke;
        But though they won them soon anone,
      Long ere they wan their innermost walles,
        For they were cut in rocke and stone.

      Then news unto leeve London came
        In all the speed that ever might bee,
      And word is brought to our royall queene
        Of the rysing in the North countrie.

      Her grace she turned her round about,
        And like a royall queene shee swore,
      I will ordayne them such a breakfast,
        As never was in the North before.

      Shee caused thirty thousand men be rays'd,
        With horse and harneis faire to see;
      She caused thirty thousand men be raised
        To take the earles i' th' North countrie.

      Wi' them the false Erle Warwicke went,
        The Erle Sussex and the Lord Hunsden,
      Untill they to York castle came
        I wiss they never stint ne blan.

      Now spred thy ancyent, Westmoreland,
        Thy dun Bull faine would we spye:
      And thou, the Erle of Northumberland,
        Now rayse thy Halfe Moone on hye.

      But the dun bulle is fled and gone,
        And the halfe moone vanished away:
      The Erles, though they were brave and bold,
        Against soe many could not stay.

      Thee, Norton, wi' thine eight good sonnes,
        They doomed to dye, alas! for ruth!
      Thy reverend lockes thee could not save,
        Nor them their faire and blooming youthe.

      Wi' them full many a gallant wight
        They cruellye bereav'd of life:
      And many a child made fatherlesse,
        And widowed many a tender wife.


  "'Bolton Priory,' says Dr. Whitaker in his excellent book--_The
  History and Antiquities of the Deanery of Craven_--'stands upon a
  beautiful curvature of the Wharf, on a level sufficiently elevated
  to protect it from inundations, and low enough for every purpose
  of picturesque effect.

  "'Opposite to the East window of the Priory Church, the river
  washes the foot of a rock nearly perpendicular, and of the richest
  purple, where several of the mineral beds, which break out,
  instead of maintaining their usual inclination to the horizon, are
  twisted by some inconceivable process, into undulating and spiral
  lines. To the South all is soft and delicious; the eye reposes
  upon a few rich pastures, a moderate reach of the river,
  sufficiently tranquil to form a mirror to the sun, and the
  bounding hills beyond, neither too near nor too lofty to exclude,
  even in winter, any portion of his rays.

  "'But, after all, the glories of Bolton are on the North. Whatever
  the most fastidious taste could require to constitute a perfect
  landscape is not only found here, but in its proper place. In
  front, and immediately under the eye, is a smooth expanse of
  park-like enclosure, spotted with native elm, ash, etc. of the
  finest growth: on the right a skirting oak wood, with jutting
  points of grey rock; on the left a rising copse. Still forward are
  seen the aged groves of Bolton Park, the growth of centuries; and
  farther yet, the barren and rocky distances of Simon-seat and
  Barden Fell contrasted with the warmth, fertility, and luxuriant
  foliage of the valley below.

  "'About half a mile above Bolton the Valley closes, and either
  side of the Wharf is overhung by solemn woods, from which huge
  perpendicular masses of grey rock jut out at intervals.

  "'This sequestered scene was almost inaccessible till of late,
  that ridings have been cut on both sides of the River, and the
  most interesting points laid open by judicious thinnings in the
  woods. Here a tributary stream rushes from a waterfall, and bursts
  through a woody glen to mingle its waters with the Wharf: there
  the Wharf itself is nearly lost in a deep cleft in the rock, and
  next becomes a horned flood enclosing a woody island--sometimes it
  reposes for a moment, and then resumes its native character,
  lively, irregular, and impetuous.

  "'The cleft mentioned above is the tremendous STRID. This chasm,
  being incapable of receiving the winter floods, has formed, on
  either side, a broad strand of naked gritstone full of
  rock-basons, or "pots of the Linn," which bear witness to the
  restless impetuosity of so many Northern torrents. But, if here
  Wharf is lost to the eye, it amply repays another sense by its
  deep and solemn roar, like "the Voice of the angry Spirit of the
  Waters," heard far above and beneath, amidst the silence of the
  surrounding woods.

  "'The terminating object of the landscape is the remains of Barden
  Tower, interesting from their form and situation, and still more
  so from the recollections which they excite.'"

       *       *       *       *       *

_The White Doe of Rylstone_ has been assigned chronologically to the
year 1808; although part of it--probably the larger half--was written
during the autumn of the previous year, and it remained unfinished in
1810, while the Dedication was not written till 1815. In the Fenwick
note, Wordsworth tells us that the "earlier half" was written at
Stockton-on-Tees "at the close" of 1807, and "proceeded with" at Dove
Cottage, after his return to Grasmere, which was in April 1808. But on
the 28th February, 1810, Dorothy Wordsworth, writing from Allan Bank to
Lady Beaumont, says, "Before my brother turns to any other labour, I
hope he will have finished three books of _The Recluse_. He seldom
writes less than 50 lines every day. After this task is finished he
hopes to complete _The White Doe_, and proud should we all be if it
should be honoured by a frontispiece from the pencil of Sir George
Beaumont. Perhaps this is not impossible, if you come into the north
next summer."

A frontispiece was drawn by Sir George Beaumont for the quarto edition
of 1815.

When part of the poem was finished, Wordsworth showed it to Southey; and
Southey, writing to Walter Scott, in February 1808, said,--

  "Wordsworth has just completed a most masterly poem upon the fate
  of the Nortons; two or three lines in the old ballad of _The
  Rising of the North_ gave him the hint. The story affected me more
  deeply than I wish to be affected; younger readers, however, will
  not object to the depth of the distress, and nothing was ever more
  ably treated. He is looking, too, for a narrative subject, pitched
  in a lower key."

One of the most interesting letters of S. T. Coleridge to Wordsworth is
an undated one, sent from London in the spring of 1808, containing a
characteristic criticism of _The White Doe_. The Wordsworth family had
asked Coleridge to discuss the subject of the publication of the poem
with the Longmans' firm. It is more than probable that it was
Coleridge's criticism of the structural defects in the poem, that led
Wordsworth to postpone its publication. The following is part of the
letter:--

  "... In my reperusals of the poem, it seemed always to strike on
  my feeling as well as judgment, that if there were any serious
  defect, it consisted in a disproportion of the Accidents to the
  spiritual Incidents; and, closely connected with this,--if it be
  not indeed the same,--that Emily is indeed talked of, and once
  appears, but neither speaks nor acts, in all the first
  three-fourths of the poem. Then, as the outward interest of the
  poem is in favour of the old man's religious feelings, and the
  filial heroism of his band of sons, it seemed to require something
  in order to place the two protestant malcontents of the family in
  a light that made them beautiful as well as virtuous. In short, to
  express it far more strongly than I mean or think, in order (in
  the present anguish of my spirits) to be able to express it at
  all, that three-fourths of the work is everything rather _than_
  Emily; and then, the last--almost a separate and doubtless an
  exquisite poem--wholly _of_ Emily. The whole of the rest, and the
  delivering up of the family by Francis, I never ceased to find,
  not only comparatively heavy, but to me quite obscure as to
  Francis's motives. On the few, to whom, within my acquaintance,
  the poem has been read, either by yourself or me (I have, I
  believe, read it only at the Beaumonts'), it produced the same
  effect.

  "Now I have conceived two little incidents, the introduction of
  which, joined to a little abridgment, and lyrical precipitation of
  the last half of the third, I had thought would have removed this
  defect, so seeming to me, and bring to a finer balance the
  _business_ with the _action_ of the tale. But after my receipt of
  your letter, concerning Lamb's censures, I felt my courage fail,
  and that what I deemed a harmonizing would disgust you as a
  _materialization_ of the plan, and appear to you like
  insensibility to the power of the history in the mind. Not that I
  should have shrunk back from the mere fear of giving transient
  pain, and a temporary offence, from the want of sympathy of
  feeling and coincidence of opinions. I rather envy than blame that
  deep interest in a production, which is inevitable perhaps, and
  certainly not dishonourable to such as feel poetry their calling
  and their duty, and which no man would find much fault with if the
  object, instead of a poem, were a large estate or a title. It
  appears to me to become a foible only when the poet denies, or is
  unconscious of its existence, but I did not deem myself in such a
  state of mind as to entitle me to rely on my own opinion when
  opposed to yours, from the heat and bustle of these disgusting
  lectures."

       .       .       .       .       .

  "From most of these causes I was suffering, so as not to allow me
  any rational confidence in my opinions when contrary to yours,
  which had been formed in calmness and on long reflection. Then I
  received your sister's letter, stating the wish that I would give
  up the thought of proposing the means of correction, and merely
  point out the things to be corrected, which--as they could be of
  no great consequence--you might do in a day or two, and the
  publication of the poem--for the immediacy of which she expressed
  great anxiety--be no longer retarded. The merely verbal
  _alteranda_ did appear to me very few and trifling. From your
  letter on L----, I concluded that you would not have the incidents
  and action interfered with, and therefore I sent it off; but soon
  retracted it, in order to note down the single words and phrases
  that I disliked in the books, after the two first, as there would
  be time to receive your opinion of them during the printing of the
  two first, in which I saw nothing amiss, except the one passage we
  altered together, and the two lines which I scratched out, because
  you yourself were doubtful. Mrs. Shepherd told me that she had
  felt them exactly as I did--namely, as interrupting the spirit of
  the continuous tranquil motion of _The White Doe_."

It will be seen from this letter that Wordsworth had gone over the poem
with Coleridge, and that they had altered some passages "together"; that
Coleridge had read a copy of it sent to the Beaumonts, doubtless at
Dunmow in Essex; that he had thought of a plan by which the poem could
be immensely improved, both by addition and subtraction; but that
hearing from Wordsworth, or more probably from his sister Dorothy, that
Charles Lamb had also criticised its structure, he gave up his intention
of sending to his friend suggestions, which evidently implied a radical
alteration of "the incidents and action" of the tale. It would have been
extremely interesting to know how the author of _Christabel_ and _The
Ancient Mariner_ proposed to recast _The White Doe of Rylstone_. It is,
alas! impossible for posterity to know this, although it is not
difficult to conjecture the line which the alterations would take.
Wordsworth's genius was not great in construction, as in imagination;
and he valued a story only as giving him a "point of departure" for a
flight of fancy or of idealization. Early in 1808 he wrote to Walter
Scott asking him for facts about the Norton family. Scott supplied him
with them, and the following was Wordsworth's reply.

                                        "GRASMERE, May 14, 1808.

  "MY DEAR SCOTT--Thank you for the interesting particulars about
  the Nortons. I like them much for their own sakes; but so far from
  being serviceable to my poem, they would stand in the way of it,
  as I have followed (as I was in duty bound to do) the traditionary
  and common historic account. Therefore I shall say, in this case,
  a plague upon your industrious antiquarians, that have put my fine
  story to confusion."

From the "advertisement" which Wordsworth prefixed to his edition of
1815, I infer that the larger part of the poem was written at Stockton.
In it he says that "the Poem of _The White Doe_ was composed at the
close of the year" (1807). This is an illustration of the vague manner
in which he was in the habit of assigning dates. The Fenwick note, and
the evidence of his sister's letter, is conclusive; although the fact
that _The Force of Prayer_--written in 1807--is called in the Fenwick
note "an appendage to _The White Doe_," is further confirmation of the
belief that the principal part of the latter poem was finished in 1807.
All things considered, _The White Doe of Rylstone_ may be most
conveniently placed after the poems belonging to the year 1807, and
before those known to have been written in 1808; while _The Force of
Prayer_ naturally follows it.

The poem--first published in quarto in 1815--was scarcely altered in the
editions of 1820, 1827, and 1832. In 1837, however, it was revised
throughout, and in that year the text was virtually settled; the
subsequent changes being few and insignificant, while those introduced
in 1837 were numerous and important. A glance at the foot-notes will
show that many passages were entirely rewritten in that year, and that a
good many lines of the earlier text were altogether omitted. All the
poems were subjected to minute revision in 1836-37; but few, if any,
were more thoroughly recast, and improved, in that year than _The White
Doe of Rylstone_. As a sample of the best kind of changes--where a new
thought was added to the earlier text with admirable felicity--compare
the lines in canto vii., as it stood in 1815, when the Lady Emily first
saw the White Doe at the old Hall of Rylstone, after her terrible losses
and desolation--

      Lone Sufferer! will not she believe
      The promise in that speaking face,
      And take this gift of Heaven with grace?

with the additional thought conveyed in the version of 1837--

      Lone Sufferer! will not she believe
      The promise in that speaking face;
      And welcome, as a gift of grace,
      The saddest thought the Creature brings?

In the "Reminiscences" of Wordsworth--written by the Hon. Mr. Justice
Coleridge for the late Bishop of Lincoln's _Memoirs_ of his uncle--the
following occurs. (See vol. ii. p. 311.) "His conversation was on
critical subjects, arising out of his attempts to alter his poems. He
said he considered _The White Doe_ as, in conception, the highest work
he had ever produced. The mere physical action was all unsuccessful: but
the true action of the poem was spiritual--the subduing of the will, and
all inferior fancies, to the perfect purifying and spiritualizing of the
intellectual nature; while the Doe, by connection with Emily, is raised
as it were from its mere animal nature into something mysterious and
saint-like. He said he should devote much labour to perfecting the
execution of it in the mere business parts, in which, from anxiety 'to
get on' with the more important parts, he was sensible that
imperfections had crept in which gave the style a feebleness of
character."

From this conversation--which took place in 1836--it will be seen that
Wordsworth knew very well that there were feeble passages in the earlier
editions; and that, in the thorough revision which he gave to all his
poems in 1836-37, this one was specially singled out for "much labour."
The result is seen by a glance at the changes of the text.

The notes appended by Wordsworth to the edition of 1815 explain some of
the historical and topographical allusions in the poem. To these the
following editorial notes may be added--


      I. (See pp. 106, 107.)

      _... Bolton's mouldering Priory._
                    ...
                      _... the tower
      Is standing with a voice of power,_
                    ...
      _And in the shattered fabric's heart
      Remaineth one protected part;
      A Chapel, like a wild-bird's nest,
      Closely embowered and trimly drest._

In 1153, the canons of the Augustinian Priory at Embsay, near Skipton,
were removed to Bolton, by William Fitz Duncan, and his wife, Cecilia de
Romille, who granted it by charter in exchange for the Manors of Skibdem
and Stretton. The establishment at Bolton consisted of a prior and about
15 canons, over 200 persons (including servants and lay brethren) being
supported at Bolton. During the Scottish raids of the fourteenth
century, the prior and canons had frequently to retreat to Skipton for
safety. In 1542 the site of the priory and demesnes were sold to Harry
Clifford, first Earl of Cumberland. From the last Earl of Cumberland it
passed to the second Earl of Cork, and then to the Devonshire family, to
which it still belongs. The following is part of the excellent account
of the Priory, given in Murray's _Yorkshire_:--

  "The chief relic of the Priory is the church, the nave of which
  after the Dissolution was retained as the chapel of this so-called
  'Saxon-Cure.' This nave remains perfect, but the rest of the
  church is in complete ruin. The lower walls of the choir are
  Trans-Norman, and must have been built immediately after (if not
  before) the removal from Embsay. The upper walls and windows (the
  tracery of which is destroyed) are decorated. The nave is early
  English, and decorated; and the original west front remains with
  an elaborate Perpendicular front of excellent design, intended as
  the base of a western tower, which was never finished.... The nave
  (which has been restored under the direction of Crace)--the

               "'One protected part
      In the shattered fabric's heart,'

  is Early English on the south side, and Decorated on the north....
  At the end of the nave aisle, enclosed by a Perpendicular screen,
  is a chantry, founded by the Mauleverers; and below it is the
  vault, in which, according to tradition, the Claphams of Beamsley
  and their ancestors the Mauleverers were interred upright--

      "'Pass, pass who will, yon chantry door;
      And, through the chink in the fractured floor
      Look down, and see a griesly sight;
      A vault where the bodies are buried upright!
      There, face by face, and hand by hand,
      The Claphams and Mauleverers stand.'

  "Whitaker, however, could never see this 'griesly sight' through
  the chink in the floor; and it is perhaps altogether traditional.
  The ruined portion of the church is entirely Decorated, with the
  exception of the lower walls of the choir. The transepts had
  eastern aisles. The north transept is nearly perfect: the south
  retains only its western wall, in which are two decorated windows.
  The piers of a central tower remain; but at what period it was
  destroyed, or if it was ever completed, is uncertain. The choir is
  long and aisleless. Some fragments of tracery remain in the south
  window, which was a very fine one. Below the window runs a
  Transitional Norman arcade. Some portions of tomb-slabs remain in
  the choir.... The church-yard lies on the north side of the ruins.
  This has been made classic ground by Wordsworth's poem."


      II. (See p. 118.)

                     _... the shy recess
      Of Barden's lowly quietness._

Compare the poem _The Force of Prayer, or the Founding of Bolton
Priory_, p. 204. Whitaker writes thus of the district of Upper
Wharfedale at Barden. "Grey tower-like projections of rock, stained with
the various hues of lichens, and hung with loose and streaming canopies
of ling, start out at intervals." Before the restoration of Henry
Clifford, the Shepherd-lord, to the estates of his ancestors--on the
accession of Henry VII.--there was only a keeper's lodge or tower at
Barden, "one of six which existed in different parts of Barden Forest.
The Shepherd-lord, whose early life among the Cumberland Fells led him
to seek quiet and retirement after his restoration, preferred Barden to
his greater castles, and enlarged (or rather rebuilt) it so as to
provide accommodation for a moderate train of attendants."


      III. (See p. 121.)

        _It was the time when England's Queen
      Twelve years had reigned, a Sovereign dread;_
                     ...
      _But now the inly-working North
      Was ripe to send its thousands forth,
      A potent vassalage, to fight
      In Percy's and in Neville's right_, etc.

The circumstances which led to the Rising in the North, and the chief
incidents of that unfortunate episode in English history, are traced in
detail by Mr. Froude, in the fifty-third chapter of his _History of
England_. They are also summarized, in a lecture on _The White Doe of
Rylstone_, by the late Principal Shairp, in his _Aspects of Poetry_,
from which the following passage is an extract (pp. 346-48).

  "The incidents on which the _White Doe_ is founded belong to the
  year 1569, the twelfth of Queen Elizabeth.

  "It is well known that as soon as Queen Mary of Scotland was
  imprisoned in England, she became the centre around which gathered
  all the intrigues which were then on foot, not only in England but
  throughout Catholic Europe, to dethrone the Protestant Queen
  Elizabeth. Abroad, the Catholic world was collecting all its
  strength to crush the heretical island. The bigot Pope, Pius V.,
  with the dark intriguer, Philip II. of Spain, and the savage Duke
  of Alva, were ready to pour their forces on the shores of England.

  "At home, a secret negotiation for a marriage between Queen Mary
  and the Duke of Norfolk had received the approval of many of the
  chief English nobles. The Queen discovered the plot, threw Norfolk
  and some of his friends into the Tower, and summoned Percy, Earl
  of Northumberland, and Neville, Earl of Westmoreland, immediately
  to appear at court. These two earls were known to be holding
  secret communications with Mary, and longing to see the old faith
  restored.

  "On receiving the summons, Northumberland at once withdrew to
  Brancepeth Castle, a stronghold of the Earl of Westmoreland.
  Straightway all their vassals rose, and gathered round the two
  great earls. The whole of the North was in arms. A proclamation
  went forth that they intended to restore the ancient religion, to
  settle the succession to the crown, and to prevent the destruction
  of the old nobility. As they marched forward they were joined by
  all the strength of the Yorkshire dales, and, among others, by a
  gentleman of ancient name, Richard Norton, accompanied by eight
  brave sons. He came bearing the common banner, called the Banner
  of the Five Wounds, because on it was displayed the Cross with the
  five wounds of our Lord. The insurgents entered Durham, tore the
  Bible, caused mass to be said in the cathedral, and then set
  forward as for York. Changing their purpose on the way, they
  turned aside to lay siege to Barnard Castle, which was held by Sir
  George Bowes for the Queen. While they lingered there for eleven
  days, Sussex marched against them from York, and the earls, losing
  heart, retired towards the Border, and disbanded their forces,
  which were left to the vengeance of the enemy, while they
  themselves sought refuge in Scotland. Northumberland, after a
  confinement of several years in Loch Leven Castle, was betrayed by
  the Scots to the English, and put to death. Westmoreland died an
  exile in Flanders, the last of the ancient house of the Nevilles,
  earls of Westmoreland. Norton, with his eight sons, fell into the
  hands of Sussex, and all suffered death at York. It is the fate of
  this ancient family on which Wordsworth's poem is founded."

This statement as to the fate of Norton's sons, however, is not borne
out by the historians. Mr. Froude says (_History of England_, chap. 53),
"Two sons of old Norton and two of his brothers, after long and close
cross-questioning in the Tower, were tried and convicted at Westminster.
Two of these Nortons were afterwards pardoned. Two, one of whom was
Christopher, the poor youth who had been bewildered by the fair eyes of
the Queen of Scots at Bolton, were put to death at Tyburn, with the
usual cruelties."


      IV. (See p. 127.)

      _For we must fall, both we and ours--
      This Mansion and these pleasant bowers,
      Walks, pools, and arbours, homestead, hall--
      Our fate is theirs, will reach them all._

Little now remains of Rylstone Hall but the site. "Some garden flowers
still, as when Whitaker wrote, mark the site of the pleasaunce. The
house fell into decay immediately after the attainder of the Nortons;
and, with the estates here, remained in the hands of the Crown until the
second year of James I., when they were granted to the Earl of
Cumberland. Although Wordsworth makes the Nortons raise their famous
banner here, they assembled their followers in fact at Ripon (November
18, 1569), but their Rylstone tenants rose with them."


      V. (See p. 137.)

      _Until Lord Dacre with his power
      From Naworth come; and Howard's aid
      Be with them openly displayed._

Naworth Castle, at the head of the vale of Llanercort, in the Gilsland
district of Cumberland, was the seat of the Dacres from the reign of
Edward III. George, Lord Dacre, the last heir-male of that family, was
killed in 1559; and Lord William Howard (the third son of Thomas, Duke
of Norfolk), who was made Warden of the Borders by Queen Elizabeth, and
did much to introduce order and good government into the district,
married the heiress of the Dacre family, and succeeded to the castle and
estate of Naworth. The arms over the entrance of the castle are the
Howard's and Dacre's quartered.


      VI. (See p. 137.)

      _... mitred Thurston--what a Host
      He conquered!..._
                      _... while to battle moved
      The Standard, on the Sacred Wain
      That bore it...._

The Battle of the Standard was fought in 1137.

  "One gleam of national glory broke the darkness of the time. King
  David of Scotland stood first among the partizans of his kinswoman
  Matilda, and on the accession of Stephen his army crossed the
  border to enforce her claim. The pillage and cruelties of the wild
  tribes of Galloway and the Highlands roused the spirit of the
  north; baron and freeman gathered at York round Archbishop
  Thurstan, and marched to the field of Northallerton to await the
  foe. The sacred banners of St. Cuthbert of Durham, St. Peter of
  York, St. John of Beverley, and St. Wilfrid of Ripon, hung from a
  pole fixed in a four-wheeled car, which stood in the centre of the
  host. 'I who wear no armour,' shouted the chief of the Galwegians,
  'will go as far this day as any one with breastplate of mail;' his
  men charged with wild shouts of 'Albin, Albin,' and were followed
  by the Norman knighthood of the Lowlands. The rout, however, was
  complete; the fierce hordes dashed in vain against the close
  English ranks around the Standard, and the whole army fled in
  confusion to Carlisle." (J. R. Green's _Short History of the
  English People_, p. 99.)


      VII. (See p. 153.)

      _High on a point of rugged ground
      Among the wastes of Rylstone Fell
      Above the loftiest ridge or mound
      Where foresters or shepherds dwell,
      An edifice of warlike frame
      Stands single--Norton Tower its name--
      It fronts all quarters, and looks round
      O'er path and road, and plain and dell,
      Dark moor, and gleam of pool and stream
      Upon a prospect without bound._

  "Some mounds near the tower are thought to have been used as butts
  for archers; and there are traces of a strong wall, running from
  the tower to the edge of a deep glen, whence a ditch runs to
  another ravine. This was once a pond, used by the Nortons for
  detaining the red deer within the township of Rylstone, which they
  asserted was not within the forest of Skipton, and consequently
  that the Cliffords had no right to hunt therein. The Cliffords
  eventually became lords of all the Norton lands here."

       *       *       *       *       *

In January 1816, Wordsworth wrote thus to his friend Archdeacon
Wrangham.

  "Of _The White Doe_ I have little to say, but that I hope it will
  be acceptable to the intelligent, for whom alone it is written. It
  starts from a high point of imagination, and comes round, through
  various wanderings of that faculty, to a still higher--nothing
  less than the apotheosis of the animal who gives the first of the
  two titles to the poem. And as the poem thus begins and ends with
  pure and lofty imagination, every motive and impetus that actuates
  the persons introduced is from the same source; a kindred spirit
  pervades, and is intended to harmonise, the whole. Throughout
  objects (the banner, for instance) derive their influence, not
  from properties inherent in them, not from what they _are_
  actually in themselves, but from such as are _bestowed_ upon them
  by the minds of those who are conversant with, or affected by,
  these objects. Thus the poetry, if there be any in the work,
  proceeds, as it ought to do, from the _soul of man_, communicating
  its creative energies to the images of the external world."

The following is from a letter to Southey in the same year:--"Do you
know who reviewed _The White Doe_ in the 'Quarterly'? After having
asserted that Mr. W. uses his words without any regard to their sense,
the writer says that on no other principle can he explain that Emily is
_always_ called 'the consecrated Emily.' Now, the name Emily occurs just
fifteen times in the poem; and out of these fifteen, the epithet is
attached to it _once_, and that for the express purpose of recalling the
scene in which she had been consecrated by her brother's solemn
adjuration, that she would fulfil her destiny, and become a soul,

      "'By force of sorrows high
      Uplifted to the purest sky
      Of undisturbed mortality.'

The point upon which the whole moral interest of the piece hinges, when
that speech is closed, occurs in this line,--

      "'He kissed the consecrated Maid;'

And to bring back this to the reader, I repeated the epithet."

In a letter to Wordsworth about _The Waggoner_, Charles Lamb wrote, June
7, 1819, "I re-read _The White Doe of Rylstone_; the title should be
always written at length, as Mary Sabilla Novello, a very nice woman of
our acquaintance, always signs hers at the bottom of the shortest
note.... Manning had just sent it home, and it came as fresh to me as
the immortal creature it speaks of. M. sent it home with a note, having
this passage in it: 'I cannot help writing to you while I am reading
Wordsworth's poem.... 'Tis broad, noble, poetical, with a masterly
scanning of human actions, absolutely above common readers.'" (See _The
Letters of Charles Lamb_, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. ii. pp. 25, 26.)

Henry Crabb Robinson's judgment, as given in his _Diary_, June 1815, is
interesting. (See vol. i. p. 484.)

The following is from Principal Shairp's estimate of _The White Doe of
Rylstone_ in his Oxford Lectures, _Aspects of Poetry_ (chapter xii. pp.
373-76). "What is it that gives to it" (the poem) "its chief power and
charm? Is it not the imaginative use which the poet has made of the
White Doe? With her appearance the poem opens, with her re-appearance it
closes. And the passages in which she is introduced are radiant with the
purest light of poetry. A mere floating tradition she was, which the
historian of Craven had preserved. How much does the poet bring out of
how little! It was a high stroke of genius to seize on this slight
traditionary incident, and make it the organ of so much. What were the
objects which he had to describe and blend into one harmonious whole.
They were these:

"1. The last expiring gleam of feudal chivalry, ending in the ruin of an
ancient race, and the desolation of an ancestral home.

"2. The sole survivor, purified and exalted by the sufferings she had to
undergo.

"3. The pathos of the decaying sanctities of Bolton, after wrong and
outrage, abandoned to the healing of nature and time.

"4. Lastly, the beautiful scenery of pastoral Wharfdale, and of the
fells around Bolton, which blend so well with these affecting memories.

"All these were before him--they had melted into his imagination, and
waited to be woven into one harmonious creation. He takes the White Doe,
and makes her the exponent, the symbol, the embodiment of them all. The
one central aim--to represent the beatification of the heroine--how was
this to be attained? Had it been a drama, the poet would have made the
heroine give forth in speeches, her hidden mind and character. But this
was a romantic narrative. Was the poet to make her soliloquise, analyse
her own feelings, lay bare her heart in metaphysical monologue? This
might have been done by some modern poets, but it was not Wordsworth's
way of exhibiting character, reflective though he was. When he analyses
feelings they are generally his own, not those of his characters. To
shadow forth that which is invisible, the sanctity of Emily's chastened
soul, he lays hold of this sensible image--a creature, the purest, most
innocent, most beautiful in the whole realm of nature--and makes her the
vehicle in which he embodies the saintliness which is a thing invisible.
It is the hardest of all tasks to make spiritual things sensuous,
without degrading them. I know not where this difficulty has been more
happily met; for we are made to feel that, before the poem closes, the
Doe has ceased to be a mere animal, or a physical creature at all, but
in the light of the poet's imagination, has been transfigured into a
heavenly apparition--a type of all that is pure, and affecting, and
saintly. And not only the chastened soul of her mistress, but the
beautiful Priory of Bolton, the whole Vale of Wharfe, and all the
surrounding scenery, are illumined by the glory which she makes; her
presence irradiates them all with a beauty and an interest more than the
eye discovers. Seen through her as an imaginative transparency, they
become spiritualized; in fact, she and they alike become the symbol and
expression of the sentiment which pervades the poem--a sentiment broad
and deep as the world. And yet, any one who visits these scenes, in a
mellow autumnal day, will feel that she is no alien or adventitious
image, imported by the caprice of the poet, but altogether native to the
place, one which gathers up and concentrates all the undefined spirit
and sentiment which lie spread around it. She both glorifies the scenery
by her presence, and herself seems to be a natural growth of the
scenery, so that it finds in her its most appropriate utterance. This
power of imagination to divine and project the very corporeal image
which suits and expresses the image of a scene, Wordsworth has many
times shown....

"And so the poem has no definite end, but passes off, as it were, into
the illimitable. It rises out of the perturbations of time and
transitory things, and, passing upward itself, takes our thoughts with
it to calm places and eternal sunshine."--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

      ... born of heavenly birth,                        1815.

[2] 1837.

      ... which ...                                      1815.

[3] 1837.

      ... is ...                                         1815.

[4] 1820.

      ... of the crystal Wharf,                          1815.

[5] 1837.

      A rural Chapel, neatly drest,
      In covert like a little nest;                      1815.

[6] 1837.

      And faith and hope are in their prime,             1815.

[7]

      And right across the verdant sod
      Towards the very house of God;

    Inserted in the editions of 1815 to 1832.

[8] 1837.

      A gift ...                                         1815.

[9] 1837.

      Is through ...                                     1815.

[10] 1837.

                       ... she no less
      To the open day gives blessedness.                 1815.

[11] 1837.

                   ... hand of healing,--
      The altar, whence the cross was rent,
      Now rich with mossy ornament,--
      The dormitory's length laid bare,
      Where the wild-rose blossoms fair;
      And sapling ash, whose place of birth
      Is that lordly chamber's hearth?                   1815.

      For altar, ...                                     1827.

      Or dormitory's length ...                          1827.

[12] 1837.

      Methinks she passeth by the sight,                 1815.

[13] 1827.

      And in this way she fares, till at last            1815.

[14] 1845.

      Gently ...                                         1815.

[15] 1837.

      Like the river in its flowing;
      Can there be a softer sound?                       1815.

[16] 1837.

      --When now again the people rear
      A voice of praise, with awful chear!               1815.

[17] 1837.

      Turn, with obeisance gladly paid,
      Towards the spot, where, full in view,
      The lovely Doe of whitest hue,                     1815.

[18]

        This whisper soft repeats what he
      Had known from early infancy.

    In the editions of 1815 to 1832 the paragraph begins with these
    lines.

[19] 1837.

      ... is ...                                         1815.

[20] 1837.

      Who in his youth had often fed                     1815.

      ... hath ...                                       1827.

[21] 1837.

      And lately hath brought home the scars
      Gathered in long and distant wars--                1815.

[22] 1837.

      ... hath mounted ...                               1815.

[23] 1837.

                          ... when God's grace
      At length had in her heart found place,            1815.

[24] 1837.

      Well may her thoughts be harsh; for she
      Numbers among her ancestry                         1815.

[25] 1827.

      ... Cumbria's ...                                  1815.

[26] 1837.

      ... humble ...                                     1815.

[27] 1837.

                        ... through strong desire
      Searching the earth with chemic fire:              1815.

[28] These two lines were added in the edition of 1837.

[29] 1837.

      By busy dreams, and fancies wild;                  1815.

[30] 1840.

      Thou hast breeze-like visitings;
      For a Spirit with angel wings
      Hath touched thee, ...                             1815.

      A Spirit, with angelic wings,
      In soft and breeze-like visitings,
      Has touched thee-- ...                             1837.

      A Spirit, with his angelic wings,                     C.

[31] 1827.

      ... --'twas She who wrought                        1815.

[32] 1837.

      ... the ...                                        1815.

[33] 1837.

      ... one that did fulfil                            1815.

[34] 1837.

      ... (such was the command)                         1815.

[35] 1845.

      To be by force of arms renewed;
      Glad prospect for the multitude!                   1815.

      To be triumphantly restored;
      By the dread justice of the sword!                 1820.

[36] 1827.

      This ...                                           1815.

[37] 1827.

      ... blissful ...                                   1815.

[38] 1837.

      Loud noise was in the crowded hall,                1815.

[39] 1837.

      ... which had a dying fall,                        1815.

[40] 1837.

      And on ...                                         1815.

[41] 1820.

      ... wet ...                                        1815.

[42] 1837.

      Then seized the staff, and thus did say:           1815.

[43] 1837.

        Forth when Sire and Sons appeared
      A gratulating shout was reared,
      With din ...                                       1815.

[44] 1837.

      --A shout ...                                      1815.

[45] 1837.

      And, when he waked at length, his eye              1815.

[46]

      Oh! hide them from each other, hide,
      Kind Heaven, this pair severely tried!

    Inserted in the editions of 1815 to 1832.

[47]

      How could he chuse but shrink or sigh?
      He shrunk, and muttered inwardly,

    Inserted in the editions of 1815 to 1832.

[48] 1837.

        He paused, her silence to partake,
      And long it was before he spake:
      Then, all at once, his thoughts turned round,      1815.

[49] 1837.

      ... were beloved,                                  1815.

[50] This line was added in 1837.

[51] 1827.

      Was He, ...                                        1815.

[52] 1820.

      I, in the right ...                                1815.

[53] 1827.

      ... to stand against ...                           1815.

[54] 1837.

      Thee, chiefly thee, ...                            1815.

[55] 1837.

      The last leaf which by heaven's decree
      Must hang upon a blasted tree;                     1815.

[56] 1827.

      ... we have breathed ...                           1815.

[57] 1837.

      ... he pursued,                                    1815.

[58] 1837.

      Now joy for you and sudden chear,
      Ye Watchmen upon Brancepeth Towers;
      Looking forth in doubt and fear,                   1815.

[59] 1837.

      Forthwith the armed Company                        1815.

[60] 1837.

      ... hail ...                                       1815.

[61] 1837.

      ... the mildest birth,                             1815.

[62]

      With tumult and indignant rout

    Inserted in the editions of 1815 to 1832.

[63] 1827.

      Came Foot and Horse-men of each degree,            1815.

[64] 1827.

      And the Romish Priest, ...                         1815.

[65] 1827.

      But none for undisputed worth                      1815.

[66] 1815.

      Like those eight Sons--embosoming
      Determined thoughts--who, in a ring                1827.

    The text of 1837 returns to that of 1815.

[67] This line was added in 1837.

[68]  In youthful beauty flourishing,

    Inserted in the editions of 1815 and 1820.

[69] 1837.

      --With feet that firmly pressed the ground
      They stood, and girt their Father round;
      Such was his choice,--no Steed will he             1815.

[70] 1845.

      He stood upon the verdant sod,                     1815.

      ... grassy sod,                                    1820.

[71] 1837.

      ... higher ...                                     1815.

[72] 1827.

      Rich ...                                           1815.

[73] 1837.

      ... --many see, ...                                1815.

[74] 1837.

      ... these ...                                      1815.

[75] 1837.

      ... on ...                                         1815.

[76] 1837.

      He takes this day ...                              1815.

[77] 1837.

      Stretched out upon the ground he lies,--
      As if it were his only task
      Like Herdsman in the sun to bask,                  1815.

[78] 1820.

      That he ...                                        1815.

[79] 1837.

      And Neville was opprest with fear;
      For, though he bore a valiant name,
      His heart was of a timid frame,                    1815.

[80] 1837.

      And therefore will retreat to seize                1815.

[81] 1837.

      ... comes; ...                                     1815.

[82] 1837.

      ... giving ...                                     1815.

[83] 1837.

      --How often hath the strength of heaven            1815.

[84] 1837.

               ... on the sacred wain,
      On which the grey-haired Barons stood,
      And the infant Heir of Mowbray's blood.
      Beneath the saintly Ensigns three,
      Their confidence and victory!                      1815.

      Stood confident of victory!                        1820.

[85] 1837.

      When, as the Vision gave command,
      The Prior of Durham with holy hand
      Saint Cuthbert's Relic did uprear
      Upon the point of a lofty spear,
      And God descended in his power,
      While the Monks prayed in Maiden's Bower.          1815.

[86] 1837.

                             ... and uphold."--
      --The Chiefs were by his zeal confounded,          1815.

[87] 1837.

      ... raised so joyfully,                            1815.

[88] This line was added in 1837.

[89] 1837.

      ... frail ...                                      1815.

[90] 1827.

      --So speaking, he upraised his head
      Towards that Imagery once more;                    1815.

[91] 1827.

      Blank fear, ...                                    1815.

[92] 1837.

      She did in passiveness obey,                       1815.

[93] 1837.

      Her Brother was it who assailed
      Her tender spirit and prevailed.
      Her other Parent, too, whose head                  1815.

[94] 1837.

      From reason's earliest dawn beguiled
      The docile, unsuspecting Child:                    1815.

[95] 1837.

                         ... music sweet
      Was played to chear them in retreat;
      But Norton lingered in the rear:
      Thought followed thought--and ere the last
      Of that unhappy train was past,
      Before him Francis did appear.                     1815.

[96] 1837.

        "Now when 'tis not your aim to oppose,"
      Said he, "in open field your Foes;
      Now that from this decisive day
      Your multitude must melt away,
      An unarmed Man may come unblamed;
      To ask a grace, that was not claimed
      Long as your hopes were high, he now
      May hither bring a fearless brow;
      When his discountenance can do
      No injury,--may come to you.
      Though in your cause no part I bear,
      Your indignation I can share;
      Am grieved this backward march to see,
      How careless and disorderly!
      I scorn your Chieftains, Men who lead,
      And yet want courage at their need;
      Then look at them with open eyes!
      Deserve they further sacrifice?
      My Father!..."                                     1815.

[97] 1837.

       ... remains ...                                   1815.

[98] 1837.

      At length, the issue of this prayer?
      Or how, from his depression raised,
      The Father on his Son had gazed;                   1815.

[99] 1845.

      Suffice it that the Son gave way,
      Nor strove that passion to allay,                  1815.

[100] 1837.

      The like endeavours                                1815.

[101] 1837.

      From cloudless ether looking down,
      The Moon, this tranquil evening, sees              1815.

[102] 1837.

                         ... with moors between,
      Hill-tops, and floods, and forests green,          1815.

[103] 1827.

      The silver smoke, and mounts in wreaths.           1815.

[104] 1827.

      Had ...                                            1815.

[105] 1837.

      The same fair Creature which was nigh
      Feeding in tranquillity,
      When Francis uttered to the Maid                   1815.

      ... who was nigh                                   1820.

[106] Lines 40-43 were added in 1837.

[107] 1836.

        But where at this still hour is she,
      The consecrated Emily?
      Even while I speak, behold the Maid
      Emerging from the cedar shade                      1815.

[108] In the editions of 1815 to 1832, the paragraph ends with
this line. The remaining nine lines in these editions are added to the
following paragraph.

[109] 1837.

        Yet the meek Creature was not free,
      Erewhile, from some perplexity:
      For thrice hath she approached, this day,
      The thought-bewildered Emily;
      Endeavouring, in her gentle way,
      Some smile or look of love to gain,--
      Encouragement to sport or play;
      Attempts which by the unhappy Maid
      Have all been slighted or gainsaid.                1815.

[110] 1837.

      --O welcome to the viewless breeze!
      'Tis fraught with acceptable feeling,
      And instantaneous sympathies
      Into the Sufferer's bosom stealing;--
      Ere she hath reached yon rustic Shed               1815.

      Yet is she soothed: the viewless breeze
      Comes fraught with kindlier sympathies:
      Ere she hath reached yon rustic Shed               1827.

      Ere she had reached ...                            1832.

[111] 1837.

      Revives ...                                        1815.

[112] 1837.

      ... --'tis that bless'd Saint                      1815.

[113] 1837.

      Thou Spirit ...                                    1815.

[114] 1837.

      Descend on Francis:--through the air
      Of this sad earth to him repair,
      Speak to him with a voice, and say,
      "That he must cast despair away!"                  1815.

[115] _Italics_ and capitals were first used in the edition of 1820.

[116] 1837.

      --She knows, she feels it, and is cheared;
      At least her present pangs are checked.            1815.

[117] 1837.

      --And now an ancient Man appeared,
      Approaching her with grave respect.
      Down the smooth walk which then she trod
      He paced along the silent sod,
      And greeting her thus gently spake,                1815.

      --But now ...                                      1827.

[118] 1837.

      In friendship;--go--from him--from me--
      Strive to avert this misery.                       1815.

[119] 1837.

      --If prudence offer help or aid,
      On _you_ is no restriction laid;                   1815.

[120] 1837.

        "Hope," said the Sufferer's zealous Friend,
      "Must not forsake us till the end.--               1815.

[121] 1837.

      ... may have the skill ...                         1815.

[122] 1837.

      Their flight the fair Moon may not see;
      For, from mid-heaven, already she                  1815.

[123] 1837.

      ... haughty ...                                    1815.

[124] _Italics_ were first used in 1837.

[125] 1837.

      ... to the cause.                                  1815.

[126] 1837.

      They shout aloud--but Heaven decreed
                 Another close
                 To that brave deed
      Which struck ...                                   1815.

[127] 1820.

      ... spreads ...                                    1815.

[128] 1820.

      ... and as seldom free                             1815.

[129] 1820.

      And from the heat of the noon-tide sun,            1815.

[130] 1837.

      They to the Watch-tower did repair,
      Commodious Pleasure-house! and there               1815.

[131] 1837.

      He was the proudest ...                            1815.

[132]

      Dead are they, they were doomed to die;
      The Sons and Father all are dead,
      All dead save One; and Emily
      No more shall seek this Watch-tower high,
      To look far forth with anxious eye,--
      She is relieved from hope and dread,
      Though suffering in extremity.

    Inserted only in the edition of 1815.

[133] _Italics_ were first used in 1820.

[134] 1837. In the editions of 1815-32 the following passage took the
place of this line:--

        She turned to him, who with his eye
      Was watching her while on the height
      She sate, or wandered restlessly,
      O'erburdened by her sorrow's weight;
      To him who this dire news had told,
      And now beside the Mourner stood;

[135] 1837.

      Then on this place the Maid had sought:
      And told, as gently as could be,
      The end of that sad Tragedy,                       1815.

[136] These two lines were added in 1827.

[137] 1827.

      ... the people cried,                              1815.

[138] 1837.

      For sake of ...                                    1815.

[139] 1837.

      He rose not in this quarrel, he
      His Father and his Brothers wooed,
      Both for their own and Country's good,
      To rest in peace--he did divide,                   1815.

[140] 1820.

      To scatter gleams ...                              1815.

[141] 1837.

               ... of ancient love,
      But most, compassion for your fate,
      Lady! for your forlorn estate,
      Me did these move, and I made bold,
      And entrance gained to that strong-hold.           1815.

               ... of ancient love;
      And, in your service, I made bold--
      And entrance gained to that strong-hold.           1820.

[142] 1837.

              ... 'We need not stop, my Son!
      But I will end what is begun;
      'Tis matter which I do not fear
      To entrust to any living ear.'                     1815.

[143] 1820.

      Had seen ...                                       1815.

[144] 1837.

      Glad ...                                           1815.

[145] 1837.

      ... be not ...                                     1815.

[146] 1837.

      ... beauteous ...                                  1815.

[147] 1837.

        Then Francis answered fervently,
      "If God so will, the same shall be."               1815.

[148] 1837.

      Immediately, this solemn word                      1815.

[149] 1837.

                      ... had reached the door,
      The Banner which a Soldier bore,
      One marshalled thus with base intent
      That he in scorn might go before,
      And, holding up this monument,                     1815.

[150] 1837.

      ... that were round                                1815.

[151] 1837.

      This insult, and the Banner saved,
      That moment, from among the tide                   1815.

[152] 1837.

      Bore unobserved ...                                1815.

[153] 1820.

      ... to encourage ...                               1815.

[154] 1837.

      "Yet, yet in this affliction," said
      The old Man to the silent Maid,
      "Yet, Lady! heaven is good--the night
      Shews yet a Star which is most bright;             1815.

[155] 1837.

      Why comes not Francis?--Joyful chear
      In that parental gratulation,
      And glow of righteous indignation,
      Went with him from the doleful City:--
      He fled--yet in his flight could hear
      The death-sound of the Minster-bell;               1815.

[156] 1837.

      With motion fleet as winged Dove;                  1815.

      ... as a winged Dove;                              1832.

[157] 1837.

      An Angel-guest, should he appear.                  1815.

[158] 1837.

      Along the plain of York he passed;
      The Banner-staff was in his hand,
      The Imagery concealed from sight,
      And cross the expanse, in open flight,
      Reckless of what impels or leads,
      Unchecked he hurries on;--nor heeds
      The sorrow of the Villages;
      From the triumphant cruelties                      1815.

      Spread by triumphant cruelties                     1827.

      The sorrow through the Villages,                   1832.

[159] 1827.

      And punishment without remorse,
      Unchecked he journies--under law
      Of inward occupation strong;
      And the first ...                                  1815.

[160] 1837.

                     ... did he maintain
      Within himself, and found no rest;
      Calm liberty he could not gain;
      And yet the service was unblest.                   1815.

[161] 1820.

      Raised self-suspicion which was strong,
      Swaying the brave Man to his wrong:                1815.

[162] 1837.

      Of all-disposing Providence,
      Its will intelligibly shewn,
      Finds he the Banner in his hand,
      Without a thought to such intent,
      Or conscious effort of his own?
      And no obstruction to prevent
      His Father's wish and last command!
      And, thus beset, he heaved a sigh;
      Remembering his own prophecy
      Of utter desolation, made
      To Emily in the yew-tree shade:
      He sighed, submitting to the power,
      The might of that prophetic hour.                  1815.

[163] 1837.

           ... and, on the second day,
      He reached a summit whence his eyes                1815.

[164] 1837.

      How Francis had the Banner claimed,
      And with that charge had disappeared;              1815.

[165] 1837.

      Behold the Ensign in his hand!                     1815.

[166] 1837.

                      ... freight I bear;
      It weakens me, my heart hath bled
      Till it is weak--but you beware,
      Nor do ...                                         1815.

[167] 1837.

      Which ...                                          1815.

[168] 1820.

      ... with a Warrior's brow                          1815.

[169] 1845.

                       ... had snatched
      A spear,--and with his eyes he watched
      Their motions, turning round and round:--
      His weaker hand the Banner held;
      And straight by savage zeal impelled
      Forth rushed a Pikeman, as if he,
      Not without harsh indignity,
      Would seize the same:--instinctively--
      To smite the Offender--with his lance
      Did Francis from the brake advance;
      But, from behind, a treacherous wound
      Unfeeling, brought him to the ground,
      A mortal stroke:--oh, grief to tell!
      Thus, thus, the noble Francis fell:
      There did he lie of breath forsaken;
      The Banner from his grasp was taken,
      And borne exultingly away;
      And the Body was left on the ground where it lay.  1815.

      But not before the warm life-blood
      Had tinged with searching overflow,
      More deeply tinged the embroidered show
      Of His whose side was pierced upon the Rood!       1837.

    The text of 1837 is otherwise identical with the final version of
    1845.

[170] These two lines were added in 1837.

[171] 1837.

        Two days, as many nights, he slept
      Alone, unnoticed, and unwept;
      For at that time distress and fear
      Possessed the Country far and near;
      The third day, One, who chanced to pass,
      Beheld him stretched upon the grass.
      A gentle Forester was he,
      And of the Norton Tenantry;
      And he had heard that by a Train
      Of Horsemen Francis had been slain.
      Much was he troubled--for the Man
      Hath recognized his pallid face;
      And to the nearest Huts he ran,
      And called the People to the place.
      --How desolate is Rylstone-hall!
      Such was the instant thought of all;
      And if the lonely Lady there
      Should be, this sight she cannot bear!
      Such thought the Forester express'd,
      And all were swayed, and deemed it best
      That, if the Priest should yield assent
      And join himself to their intent,                  1815.

[172] 1837.

      That straightway ...                               1815.

[173] 1840.

                      ... on a bier
      In decency and humble chear;
      And psalms are sung with holy sound.               1815.

      And psalms they sung--a holy sound
      That hill and vale with sadness hear.              1837.

[174] 1827.

      Tow'rds ...                                        1815.

[175] 1820.

      ... deep ...                                       1815.

[176] 1820.

      ... calm ...                                       1815.

[177] 1845.

      The walks and pools neglect hath sown              1815.

[178] 1837.

      There is ...                                       1815.

[179]

      There seated, may this Maid be seen,

    Inserted in the editions of 1815-1832.

[180] 1827.

      ... has ...                                        1815.

[181] 1837.

      For, of that band of rushing Deer,                 1815.

[182] 1837.

      ... its ...                                        1815.

      ... his ...                                        1832.

[183] 1837.

                       ... and more near,
      Stopped once again;--but, as no trace
      Was found of any thing to fear,
      Even to her feet the Creature came,                1815.

[184] 1837.

      ... choicest ...                                   1815.

[185] 1837.

      For both a bounteous, fruitful meeting.            1815.

[186] 1837.

      And take this gift of Heaven with grace?           1815.

[187] This line was added in 1837.

[188] 1837.

      ... this ...                                       1815.

[189] 1837.

      ... was there ...                                  1815.

[190] 1837.

      Did she behold--saw once again;                    1815.

[191] 1837.

      So doth the Sufferer deem it good
      Even once again this neighbourhood                 1815.

[192] 1827.

      ... writhed                                        1815.

[193] 1837.

      ... kindly ...                                     1815.

[194] 1827.

      ... as the whitest ...                             1815.

[195] 1815.

      ... through an ...                                 1827.

    The text of 1837 returns to that of 1815.

[196] 1837.

      Did now a very gladness yield
      At morning to the dewy field,
      While they side by side were straying,
      And the Shepherd's pipe was playing;               1815.

[197] 1837.

      ... wandering ...                                  1815.

[198] 1845.

      Mild, delicious melancholy:                        1815.

[199] 1837.

      Up doth she climb to Norton Tower,
      And thence looks round her far and wide.
      Her fate there measures,--all is stilled,--
      The feeble hath subdued her heart;                 1815.

[200] 1837.

      This single Creature ...                           1815.

[201] 1837.

      So beautiful the spotless Thrall,
      (A lovely Youngling white as foam,)
      That it was brought to Rylstone-hall;
      Her youngest Brother led it home,
      The youngest, then a lusty Boy,
      Brought home the prize--and with what joy!         1815.

[202] 1827.

      Nor did she fear in the still moonshine            1815.

      ... in still moonshine                             1820.

[203] 1837.

      For that she came; there oft and long
      She sate in meditation strong:                     1815.

[204] 1820.

      ... her ...                                        1815.

[205] 1837.

      That ...                                           1815.

[206] 1837.

      ... we frame, ...                                  1815.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] This is the final form of the "Advertisement" to _The White Doe of
Rylstone_. The variations from it, which occur in earlier editions, from
1815 onwards, need not be noted. The poem was placed in the 1820 edition
in volume iii., in 1827 in volume iv., in 1832 in volume iii., and in
1836-37 and afterwards in volume iv. of the Collected Works.--ED.

[B] _I.e._, in the small bower in the orchard of Dove Cottage,
Grasmere.--ED.

[C] Compare _The Faerie Queene_, book I. canto i. stanza iv. l. 9--

      And by her, in a line, a milkewhite lambe she lad.   ED.

[D] See _The Faerie Queene_, book I. canto viii. stanza xliv. l. 9--

      That blisse may not abide in state of mortall men.   ED.

[E] The above extract, which, in 1837 and subsequent editions, follows
the Dedication of the poem to Mrs. Wordsworth, is taken from the tragedy
of _The Borderers_, act III. line 405 (vol. i. p. 187). In the prefatory
note to _The Borderers_--published in 1842--Wordsworth says he would not
have made use of these lines in _The White Doe of Rylstone_ if he could
have foreseen the time when he would be induced to publish the tragedy.
It is signed M. S. in the 1837-43 editions.

In a note to the edition of 1837, he says, "'Action is transitory,' etc.
This and the five lines that follow were either read or recited by me,
more than thirty years since, to the late Mr. Hazlitt, who quoted some
expressions in them (imperfectly remembered) in a work of his published
several years ago."

In the quarto edition of 1815 the following lines precede the extract
from Lord Bacon; and in the edition of 1820 they follow it. In 1827 they
were transferred to the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."

      _"Weak is the will of Man, his judgement blind;
      Remembrance persecutes, and Hope betrays;
      Heavy is woe;--and joy, for human kind,
      A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze!"--
      Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days
      Who wants the glorious faculty, assigned
      To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind,
      And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays.
      Imagination is that sacred power,
      Imagination lofty and refined:
      'Tis her's to pluck the amaranthine Flower
      Of Faith, and round the Sufferer's temples bind
      Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower,
      And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind._       ED.

[F] See his _Essays_, XVI., "Of Atheism." Wordsworth's quotation is not
quite accurate.--ED.

[G] It is to be regretted that at the present day Bolton Abbey wants
this ornament: but the Poem, according to the imagination of the Poet,
is composed in Queen Elizabeth's time. "Formerly," says Dr. Whitaker,
"over the Transept was a tower. This is proved not only from the mention
of bells at the Dissolution, when they could have had no other place,
but from the pointed roof of the choir, which must have terminated
westward, in some building of superior height to the ridge."--W. W.
1815.

[H] See note I. at the end of the poem, p. 196.--ED.

[I] See note I. at the end of the poem, p. 196.--ED.

[J] The Nave of the Church having been reserved at the Dissolution, for
the use of the Saxon Cure, is still a parochial Chapel; and, at this
day, is as well kept as the neatest English Cathedral.--W. W. 1815.

[K] "At a small distance from the great gateway stood the Prior's Oak,
which was felled about the year 1720, and sold for 70_l._ According to
the price of wood at that time, it could scarcely have contained less
than 1400 feet of timber."--W. W. 1815.

This note is quoted from Whitaker.--ED.

The place where this Oak tree grew is uncertain. Whitaker says it stood
"at a small distance from the great gateway." This old entrance or
gateway to the Abbey was through a part of the modern and now inhabited
structure of Bolton Hall, under the Tower; and the old sexton at the
Abbey told me that the tree stood near that gateway, at some distance
from the ruins of the Abbey.--ED.

[L] Of Wharfedale at Bolton, Henry Crabb Robinson says, in his _Diary_
(September 1818), "This valley has been very little adorned, and it
needs no other accident to grace it than sunshine."--ED.

[M] Compare the lines in the sonnet _At Furness Abbey_ (composed in
1844)--

      A soothing spirit follows in the way
      That Nature takes, her counter-work pursuing.        ED.

[N] Roses still grow plentifully among the ruins, although they are not
abundant in the district.--ED.

[O] This is not topographical. No "warrior carved in stone" is now to be
seen among the ruins of Bolton Abbey, whatever may have been the case in
1807; nor can Francis Norton's grave be discovered in the Abbey
grounds.--ED.

[P] The detail of this tradition may be found in Dr. Whitaker's book,
and in the Poem, _The Force of Prayer_, etc. [p. 204].--W. W. 1815.

[Q] Compare _The Boy of Egremond_, by Samuel Rogers.--ED.

[R] "At the East end of the North aisle of Bolton Priory Church is a
chantry belonging to Bethmesly Hall, and a vault, where, according to
tradition, the Claphams" (who inherited this estate, by the female line
from the Mauliverers) "were interred upright." John de Clapham, of whom
this ferocious act is recorded, was a name of great note in his time;
"he was a vehement partisan of the House of Lancaster, in whom the
spirit of his chieftains, the Cliffords, seemed to survive."--W. W.
1815.

This quotation is from Dr. Whitaker's _History of the Deanery of
Craven_.--ED.

[S] In 1868, when this chapel was under restoration, a vault was
discovered at the eastern end of the north aisle, with evident signs of
several bodies having been buried upright. On the site of this vault the
organ is now placed. The chapel was restored by the late Duke of
Devonshire.--ED.

[T] In the second volume of Poems published by the author, will be found
one, entitled, _Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, upon the
Restoration of Lord Clifford, the Shepherd, to the Estates and Honours
of his Ancestors_. To that Poem is annexed an account of this personage
[p. 89], chiefly extracted from Burn's and Nicholson's History of
Cumberland and Westmoreland. It gives me pleasure to add these further
particulars concerning him from Dr. Whitaker, who says, "he retired to
the solitude of Barden, where he seems to have enlarged the tower out of
a common keeper's lodge, and where he found a retreat equally favourable
to taste, to instruction, and to devotion. The narrow limits of his
residence shew that he had learned to despise the pomp of greatness, and
that a small train of servants could suffice him, who had lived to the
age of thirty a servant himself. I think this nobleman resided here
almost entirely when in Yorkshire, for all his charters which I have
seen are dated at Barden.

"His early habits, and the want of those artificial measures of time
which even shepherds now possess, had given him a turn for observing the
motions of the heavenly bodies, and, having purchased such an apparatus
as could then be procured, he amused and informed himself by those
pursuits, with the aid of the Canons of Bolton, some of whom are said to
have been well versed in what was then known of the science.

"I suspect this nobleman to have been sometimes occupied in a more
visionary pursuit, and probably in the same company.

"For, from the family evidences, I have met with two MSS. on the subject
of Alchemy, which, from the character, spelling, etc., may almost
certainly be referred to the reign of Henry the Seventh. If these were
originally deposited with the MSS. of the Cliffords, it might have been
for the use of this nobleman. If they were brought from Bolton at the
Dissolution, they must have been the work of those Canons whom he almost
exclusively conversed with.

"In these peaceful employments Lord Clifford spent the whole reign of
Henry the Seventh, and the first years of his son. But in the year 1513,
when almost sixty years old, he was appointed to a principal command
over the army which fought at Flodden, and shewed that the military
genius of the family had neither been chilled in him by age, nor
extinguished by habits of peace.

"He survived the battle of Flodden ten years, and died April 23d, 1523,
aged about 70. I shall endeavour to appropriate to him a tomb, vault,
and chantry, in the choir of the church of Bolton, as I should be sorry
to believe that he was deposited when dead at a distance from the place
which in his life-time he loved so well.

"By his last will he appointed his body to be interred at Shap if he
died in Westmoreland; or at Bolton if he died in Yorkshire."

With respect to the Canons of Bolton, Dr. Whitaker shews from MSS. that
not only alchemy but astronomy was a favourite pursuit with them.--W. W.
1815.

[U] Barden Tower is on the western bank of the Wharfe, fully two miles
north-west of Bolton Priory, above the Strid. At the time of the
restoration of the Shepherd-lord, Barden Tower was only a keeper's
forest lodge. It is so hidden in trees, and so retired, that the
situation is most accurately described as

                          the shy recess
      Of Barden's lowly quietness.                         ED.

[V] The year 1569.--ED.

[W] Percy, Earl of Northumberland, and Neville, Earl of Westmoreland--the
two peers who joined in support of the Duke of Norfolk's marriage with
Queen Mary, with a view to the restoration of Catholicism in England.
See note III. p. 198.--ED.

[X] Compare _Twelfth Night_, act I. scene i. l. 4--

      That strain again! it had a dying fall.              ED.

[Y] See the Old Ballad,--_The Rising of the North_.--W. W. 1827.

This Ballad is printed in Wordsworth's note, p. 186. The reference here
is to the lines--

      But, father, I will wend with you,
        Unarm'd and naked will I bee.                      ED.

[Z] The site of Rylstone Hall is still recognisable, but the building is
gone. It was not at Rylstone, but at Ripon, that the Nortons raised
their banner in November 1569; but their tenantry at Rylstone rose with
them at the same time.--ED.

[AA] Brancepeth Castle stands near the river Were, a few miles from the
city of Durham. It formerly belonged to the Nevilles, Earls of
Westmoreland. See Dr. Percy's account.--W. W. 1815.

[BB] The tower of the Cathedral of Durham, of which St. Cuthbert is the
patron saint.--ED.

[CC] Now Raby Castle, a seat of the Duke of Cleveland in the county of
Durham.--ED.

[DD] From the old Ballad.--W. W. 1820.

The lines are--

      At Wetherbye they mustered their host,
        Thirteen thousand fair to see.                     ED.

[EE] The village of Clifford is three miles from Wetherby, where the
host was mustered.--ED.

[FF] From the old Ballad.--W. W. 1820.

The line referred to is--

      Against soe many could not stay.                     ED.

[GG] See note V. p. 200.--ED.

[HH] See the Historians for the account of this memorable battle,
usually denominated the Battle of the Standard.--W. W. 1815.

It was fought at Northallerton in 1137, under Archbishop Thurston of
York. See note VI. p. 200.--ED.

[II] "In the night before the battle of Durham was strucken and begun,
the 17th day of October, _anno_ 1346, there did appear to John Fosser,
then Prior of the abbey of Durham, a Vision, commanding him to take the
holy Corporax-cloth, wherewith St. Cuthbert did cover the chalice when
he used to say mass, and to put the same holy relique like to a
banner-cloth upon the point of a spear, and the next morning to go and
repair to a place on the west side of the city of Durham, called the Red
Hills, where the Maid's Bower wont to be, and there to remain and abide
till the end of the battle. To which vision, the Prior obeying, and
taking the same for a revelation of God's grace and mercy by the
mediation of holy St. Cuthbert, did accordingly the next morning, with
the monks of the said abbey, repair to the said Red Hills, and there
most devoutly humbling and prostrating themselves in prayer for the
victory in the said battle: (a great multitude of the Scots running and
pressing by them, with intention to have spoiled them, yet had no power
to commit any violence under such holy persons, so occupied in prayer,
being protected and defended by the mighty Providence of Almighty God,
and by the mediation of Holy St. Cuthbert, and the presence of the holy
relique). And, after many conflicts and warlike exploits there had and
done between the English men and the King of Scots and his company, the
said battle ended, and the victory was obtained, to the great overthrow
and confusion of the Scots, their enemies: And then the said Prior and
monks, accompanied with Ralph Lord Nevil, and John Nevil his son, and
the Lord Percy, and many other nobles of England, returned home and went
to the abbey church, there joining in hearty prayer and thanksgiving to
God and holy St. Cuthbert for the victory atchieved that day."

This battle was afterwards called the Battle of Neville's Cross from the
following circumstance:--

"On the west side of the city of Durham, where two roads pass each
other, a most notable, famous, and goodly cross of stone-work was
erected, and set up to the honour of God for the victory there obtained
in the field of battle, and known by the name of Nevil's Cross, and
built at the sole cost of the Lord Ralph Nevil, one of the most
excellent and chief persons in the said battle." The Relique of St.
Cuthbert afterwards became of great importance in military events. For
soon after this battle, says the same author, "The prior caused a goodly
and sumptuous banner to be made, (which is then described at great
length,) and in the midst of the same banner-cloth was the said holy
relique and corporax-cloth enclosed, etc. etc., and so sumptuously
finished, and absolutely perfected, this banner was dedicated to holy
St. Cuthbert, of intent and purpose, that for the future it should be
carried to any battle, as occasion should serve; and was never carried
and shewed at any battle but by the especial grace of God Almighty, and
the mediation of holy St. Cuthbert, it brought home victory; which
banner-cloth, after the dissolution of the abbey, fell into the
possession of Dean WHITTINGHAM, whose wife was called KATHARINE, being a
French woman, (as is most credibly reported by eye-witnesses,) did most
injuriously burn the same in her fire, to the open contempt and disgrace
of all ancient and goodly reliques."--Extracted from a book entitled,
_Durham Cathedral, as it stood before the Dissolution of the Monastery_.
It appears, from the old metrical History, that the above-mentioned
banner was carried by the Earl of Surrey to Flodden Field.--W. W. 1815.

[JJ] Compare _An Evening Walk_, ll. 365, 366 (vol. i. p. 31)--

        The song of mountain-streams, unheard by day,
      Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward way.

Also _The Excursion_ (book iv. ll. 1173, 1174)--

      The little rills, and waters numberless,
      Inaudible by daylight.

And Wordsworth's sonnet beginning--

      The unremitting voice of nightly streams
      That wastes so oft, we think, its tuneful powers.

Compare also in Gray's _Tour in the Lakes_, "At distance, heard the
murmur of many waterfalls, not audible in the daytime."--ED.

[KK] Compare Milton's Sonnet on his Blindness, l. 14--

      They also serve who only stand and wait.             ED.

[LL] In the limestone ridges and hills of the Craven district of
Yorkshire there are many caverns and underground recesses, such as the
Yordas cave referred to in _The Prelude_ (vol. iii. p. 289).--ED.

[MM] The Towers of Barnard Castle on the Tees in Yorkshire.--ED.

[NN] It is so called to this day, and is thus described by Dr. Whitaker.
"Rylstone Fell yet exhibits a monument of the old warfare between the
Nortons and Cliffords. On a point of very high ground, commanding an
immense prospect, and protected by two deep ravines, are the remains of
a square tower, expressly said by Dodsworth to have been built by
Richard Norton. The walls are of strong grout-work, about four feet
thick. It seems to have been three stories high. Breaches have been
industriously made in all the sides, almost to the ground, to render it
untenable.

"But Norton Tower was probably a sort of pleasure-house in summer, as
there are, adjoining to it, several large mounds, (two of them are
pretty entire,) of which no other account can be given than that they
were butts for large companies of archers.

"The place is savagely wild, and admirably adapted to the uses of a
watch-tower."--W. W. 1815. (See note VII. p. 201.)--ED.

The remains of Norton Tower are not in the highest point of the Rylstone
Fells, but on one of the western ridges: and there are now only four
bare roofless rectangular walls. It was originally both a watch-tower
and a hunting-tower. Looking towards Malham to the north and north-west,
the view is exactly as described in the poem.--ED.

[OO] This extract was first prefixed to canto seventh in the edition of
1837.--ED.

[PP] "After the attainder of Richard Norton, his estates were forfeited
to the crown, where they remained till the 2d or 3d of James; they were
then granted to Francis Earl of Cumberland." From an accurate survey
made at that time, several particulars have been extracted by Dr. W. It
appears that the mansion-house was then in decay. "Immediately adjoining
is a close, called the Vivery, so called undoubtedly from the French
Vivier, or modern Latin Viverium; for there are near the house large
remains of a pleasure-ground, such as were introduced in the earlier
part of Elizabeth's time, with topiary works, fish-ponds, an island,
etc. The whole township was ranged by an hundred and thirty red deer,
the property of the Lord, which, together with the wood, had, after the
attainder of Mr. Norton, been committed to Sir Stephen Tempest. The
wood, it seems, had been abandoned to depredations, before which time it
appears that the neighbourhood must have exhibited a forest-like and
sylvan scene. In this survey, among the old tenants, is mentioned one
Richard Kitchen, butler to Mr. Norton, who rose in rebellion with his
master, and was executed at Ripon."--W. W. 1815.

[QQ] There are two small streams which rise near Rylstone. One, called
Rylstone beck, flows westwards into the Aire. Another makes its way
eastwards towards the Wharfe, joins Linton beck, and so enters Wharfe
between Linton Church and Grassington Bridge. It is to the latter that
Wordsworth refers, although the former is now called Rylstone beck.--ED.

[RR] "At the extremity of the parish of Burnsal, the valley of Wharf
forks off into two great branches, one of which retains the name of
Wharfdale to the source of the river; the other is usually called
Littondale, but more anciently and properly Amerdale. Dern-brook, which
runs along an obscure valley from the N. W., is derived from a Teutonic
word, signifying concealment."--Dr. WHITAKER.--W. W. 1815.

The valley of Littondale, as is shown in Wordsworth's note, once bore
the name of Amerdale. Though the name is not now given to the beck, it
survives, singularly enough, in one pool in the stream, where it joins
the Wharfe, which is still called "Amerdale Dub."--ED.

[SS] From this valley of Litton a small lateral one runs up in a
south-westerly direction at Arncliffe, making a "deep fork," and is
called Dernbrook. Dern means seclusion, and two or three miles up this
ghyll is a farm-house bearing the name of Dernbrook House. "The phrase
'By lurking Dernbrook's pathless side' is so appropriate," says the late
incumbent of Arncliffe, the Ven. Archdeacon Boyd, in a letter to the
editor, "that it would almost seem that Wordsworth had been there." Mr.
Boyd adds, "In the illustrated edition of _The White Doe_, published by
Longmans a few years ago, there is an illustration by Birket Foster of
the Dernbrook House, the original of which I had the honour to supply.
It is but a short distance--two or three miles--from Malham Tarn."--ED.

[TT] On one of the bells of Rylstone church, which seems co-eval with
the building of the tower, is this cypher, =J. N.= for John Norton, and
the motto, "=God us ayde.="--W. W. 1815.

"A ring, bearing the same motto, was sold at a sale of antiquities from
Bramhope Manor, Feb. 1865. The Norton Shield of Arms is in Rylstone
Church." (See Murray's _Yorkshire_.)--ED.

[UU] Which is thus described by Dr. Whitaker:--"On the plain summit of
the hill are the foundations of a strong wall, stretching from the S. W.
to the N. E. corner of the tower, and to the edge of a very deep glen.
From this glen, a ditch, several hundred yards long, runs south to
another deep and rugged ravine. On the N. and W. where the banks are
very steep, no wall or mound is discoverable, paling being the only
fence that would stand on such ground.

"From the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, it appears that such pounds
for deer, sheep, etc., were far from being uncommon in the south of
Scotland. The principle of them was something like that of a wire
mouse-trap. On the declivity of a steep hill, the bottom and sides of
which were fenced so as to be impassable, a wall was constructed nearly
level with the surface on the outside, yet so high within that without
wings it was impossible to escape in the opposite direction. Care was
probably taken that these enclosures should contain better feed than the
neighbouring parks or forests; and whoever is acquainted with the habits
of these sequacious animals, will easily conceive, that if the leader
was once tempted to descend into the snare, an herd would follow."

I cannot conclude without recommending to the notice of all lovers of
beautiful scenery--Bolton Abbey and its neighbourhood. This enchanting
spot belongs to the Duke of Devonshire; and the superintendance of it
has for some years been entrusted to the Rev. William Carr, who has most
skilfully opened out its features; and in whatever he has added, has
done justice to the place by working with an invisible hand of art in
the very spirit of nature.--W. W. 1815.

[VV] The late Archdeacon of Craven wrote to me of this, "There never can
have been a Lady Chapel in the usual place at Bolton, for the altar was
close to the east window. I never heard of a Saint Mary's _shrine_; but,
most probably, the church was dedicated to St. Mary, in which case she"
(the Lady Emily) "would be speaking of the building. In proof of this,
the Priory of Embsay was dedicated to St. Mary; and naturally the
dedication, on the removal from Embsay to Bolton, would be renewed. See
Whitaker, p. 369, in extracting from the compotus, 'Comp. Monasterii be'
Mar' de Boulton in Craven.'" It may be added that the whole church being
dedicated to St. Mary--as in the case of the Cistercian buildings--there
would be no Lady Chapel. The mention in detail of "prostrate altars,"
"shrines defaced," "fret-work imagery," "plates of ornamental brass,"
and "sculptured Forms of Warriors" in the closing canto of _The White
Doe_ is--like the "one sequestered hillock green" where Francis Norton
was supposed to "sleep in his last abode"--part of the imaginative
drapery of the poem.--ED.

[WW] Compare Sackville's _Ferrex and Porrex_, iv. 2; Lord Surrey's lines
beginning, "Give place, ye lovers"; and George Turberville's poem which
begins, "You want no skill."--ED.

[XX] Camden expressly says that he was violently attached to the
Catholic Religion.--W. W. 1815.




THE FORCE OF PRAYER;[A] OR, THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY

A TRADITION

Composed 1807.--Published 1815


[An appendage to _The White Doe_. My friend, Mr. Rogers, has also
written on the subject.[B] The story is preserved in Dr. Whitaker's
_History of Craven_--a topographical writer of first-rate merit in all
that concerns the past; but such was his aversion from the modern
spirit, as shown in the spread of manufactories in those districts of
which he treats, that his readers are left entirely ignorant both of the
progress of these arts and their real bearing upon the comfort, virtues,
and happiness of the inhabitants. While wandering on foot through the
fertile valleys and over the moorlands of the Apennine that divide
Yorkshire from Lancashire, I used to be delighted with observing the
number of substantial cottages that had sprung up on every side, each
having its little plot of fertile ground won from the surrounding waste.
A bright and warm fire, if needed, was always to be found in these
dwellings. The father was at his loom; the children looked healthy and
happy. Is it not to be feared that the increase of mechanic power had
done away with many of these blessings, and substituted many ills? Alas!
if these evils grow, how are they to be checked, and where is the remedy
to be found? Political economy will not supply it; that is certain; we
must look to something deeper, purer, and higher.--I. F.]

Included among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."--ED.


    "=What is good for a bootless bene?="
    With these dark words begins my Tale;
    And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring
    When Prayer is of no avail?

    "=What is good for a bootless bene?="                        5
    The Falconer to the Lady said;
    And she made answer "ENDLESS SORROW!"
    For she knew that her Son was dead.

    She knew it by[1] the Falconer's words,
    And from the look of the Falconer's eye;                    10
    And from the love which was in her soul
    For her youthful Romilly.

    --Young Romilly through Barden woods
    Is ranging high and low;
    And holds a greyhound in a leash,                           15
    To let slip upon buck or doe.

    The pair[2] have reached that fearful chasm,
    How tempting to bestride!
    For lordly Wharf is there pent in
    With rocks on either side.                                  20

    The[3] striding-place is called THE STRID,
    A name which it took of yore:
    A thousand years hath it borne that name,
    And shall a thousand more.

    And hither is young Romilly come,                           25
    And what may now forbid
    That he, perhaps for the hundredth time,
    Shall bound across THE STRID?

    He sprang in glee,--for what cared he                       29
    That the river was strong, and the rocks were steep?--
    But the greyhound in the leash hung back,
    And checked him in his leap.

    The Boy is in the arms of Wharf,
    And strangled by[4] a merciless force;
    For never more was young Romilly seen                       35
    Till he rose a lifeless corse.

    Now there is[5] stillness in the vale,
    And long,[6] unspeaking, sorrow:
    Wharf shall be to pitying hearts
    A name more sad than Yarrow.                                40

    If for a lover the Lady wept,
    A solace she might borrow
    From death, and from the passion of death:--
    Old Wharf might heal her sorrow.

    She weeps not for the wedding-day                           45
    Which was to be to-morrow:
    Her hope was a further-looking hope,
    And hers is a mother's sorrow.

    He was a tree that stood alone,
    And proudly did its branches wave;                          50
    And the root of this delightful tree
    Was in her husband's grave!

    Long, long in darkness did she sit,
    And her first words were, "Let there be
    In Bolton, on the field of Wharf,                           55
    A stately Priory!"

    The stately Priory was reared;[C]
    And Wharf, as he moved along,
    To matins joined a mournful voice,
    Nor failed at even-song.                                    60

    And the Lady prayed in heaviness
    That looked not for relief!
    But slowly did her succour come,
    And a patience to her grief.

    Oh! there is never sorrow of heart                          65
    That shall lack a timely end,
    If but to God we turn, and ask
    Of Him to be our friend![D]


There were few variations in the text of this poem, from 1815 to 1850;
but I have found, in a letter of Dorothy Wordsworth's to her friend Miss
Jane Pollard, the mother of Lady Monteagle--who kindly sent it to me--an
earlier version, which differs considerably from the form in which it
was first published in 1815. The letter is dated October 18th, 1807, and
the poem is as follows:--


      "_What is good for a bootless bene?_"
      The Lady answer'd, "_endless sorrow_."
      _Her_ words are plain; but the Falconer's words
      Are a path that is dark to travel thorough.

      These words I bring from the Banks of Wharf,
      Dark words to front an ancient tale:
      And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring
      When prayer is of no avail?

      "What is good for a bootless bene?"
      The Falconer to the Lady said,
      And she made answer as ye have heard,
      For she knew that her Son was dead.

      She knew it from the Falconer's words
      And from the look of the Falconer's eye,
      And from the love that was in her heart
      For her youthful Romelli.

      Young Romelli to the Woods is gone,
      And who doth on his steps attend?
      He hath a greyhound in a leash,
      A chosen forest Friend.

      And they have reach'd that famous Chasm
      Where he who dares may stride
      Across the River Wharf, pent in
      With rocks on either side.

      And that striding place is call'd THE STRID,
      A name which it took of yore;
      A thousand years hath it borne that name,
      And shall a thousand more.

      And thither is young Romelli come;
      And what may now forbid
      That He, perhaps for the hundredth time,
      Shall bound across the Strid?

      He sprang in glee; for what cared he
      That the River was strong, and the Rocks were steep?
      But the greyhound in the Leash hung back
      And check'd him in his leap.

      The Boy is in the arms of Wharf,
      And strangled with a merciless force;
      For never more was young Romelli seen,
      Till he was a lifeless corse.

      Now is there stillness in the vale
      And long unspeaking sorrow,
      Wharf has buried fonder hopes
      Than e'er were drown'd in Yarrow.[E]

      If for a Lover the Lady wept
      A comfort she might borrow
      From death, and from the passion of death;
      Old Wharf might heal her sorrow.

      She weeps not for the Wedding-day
      That was to be to-morrow,[F]
      Her hope was a farther-looking hope
      And hers is a Mother's sorrow.

      Oh was he not a comely tree?
      And proudly did his branches wave;
      And the Root of this delightful Tree
      Is in her Husband's grave.

      Long, long in darkness did she sit,
      And her first word was, "Let there be
      At Bolton, in the Fields of Wharf
      A stately Priory."

      And the stately Priory was rear'd,
      And Wharf as he moved along,
      To Matins joined a mournful voice,
      Nor fail'd at Even-song.

      And the Lady pray'd in heaviness
      That wish'd not for relief;
      But slowly did her succour come,
      And a patience to her grief.

      Oh! there is never sorrow of heart
      That shall lack a timely end,
      If but to God we turn, and ask
      Of him to be our Friend.


The poem of Samuel Rogers, to which Wordsworth refers in the Fenwick
note, is named _The Boy of Egremond_. It begins--

      "Say, what remains when Hope is fled?"
      She answered, "endless weeping!"

In a letter to Wordsworth in 1815, Charles Lamb wrote thus of _The Force
of Prayer_, "Young Romilly is divine; the reasons of his mother's grief
being remediless. I never saw parental love carried up so high, towering
above the other loves. Shakspeare had done something for the filial in
Cordelia, and, by implication, for the fatherly too, in Lear's
resentment; he left it for you to explore the depths of the maternal
heart.... When I first opened upon the just mentioned poem, in a
careless tone, I said to Mary, as if putting a riddle, '_What is good
for a bootless bene?_' To which, with infinite presence of mind (as the
jest-book has it), she answered, 'A shoeless pea.' It was the first joke
she ever made.... I never felt deeply in my life if that poem did not
make me feel, both lately and when I read it in MS." (_The Letters of
Charles Lamb_, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i. p. 288.)--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1820.

      ... from ...                                       1815.

[2] 1820.

      And the Pair ...                                   1815.

[3] 1850.

      This ...                                           1815.

[4] 1820.

      ... with ...                                       1815.

[5] 1820.

      Now is there ...                                   1815.

[6] 1815.

      And deep ...                                       1827.

    The text of 1837 returns to that of 1815.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] See _The White Doe of Rylstone_.--W. W. 1820.

[B] Charles Lamb wrote to Wordsworth, May 1819, of Rogers--"He has been
re-writing your Poem of the Strid, and publishing it at the end of his
'Human Life.' Tie him up to the cart, hangman, while you are about it."
(_The Letters of Charles Lamb_, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. ii. p.
20.)--ED.

[C] The Lady Alice De Romilly built not only Bolton Priory, but the nave
of Carlisle Cathedral, and the chancel of Crosthwaite Parish Church at
Keswick.--ED.

[D] "Young Romilly" was a son of Fitz Duncan, Earl of Murray in
Scotland, whose Cumbrian estates extended from Dunmail Raise to St.
Bees. This "Boy of Egremond" was second cousin of Malcolm, King of
Scotland; and by the marriage of Fitz Duncan's sister (Matilda the Good)
with Henry I. of England, he stood in the same relation to Henry II. of
England. Fitz Duncan married Alice, the only daughter and heiress of
Robert de Romilly, lord of Skipton. Compare Ferguson's _History of
Cumberland_, p. 175.--ED.

[E] Alluding to a Ballad of Logan's.--W. W. 1807.

[F] From the same Ballad.--W. W. 1807.




COMPOSED WHILE THE AUTHOR WAS ENGAGED IN WRITING A TRACT, OCCASIONED BY
  THE CONVENTION OF CINTRA. 1808

Composed 1808.--Published 1815


This sonnet was included among those "dedicated to Liberty."--ED.


    Not 'mid the World's vain objects that[1] enslave
    The free-born Soul--that World whose vaunted skill
    In selfish interest perverts the will,
    Whose factions lead astray the wise and brave--
    Not there; but in dark wood and rocky cave,                  5
    And hollow vale which foaming torrents fill
    With omnipresent murmur as they rave
    Down their steep beds, that never shall be still:
    Here, mighty Nature! in this school sublime
    I weigh the hopes and fears of suffering Spain;             10
    For her consult the auguries of time,
    And through the human heart explore my way;
    And look and listen--gathering, whence[2] I may,
    Triumph, and thoughts no bondage can restrain.


Wordsworth began to write on the Convention of Cintra in November 1808,
and sent two articles on the subject to the December (1808) and January
(1809) numbers of _The Courier_. The subject grew in importance to him
as he discussed it: and he threw his reflections on the subject into the
form of a small treatise, the preface to which was dated 20th May 1809.
The full title of this (so-called) "Tract" is "Concerning the Relations
of Great Britain, Spain, and Portugal to each other, and to the common
Enemy, at this crisis; and specifically as affected by the Convention of
Cintra: the whole brought to the test of those Principles, by which
alone the Independence and Freedom of Nations can be Preserved or
Recovered."--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1820.

      ... which ...                                      1815.

[2] 1827.

      ... where ...                                      1815.




COMPOSED AT THE SAME TIME AND ON THE SAME OCCASION

Composed 1808.--Published 1815


One of the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty."--ED.


    I dropped my pen; and listened to the Wind
    That sang of trees up-torn and vessels tost--
    A midnight harmony; and wholly lost
    To the general sense of men by chains confined
    Of business, care, or pleasure; or resigned                  5
    To timely sleep. Thought I, the impassioned strain,
    Which, without aid of numbers, I sustain,
    Like acceptation from the World will find.
    Yet some with apprehensive ear shall drink
    A dirge devoutly breathed o'er sorrows past;                10
    And to the attendant promise will give heed--
    The prophecy,--like that of this wild blast,
    Which, while it makes the heart with sadness shrink,
    Tells also of bright calms that shall succeed.




1809


The poems belonging to the years 1809 and 1810 were mainly
sonnets--although _The Excursion_ was being added to at intervals. Of
twenty-four which were included by Wordsworth, in the final arrangement
of his poems, among those "dedicated to National Independence and
Liberty," fourteen belong to the year 1809, and ten to 1810. It is
difficult to ascertain the principle which guided him in determining the
succession of these sonnets. They were not placed in chronological
order; nor is there any historical or topographical reason for their
being arranged as they were. I have therefore felt at liberty to depart
from his order, to the following extent.

The six sonnets referring to the Tyrolese have been brought together in
one group. Those containing allusions to Spain might have been similarly
treated; but the sonnets on Schill, the King of Sweden, and Napoleon--as
arranged by Wordsworth himself--do not break the continuity of the
series on Spain, in the same way that the insertion of those on Palafox
and Zaragoza interferes with the unity of the Tyrolean group; and the
re-arrangement of the latter series enables me more conveniently to
append to it a German translation of the sonnets, and a paper upon them,
by Alois Brandl.--ED.




TYROLESE SONNETS




I

HOFFER

Composed 1809.--Published 1809[A]


The six sonnets of this Tyrolean group were placed among the "Sonnets
dedicated to Liberty."--ED.


    Of mortal parents is the Hero born
    By whom the undaunted Tyrolese are led?
    Or is it Tell's great Spirit, from the dead
    Returned to animate an age forlorn?
    He comes like Phoebus through the gates of morn            5
    When dreary darkness is discomfited,
    Yet mark his modest[1] state! upon his head,
    That simple crest, a heron's plume, is worn.[2]
    O Liberty! they stagger at the shock
    From van to rear--and with one mind would flee,             10
    But half their host is buried:[3]--rock on rock
    Descends:--beneath this godlike Warrior, see!
    Hills, torrents, woods, embodied to bemock
    The Tyrant, and confound his cruelty.


The expectation that the Germans would rise against the French in 1807
was realised only in the Tyrol. Andreas Hofer, an innkeeper in the
Passeierthal, was the chief of the Tyrolese leaders. More than once he
called his countrymen to arms, and was successful for a time. The
Bavarians, however, defeated him, in October 1809. He was tried by
court-martial, and shot in 1810.--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1815.

      ... simple ...                                     1809.

[2] 1815.

      A Heron's feather for a crest is worn.             1809.

[3] 1837.

                               ... at the shock;
      The Murderers are aghast; they strive to flee
      And half their Host is buried:-- ...               1809.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] In _The Friend_, October 26.--ED.




II

"ADVANCE--COME FORTH FROM THY TYROLEAN GROUND"

Composed 1809.--Published 1809[A]


    Advance--come forth from thy Tyrolean ground,
    Dear Liberty! stern Nymph of soul untamed;
    Sweet Nymph, O rightly of the mountains named!
    Through the long chain of Alps from mound to mound
    And o'er the eternal snows, like Echo, bound;                5
    Like Echo, when the hunter train at dawn
    Have roused her from her sleep: and forest-lawn,
    Cliffs, woods and caves, her viewless steps resound
    And babble of her pastime!--On, dread Power!
    With such invisible motion speed thy flight,                10
    Through hanging clouds, from craggy height to height,
    Through the green vales and through the herdsman's bower--
    That all the Alps may gladden in thy might,
    Here, there, and in all places at one hour.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] In _The Friend_, October 26.--ED.




III

FEELINGS OF THE TYROLESE

Composed 1809.--Published 1809[A]


    The Land we from our fathers had in trust,
    And to our children will transmit, or die:
    This is our maxim, this our piety;
    And God and Nature say that it is just.
    That which we _would_ perform in arms--we must!              5
    We read the dictate in the infant's eye;
    In the wife's smile; and in the placid sky;
    And, at our feet, amid the silent dust
    Of them that were before us.--Sing aloud
    Old songs, the precious music of the heart!                 10
    Give, herds and flocks, your voices to the wind!
    While we go forth, a self-devoted crowd,
    With weapons grasped in fearless hands,[1] to assert
    Our virtue, and to vindicate mankind.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

      With weapons in the fearless hand,                 1809.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] In _The Friend_, December 21.--ED.




IV

"ALAS! WHAT BOOTS THE LONG LABORIOUS QUEST"

Composed 1809.--Published 1809[A]


    Alas! what boots the long laborious quest
    Of moral prudence, sought through good and ill;
    Or pains[1] abstruse--to elevate the will,
    And[2] lead us on to that transcendent rest
    Where every passion shall the sway attest                    5
    Of Reason, seated on her sovereign hill;
    What is it but a vain and curious skill,
    If sapient Germany must lie deprest,
    Beneath the brutal sword?--Her haughty Schools
    Shall blush; and may not we with sorrow say,                10
    A few strong instincts and a few plain rules,
    Among the herdsmen of the Alps, have wrought
    More for mankind at this unhappy day
    Than all the pride of intellect and thought?


See the paper by Alois Brandl appended to this series of sonnets, p.
218. Wordsworth had probably no means of knowing anything of Fichte's
"Addresses to the German Nation," delivered weekly in Berlin, from
December 1807 to March 1808. (See _Fichte_, by Professor Adamson, pp.
84-91.)--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1815.

      ... pain ...                                       1809.

[2] 1815.

      Or ...                                             1809.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] In _The Friend_, November 16, under the title, _Sonnet suggested by
the efforts of the Tyrolese, contrasted with the present state of
Germany_.--ED.




V

ON THE FINAL SUBMISSION OF THE TYROLESE

Composed 1809.--Published 1809[A]


    It was a _moral_ end for which they fought;
    Else how, when mighty Thrones were put to shame,
    Could they, poor Shepherds, have preserved an aim,
    A resolution, or enlivening thought?
    Nor hath that moral good been _vainly_ sought;               5
    For in their magnanimity and fame
    Powers have they left, an impulse, and a claim
    Which neither can be overturned nor bought.
    Sleep, Warriors, sleep! among your hills repose!
    We know that ye, beneath the stern control                  10
    Of awful prudence, keep the unvanquished soul:
    And when, impatient of her guilt and woes,
    Europe breaks forth; then, Shepherds! shall ye rise
    For perfect triumph o'er your Enemies.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] In _The Friend_, December 21, under the title, _On the report of the
submission of the Tyrolese_.--ED.




VI

"THE MARTIAL COURAGE OF A DAY IS VAIN"

Composed 1810?[A]--Published 1815


    The martial courage of a day is vain,
    An empty noise of death the battle's roar,
    If vital hope be wanting to restore,
    Or fortitude be wanting to sustain,
    Armies or kingdoms. We have heard a strain                   5
    Of triumph, how the labouring Danube bore
    A weight of hostile corses: drenched with gore
    Were the wide fields, the hamlets heaped with slain.
    Yet see (the mighty tumult overpast)
    Austria a Daughter of her Throne hath sold!                 10
    And her Tyrolean Champion we behold
    Murdered, like one ashore by shipwreck cast,
    Murdered without relief. Oh! blind as bold,
    To think that such assurance can stand fast!


FOOTNOTES:

[A] I retain this Tyrolese sonnet amongst the others belonging to the
same theme; but, as Hofer was shot in 1810, it was probably written in
that year.--ED.

       *       *       *       *       *

I append to this series of sonnets on the Tyrol and the Tyrolese the
translation of a paper contributed by Alois Brandl, a Tyrolean, to the
_Neue Freie Presse_ of October 22, 1880. Herr Brandl was for some time
in England investigating the traces of a German literary influence on
Coleridge, Wordsworth, and their contemporaries.

  "It was in the year 1809; Napoleon was at the height of his career
  of victory; and England alone of all his opponents held the
  supremacy at sea. For years the English were the only
  representatives of freedom in Europe. At last it seemed that two
  fortunate allies arose to join their cause--the insurgents in
  Spain and in the little land of Tyrol. No wonder then that now
  British poets sympathised with the victors at the hill of Isel,
  and praised their courage and their leaders, and at last, when
  they were overcome by superior forces, laid the laurel wreath of
  tragic heroism on their graves.

  "Thirty or forty years before, English poets would scarcely have
  shown such a lively interest in a war of independence in a foreign
  country. They stood under the curse of narrow-mindedness and
  one-sidedness both in politics and in art, so that their
  smooth-running verses neither sought nor found a response even in
  the hearts of their own fellow-countrymen. The poets who appeared
  before the public in the year 1798 with the famous 'Lyrical
  Ballads' were the first to strike out a new path. Although
  differing considerably from one another in other respects, they
  agreed in their opposition to the conventionality of the old
  school."

  . . . . .

  "Wordsworth lived in a simple little house on the romantic lake
  of Grasmere, in the heart of the mountains of Westmoreland. He
  studied more in his walks over heath and field than in books, and
  entered with interest into the questions affecting the good of the
  country people around him. All this of necessity impelled him to
  take a warm interest in the herdsmen of the Alps.

  "But the Tyrolese inspired him with still greater interest on
  political grounds. Like all the lake poets, he was an enthusiastic
  admirer, not of the French revolution, but of the republic as long
  as it seemed to desire the realization of the ideas of Liberty,
  Fraternity, Equality, and the rest of Rousseau's Arcadian notions;
  and it was a bitter disillusion for him, as well as for Klopstock,
  when this much-praised home of the free rights of man resolved
  itself into the empire of Napoleon. From this moment he took his
  place on the side of the enemies of France, and particularly on
  the side of the Tyrolese, since they had never lost the natural
  simplicity of their habits, and had regained the hereditary
  freedom, of which they had been deprived, with the sword. Thus
  arose the curious paradox, that a republican poet glorified
  spontaneously the cause of an exceedingly monarchical and
  conservative country.

  "Wordsworth gave vent to his enthusiasm in six sonnets, which, as
  far as power of language and vigour of thought are concerned, form
  interesting companion-pieces to the poems of the contemporary
  Tyrolese poet Alois Weissenbach. In the first three sonnets the
  splendour of the Alpine world, which he knew from his journeys in
  Switzerland, forms the background of the picture. In the
  foreground he sees a band of brave and daring men, in whose hearts
  he thought he could find all his own moral pathos. Many of the
  features which he has introduced certainly show more ideal fancy
  than knowledge of detail; but it was not his purpose to compose a
  correct report of the war, but to give an exciting description of
  the heroes of this struggle for independence, in order that, even
  though they themselves should be overpowered, their spirit might
  arise again among his own fellow-countrymen. In the fourth sonnet,
  in his enthusiasm for the Tyrolese, he has treated the German
  universities with unnecessary severity; but this does not prove
  any intentional want of fairness on his part, for at that time our
  universities stood under general discredit in England as the
  hotbeds of the wildest metaphysics and political dreams. The
  events of the year 1813 would probably induce Wordsworth to view
  them in a more favourable light. Similarly the sixth sonnet is not
  quite just to Austria; in particular Wordsworth has made
  decidedly too little allowance for the fact that the Emperor Franz
  I. ceded the Tyrol quite against his own will under the pressure
  of circumstances. But in this case we must not simply impute all
  the blame to the poet; for as we see from the diary of his friend
  Southey, his information as to the doings of Austria was of a most
  vague and unfavourable character. We, however, cannot have any
  wish to impute to Austria the sins of ill-advised diplomacy."

The following are Herr Brandl's German translations of five of
Wordsworth's sonnets:--


                           1

                 Andreas Hofer.

      Von Sterblichen geboren sei der Held,
        Der den Tirolern todeskuehn gebeut?
        Ist etwa Tell's Geist aus der Ewigkeit
      Gekehrt, zu wecken die verlor'ne Welt?

      Er kommt wie Phoebus aus dem Morgenzelt,
        Wenn sich die Finsterniss der Nacht zerstreut,
        Und doch, wie schlicht! Ein Falkenschweif nur dreut
      Von seinem Hut und fuellt sein Wappenfeld.

      O Freiheit! Wie der Feind erbebt in Ruecken
        Und Front und gerne floeh' in ~einer~ Fluth,
      Waer' er nicht halb bedeckt von Felsenstuecken,
        Gewaelzt von dieses Kaempfers Goettermuth!
      Geeint sind Berg, Wald, Wildbach, zu erdruecken
        Hohnlachend den Tyrann und seine Wuth.


                           2[B]

      Freiheit, ersteig aus deinem Heimatsland
        Tirol! du Maedchen ernst und unzaehmbar
        Und lieblich doch, der Berge Kind fuerwahr!
      Ein Echo zwischen Fels und Alpenwand.

      Und ueber Gletschern bist du festgebannt;
        Ein Echo, das die Jagd im Morgengrau
        Vom Schlaf' aufscheucht, dass Berg und Wald und Au
      Und Hoehle droehnen, wo's unsichtbar stand,

      Sein Spiel verkuendend. So urploetzlich strahl',
        Du hehre Macht, hervor im Siegeslauf
        Durch Wolkenwust, von Klippenknauf zu Knauf,
      Durch Almenhuetten, durch das gruene Thal;
        In dir dann jauchzen alle Alpen auf
      Hier, dort und ueberall mit ~einem~ Mal!


                           3

              Gefuehle der Tiroler.

      "Das Land ist uns vertraut vom Ahngeschlecht:
        So sei's vererbt--und kost' es auch das Leben--
      Den Kindern: das ist Pflicht und fromm und eben;
        Natur und Gott, sie nennen es gerecht.

      Wir ~muessen~ thun, was moeglich, im Gefecht:
        Sieh' dies Gebot im Kindesauge leben,
        Von Frauenlippen, aus dem Aether schweben;
      Ihr Vaeter selbst aus Grabesmoder sprecht

      Es laut empor.--So kling' in Sangesbraus
        Der alten Lieder herzliche Musik!
          Einstimmen Hirt und Heerde in den Reihen!
      Ein opferwillig' Haeuflein zieh'n wir aus,
        Die Waffen in den Haenden, Muth im Blick,
          Der Tugend treu, die Menschheit zu befreien."


                           4

      Was nuetzt, ach! langes sittenkluges Streiten,
        Das man aus "gut" und "boese" presst mit Mueh';
        Was dummer Fleiss, zu hoeh'n die Energie
      Und zu transcendentaler Ruh' zu leiten,

      Dass jede Leidenschaft sich lasse reiten
        Von der Vernunft in Allsuprematie:
        Ist das nicht seltsam eitle Theorie,
      Wenn Deutschland trotz so viel Spitzfindigkeiten

      Dem rohen Schwert erliegt? Erroethen sollen
        Die hohen Schulen! Muessen wir nicht sagen:
      Mehr wussten wenig Regeln, starkes Wollen
          Durch schlichte Alpenhirten auszufuehren
        Fuer's Menschenwohl in diesen Unglueckstagen,
          Als alles stolze Metaphysiciren?


                           5

   Auf die schliessliche Unterwerfung der Tiroler.

      Ist einer ~guten~ Sache galt ihr Schlagen;
        Wie haetten bei der Throne Niederfahrt
        Sonst sie, die armen Schaefer, sich bewahrt
      Begeisternd hohen Sinn und kraeftig Wagen?

      Auch hat ihr Kampf fuer's Gute Frucht getragen:
        Weckt nicht ihr Ruhm, die grosse Denkungsart
        Auch uns den Muth, mit Rechtsgefuehl gepaart,
      Der nicht zu kaufen ist, nicht zu zernagen?

      Schlaft, Kaempfer! Unter euren Bergen ruht!
        Dem strengsten Richter kann es nicht entgehen:
          Nie kannte euer ~Herz~ das Retiriren.
      Und bricht in hoechster Pein und Rachewuth
        Europa los, so sollt ihr auferstehen,
          ~Ganz~ ueber euern Feind zu triumphiren!


FOOTNOTES:

[B] Sonette 2 und 4 sind unbetitelt.




"AND IS IT AMONG RUDE UNTUTORED DALES"

Composed 1809.--Published 1809[A]


This and the remaining sonnets of 1809 were placed among those
"dedicated to Liberty."--ED.


    And is it among rude untutored Dales,[1]
    There, and there only, that the heart is true?
    And, rising to repel or to subdue,
    Is it by rocks and woods that man prevails?
    Ah no! though Nature's dread protection fails,               5
    There is a bulwark in the soul.[2] This knew
    Iberian Burghers when the sword they drew
    In Zaragoza, naked to the gales
    Of fiercely-breathing war. The truth was felt
    By Palafox, and many a brave compeer,                       10
    Like him of noble birth and noble mind;
    By ladies, meek-eyed women without fear;
    And wanderers of the street, to whom is dealt
    The bread which without industry they find.


Palafox-y-Melzi, Don Joseph (1780-1847), immortalized by his heroic
defence of Saragossa in 1808-9. He was of an old Aragon family, and
entered the Spanish army at an early age. In 1808, when twenty-nine
years of age, he was appointed governor of Saragossa, by the people of
the town, who were menaced by the French armies. He defended it with a
few men, against immense odds, and compelled the French to abandon the
siege, after sixty-one days' attack, and the loss of thousands.
Saragossa, however, was too important to lose, and Marshals Mortier and
Moncy renewed the siege with a large army. Palafox (twice defeated
outside) retired to the fortress as before, where the men, women, and
children fought in defence, till the city was almost a heap of ruins.
Typhus attacked the garrison within, while the French army assailed it
from without. Palafox, smitten by the fever, had to give up the command
to another, who signed a capitulation next day. He was sent a prisoner
to Vincennes, and kept there for nearly five years, till the restoration
of Ferdinand VII., when he was sent back on a secret mission to Madrid.
In 1814 he was appointed Captain-General of Aragon; but for about thirty
years--till his death in 1847--he took no part in public affairs.--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1815.

      ... vales,                                         1809.

[2] The word "soul" was _italicised_ in the editions of 1809 to 1832.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] In Coleridge's _Friend_, December 21.--ED.




"O'ER THE WIDE EARTH, ON MOUNTAIN AND ON PLAIN"

Composed 1809.--Published 1809[A]


    O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain,
    Dwells in the affections and the soul of man
    A Godhead, like the universal PAN;[B]
    But more exalted, with a brighter train:
    And shall his bounty be dispensed in vain,                   5
    Showered equally on city and on field,
    And neither hope nor stedfast promise yield
    In these usurping times of fear and pain?
    Such doom awaits us. Nay, forbid it Heaven!
    We know the arduous strife, the eternal laws                10
    To which the triumph of all good is given,
    High sacrifice, and labour without pause,
    Even to the death:--else wherefore should the eye
    Of man converse with immortality?


FOOTNOTES:

[A] In Coleridge's _Friend_, December 21.--ED.

[B] Compare Aubrey de Vere's _Picturesque Sketches of Greece and
Turkey_, vol. i. chap. viii. p. 204.--ED.

In _The Friend_ (edition 1812), the following footnote occurs--

                         "... universal Pan,
      Knit with the graces and the hours in dance,
      Led on the eternal spring.--MILTON."                 ED.




"HAIL, ZARAGOZA! IF WITH UNWET EYE"

Composed 1809.--Published 1815


    Hail, Zaragoza! If with unwet eye
    We can approach, thy sorrow to behold,
    Yet is the heart not pitiless nor cold;
    Such spectacle demands not tear or sigh.
    These desolate remains are trophies high                     5
    Of more than martial courage in the breast
    Of peaceful civic virtue:[A] they attest
    Thy matchless worth to all posterity.
    Blood flowed before thy sight without remorse;
    Disease consumed thy vitals; War upheaved                   10
    The ground beneath thee with volcanic force:
    Dread trials! yet encountered and sustained
    Till not a wreck of help or hope remained,
    And law was from necessity[1] received.[B]


See note to the sonnet beginning "And is it among rude untutored Dales"
(p. 222). "Saragossa surrendered February 20, 1809, after a heroic
defence, which may recall the sieges of Numantiaor Saguntum. Every
street, almost every house, had been hotly contested; the monks, and
even the women, had taken a conspicuous share in the defence; more than
40,000 bodies of both sexes and every age testified to the obstinate
courage of the besieged." (See Dyer's _History of Modern Europe_, vol.
iv. p. 496.)--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] The word "necessity" was _italicised_ in the editions of 1815 to
1843.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare a passage in Wordsworth's Essay _Concerning the Convention
of Cintra_ (1809, pp. 180-1), beginning "Most gloriously have the
Citizens of Saragossa proved that the true army of Spain, in a contest
of this nature, is the whole people."--ED.

[B] The beginning is imitated from an Italian Sonnet.--W. W. 1815.

In 1837 Wordsworth put it thus, "In this Sonnet I am under some
obligations to one of an Italian author, to which I cannot refer." But
it is to be noted that in the edition of 1837, this note does not refer
to the sonnet on Saragossa, but to that beginning "O, for a kindling
touch from that pure flame," belonging to the year 1816. In subsequent
editions the note is reappended to this sonnet beginning "Hail,
Zaragoza!"--ED.




"SAY, WHAT IS HONOUR?--'TIS THE FINEST SENSE"

Composed 1809.--Published 1815


    Say, what is Honour?--'Tis the finest sense
    Of _justice_ which the human mind can frame,
    Intent each lurking frailty to disclaim,
    And guard the way of life from all offence
    Suffered or done. When lawless violence                      5
    Invades a Realm, so pressed that in the scale[1]
    Of perilous war her weightiest armies fail,
    Honour is hopeful elevation,--whence
    Glory, and triumph. Yet with politic skill
    Endangered States may yield to terms unjust;                10
    Stoop their proud heads, but not unto the dust--
    A Foe's most favourite purpose to fulfil:
    Happy occasions oft by self-mistrust
    Are forfeited; but infamy doth kill.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

      A Kingdom doth assault, and in the scale           1815.




"BRAVE SCHILL! BY DEATH DELIVERED, TAKE THY FLIGHT"

Composed 1809.--Published 1815


    Brave Schill! by death delivered, take thy flight
    From Prussia's timid region. Go, and rest
    With heroes, 'mid the islands of the Blest,
    Or in the fields of empyrean light.
    A meteor wert thou crossing a dark night:[1]                 5
    Yet shall thy name, conspicuous and sublime,
    Stand in the spacious firmament of time,
    Fixed as a star: such glory is thy right.
    Alas! it may not be: for earthly fame
    Is Fortune's frail dependant; yet their lives               10
    A Judge, who, as man claims by merit, gives;
    To whose all-pondering mind a noble aim,
    Faithfully kept, is as a noble deed;
    In whose pure sight all virtue doth succeed.


Ferdinand von Schill, a distinguished Prussian officer, born 1773,
entered the army 1789, was seriously wounded in the battle of Jena, but
took the field again at the head of a free corps. Indignant at the
subjection of his country to Buonaparte, he resolved to make a great
effort for the liberation of Germany, collected a small body of troops,
and commenced operations on the Elbe; but after a few successes was
overpowered and slain at Stralsund, May 31, 1809. On June 4, 1809,
Wordsworth writing to Daniel Stewart, editor of _The Courier_ newspaper,
says, "Many thanks for the newspaper. Schill is a fine fellow." The
sonnet was doubtless inspired by what he thus heard of Schill.--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

      ... in a darksome night:                           1815.




"CALL NOT THE ROYAL SWEDE UNFORTUNATE"

Composed 1809.--Published 1815


    Call not the royal Swede unfortunate,
    Who never did to Fortune bend the knee;
    Who slighted fear; rejected steadfastly
    Temptation; and whose kingly name and state
    Have "perished by his choice, and not his fate!"             5
    Hence lives He, to his inner self endeared;
    And hence, wherever virtue is revered,
    He sits a more exalted Potentate,
    Throned in the hearts of men. Should Heaven ordain
    That this great Servant of a righteous cause                10
    Must still have sad or vexing thoughts to endure,
    Yet may a sympathizing spirit pause,
    Admonished by these truths, and quench all pain
    In thankful joy and gratulation pure.


The royal Swede, "who never did to Fortune bend the knee," was Gustavus
IV. He abdicated in 1809, and came to London at the close of the year
1810. Compare the earlier sonnet on the same King of Sweden (vol. ii. p.
338), beginning--

      The Voice of song from distant lands shall call.

In the edition of 1827, Wordsworth added the following note:--"In this
and a former Sonnet, in honour of the same Sovereign, let me be
understood as a Poet availing himself of the situation which the King of
Sweden occupied, and of the principles avowed in his manifestos; as
laying hold of these advantages for the purpose of embodying moral
truths. This remark might, perhaps, as well have been suppressed; for to
those who may be in sympathy with the course of these Poems, it will be
superfluous; and will, I fear, be thrown away upon that other class,
whose besotted admiration of the intoxicated despot here placed in
contrast with him, is the most melancholy evidence of degradation in
British feeling and intellect which the times have furnished."--ED.




"LOOK NOW ON THAT ADVENTURER WHO HATH PAID"

Composed 1809.--Published 1815


    Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid
    His vows to Fortune; who, in cruel slight
    Of virtuous hope, of liberty, and right,
    Hath followed wheresoe'er a way was made
    By the blind Goddess,--ruthless, undismayed;                 5
    And so hath gained at length a prosperous height,
    Round which the elements of worldly might
    Beneath his haughty feet, like clouds, are laid.
    O joyless power that stands by lawless force!
    Curses are _his_ dire portion, scorn, and hate,             10
    Internal darkness and unquiet breath;
    And, if old judgments keep their sacred course,
    Him from that height shall Heaven precipitate
    By violent and ignominious death.


The "Adventurer" who "paid his vows to Fortune," in contrast to the
royal Swede "who never did to Fortune bend the knee," was of course
Napoleon Buonaparte.--ED.




"IS THERE A POWER THAT CAN SUSTAIN AND CHEER"

Composed 1809.--Published 1815


    Is there a power that can sustain and cheer
    The captive chieftain, by a tyrant's doom,
    Forced to descend into his destined tomb--[1]
    A dungeon dark! where he must waste the year,
    And lie cut off from all his heart holds dear;               5
    What time his injured country is a stage
    Whereon deliberate Valour and the rage
    Of righteous Vengeance side by side appear,
    Filling from morn to night the heroic scene
    With deeds of hope and everlasting praise:--                10
    Say can he think of this with mind serene
    And silent fetters? Yes, if visions bright
    Shine on his soul, reflected from the days
    When he himself was tried in open light.


This may refer to Palafox, alluded to in the sonnet (p. 222) beginning,
"And is it among rude untutored Dales," and in the one next in order in
the series (p. 223); although, from the latter sonnet, it would seem
that Wordsworth did not know that Palafox was, in 1809, a prisoner at
Vincennes.

In his edition of the poems published in 1837, Professor Henry Reed of
Philadelphia said, "He must be dull of heart who, in perusing this
series of Poems 'dedicated to Liberty,' does not feel his affection for
his own country--wherever it may be--and his love of freedom, under
whatever form of government his lot may have been cast--at once
invigorated and chastened into a purer and more thoughtful
emotion."--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

      Forced to descend alive into his tomb,             1815.

The text of 1815 was re-adopted in 1838; the text of 1840 returned to
that of 1837.




EPITAPHS TRANSLATED FROM CHIABRERA


[Those from Chiabrera were chiefly translated when Mr. Coleridge was
writing his _Friend_, in which periodical my "Essay on Epitaphs,"
written about that time, was first published. For further notice of
Chiabrera, in connection with his Epitaphs, see _Musings near
Aquapendente_.--I. F.]

It is better to print all the Epitaphs from Chiabrera together, than to
spread them out over the years when they were written or published. Some
of them were certainly written in 1809, or at least before 1810; others
at a later date. But it is impossible to say in what year those
published after 1810 were composed. They are all to be found in the
class of "Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces."--ED.




                         I

    "WEEP NOT, BELOVED FRIENDS! NOR LET THE AIR"

                  Published 1837


    Weep not, beloved Friends! nor let the air
    For me with sighs be troubled. Not from life
    Have I been taken; this is genuine life
    And this alone--the life which now I live
    In peace eternal; where desire and joy                       5
    Together move in fellowship without end.--
    Francesco Ceni willed that, after death,
    His tombstone thus should speak for him.[1] And surely
    Small cause there is for that fond wish of ours
    Long to continue in this world; a world                     10
    That keeps not faith, nor yet can point a hope
    To good, whereof itself is destitute.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1849.

      Francesco Ceni after death enjoined
      That thus his tomb should speak for him ...        1837.




                        II

    "PERHAPS SOME NEEDFUL SERVICE OF THE STATE"

                Published 1810[A]


    Perhaps some needful service of the State
    Drew TITUS from the depth of studious bowers,
    And doomed him to contend in faithless courts,
    Where gold determines between right and wrong.
    Yet did at length his loyalty of heart,                      5
    And his pure native genius, lead him back
    To wait upon the bright and gracious Muses,
    Whom he had early loved. And not in vain
    Such course he held! Bologna's learned schools
    Were gladdened by the Sage's voice, and hung                10
    With fondness on those sweet Nestorian strains.[1]
    There pleasure crowned his days; and all his thoughts
    A roseate fragrance breathed.[2][B]--O human life,
    That never art secure from dolorous change!
    Behold a high injunction suddenly                           15
    To Arno's side hath brought him,[3] and he charmed
    A Tuscan audience: but full soon was called
    To the perpetual silence of the grave.
    Mourn, Italy, the loss of him who stood
    A Champion stedfast and invincible,                         20
    To quell the rage of literary War!


VARIANTS:

[1] 1815.

      ... Nestrian                                       1810.

[2] 1815.

      There did he live content; and all his thoughts
      Were blithe as vernal flowers.--                   1810.

[3] 1837.

      To Arno's side conducts him,                       1810.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] In _The Friend_, February 22.--ED.

[B]   Ivi vivea giocondo ei suoi pensieri
      Erano tutti rose.

The Translator had not skill to come nearer to his original.--W. W.
1815.




                      III

    "O THOU WHO MOVEST ONWARD WITH A MIND"

             Published 1810[A]


    O Thou who movest onward with a mind
    Intent upon thy way, pause, though in haste!
    'Twill be no fruitless moment. I was born
    Within Savona's walls, of gentle blood.
    On Tiber's banks my youth was dedicate                       5
    To sacred studies; and the Roman Shepherd
    Gave to my charge Urbino's numerous flock.
    Well[1] did I watch, much laboured, nor had power
    To escape from many and strange indignities;
    Was smitten by the great ones of the world,                 10
    But did not fall; for Virtue braves all shocks,
    Upon herself resting immoveably.
    Me did a kindlier fortune then invite
    To serve the glorious Henry, King of France,
    And in his hands I saw a high reward                        15
    Stretched out for my acceptance,--but Death came.
    Now, Reader, learn from this my fate, how false,
    How treacherous to her promise, is the world;
    And trust in God--to whose eternal doom
    Must bend the sceptred Potentates of earth.                 20


VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

      Much ...                                           1810.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] In _The Friend_, February 22.--ED.




                         IV

    "THERE NEVER BREATHED A MAN WHO, WHEN HIS LIFE"

                 Published 1809[A]


    There never breathed a man who, when his life
    Was closing, might not of that life relate
    Toils long and hard.--The warrior will report
    Of wounds, and bright swords flashing in the field,
    And blast of trumpets. He who hath been doomed               5
    To bow his forehead in the courts of kings,
    Will tell of fraud and never-ceasing hate,
    Envy and heart-inquietude, derived
    From intricate cabals of treacherous friends.
    I, who on shipboard lived from earliest youth,              10
    Could represent the countenance horrible
    Of the vexed waters, and the indignant rage
    Of Auster and Booetes. Fifty[1] years
    Over the well-steered galleys did I rule:--
    From huge Pelorus to the Atlantic pillars,                  15
    Rises no mountain to mine eyes unknown;
    And the broad gulfs I traversed oft and oft:
    Of every cloud which in the heavens might stir
    I knew the force; and hence the rough sea's pride
    Availed not to my Vessel's overthrow.                       20
    What noble pomp and frequent have not I
    On regal decks beheld! yet in the end
    I learned[2] that one poor moment can suffice
    To equalise the lofty and the low.
    We sail the sea of life--a _Calm_ One finds,                25
    And One a _Tempest_--and, the voyage o'er,
    Death is the quiet haven of us all.
    If more of my condition ye would know,
    Savona was my birth-place, and I sprang
    Of noble parents: seventy[3] years and three                30
    Lived I--then yielded to a slow disease.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

      ... Forty ...                                      1809.

[2] 1832.

      I learn ...                                        1809.

[3] 1837.

      ... sixty ...                                      1809.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] In _The Friend_, December 28.--ED.




                     V

    "TRUE IS IT THAT AMBROSIO SALINERO"

              Published 1837


    True is it that Ambrosio Salinero
    With an untoward fate was long involved
    In odious litigation; and full long,
    Fate harder still! had he to endure assaults
    Of racking malady. And true it is                            5
    That not the less a frank courageous heart
    And buoyant spirit triumphed over pain;
    And he was strong to follow in the steps
    Of the fair Muses. Not a covert path
    Leads to the dear Parnassian forest's shade,                10
    That might from him be hidden; not a track
    Mounts to pellucid Hippocrene, but he
    Had traced its windings.--This Savona knows,
    Yet no sepulchral honours to her Son
    She paid, for in our age the heart is ruled                 15
    Only by gold. And now a simple stone
    Inscribed with this memorial here is raised
    By his bereft, his lonely, Chiabrera.
    Think not, O Passenger! who read'st the lines
    That an exceeding love hath dazzled me;                     20
    No--he was One whose memory ought to spread
    Where'er Permessus bears an honoured name,
    And live as long as its pure stream shall flow.[A]


FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare S. T. Coleridge's poem, _A Tombless Epitaph_.--ED.




                     VI

    "DESTINED TO WAR FROM VERY INFANCY"

             Published 1809[A]


    Destined to war from very infancy
    Was I, Roberto Dati, and I took
    In Malta the white symbol of the Cross:
    Nor in life's vigorous season did I shun
    Hazard or toil; among the sands was seen                     5
    Of Libya; and not seldom, on the banks
    Of wide Hungarian Danube, 'twas my lot
    To hear the sanguinary trumpet sounded.
    So lived I, and repined not at such fate:
    This only grieves me, for it seems a wrong,                 10
    That stripped of arms I to my end am brought
    On the soft down of my paternal home.
    Yet haply Arno shall be spared all cause
    To blush for me. Thou, loiter not nor halt
    In thy appointed way, and bear in mind                      15
    How fleeting and how frail is human life!


FOOTNOTES:

[A] In _The Friend_, December 28.--ED.




                         VII

    "O FLOWER OF ALL THAT SPRINGS FROM GENTLE BLOOD"

                   Published 1837


    O flower of all that springs from gentle blood,
    And all that generous nurture breeds to make
    Youth amiable; O friend so true of soul
    To fair Aglaia; by what envy moved,
    Lelius! has death cut short thy brilliant day                5
    In its sweet opening? and what dire mishap
    Has from Savona torn her best delight?
    For thee she mourns, nor e'er will cease to mourn;
    And, should the out-pourings of her eyes suffice not
    For her heart's grief, she will entreat Sebeto              10
    Not to withhold his bounteous aid, Sebeto
    Who saw thee, on his margin, yield to death,
    In the chaste arms of thy beloved Love!
    What profit riches? what does youth avail?
    Dust are our hopes;--I, weeping bitterly,                   15
    Penned these sad lines, nor can forbear to pray
    That every gentle Spirit hither led
    May read them not without some bitter tears.




                      VIII

    "NOT WITHOUT HEAVY GRIEF OF HEART DID HE"

               Published 1810[A]


    Not without heavy grief of heart did He
    On whom the duty fell (for at that time
    The father sojourned in a distant land)
    Deposit in the hollow of this tomb
    A brother's Child, most tenderly beloved!                    5
    FRANCESCO was the name the Youth had borne,
    POZZOBONNELLI his illustrious house;
    And, when beneath this stone the Corse was laid,
    The eyes of all Savona streamed with tears.
    Alas! the twentieth April of his life                       10
    Had scarcely flowered: and at this early time,
    By genuine virtue he inspired a hope
    That greatly cheered his country: to his kin
    He promised comfort; and the flattering thoughts
    His friends had in their fondness entertained,[B]           15
    He suffered not to languish or decay.
    Now is there not good reason to break forth
    Into a passionate lament?--O Soul!
    Short while a Pilgrim in our nether world,
    Do thou enjoy the calm empyreal air;                        20
    And round this earthly tomb let roses rise,
    An everlasting spring! in memory
    Of that delightful fragrance which was once
    From thy mild manners quietly exhaled.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] In _The Friend_, January 4.--ED.

[B] In justice to the Author I subjoin the original--

                     ... e degli amici
      Non lasciava languire i bei pensieri.--W. W. 1815.




                         IX

    "PAUSE, COURTEOUS SPIRIT!--BALBI SUPPLICATES"[A]

                 Published 1810[B]


    Pause, courteous Spirit!--Balbi supplicates
    That Thou, with no reluctant voice, for him
    Here laid in mortal darkness, wouldst prefer
    A prayer to the Redeemer of the world.
    This to the dead by sacred right belongs;                    5
    All else is nothing.--Did occasion suit
    To tell his worth, the marble of this tomb
    Would ill suffice: for Plato's lore sublime,
    And all the wisdom of the Stagyrite,
    Enriched and beautified his studious mind:                  10
    With Archimedes also he conversed
    As with a chosen friend; nor did he leave
    Those laureat wreaths ungathered which the Nymphs
    Twine near their loved Permessus.[1]--Finally,
    Himself above each lower thought uplifting,                 15
    His ears he closed to listen to the songs[2]
    Which Sion's Kings did consecrate of old;
    And his Permessus found on Lebanon.[3]
    A blessed Man! who of protracted days
    Made not, as thousands do, a vulgar sleep;                  20
    But truly did _He_ live his life. Urbino,
    Take pride in him!--O Passenger, farewell!


I have been unable to obtain any definite information in reference to
the persons commemorated in these epitaphs by Chiabrera: Francesco Ceni,
Titus, Ambrosio Salinero, Roberto Dati, Lelius, Francesco Pozzobonnelli,
and Balbi. Mr. W. M. Rossetti writes to me that he "supposes all the men
named by Chiabrera to be such as enjoyed a certain local and temporary
reputation, which has hardly passed down to any sort of posterity, and
certainly not to the ordinary English reader."

Chiabrera was born at Savona on the 8th of June 1552, and educated at
Rome. He entered the service of Cardinal Cornaro, married in his 50th
year, lived to the age of 85, and died October 14, 1637. His poetical
faculty showed itself late. "Having commenced to read the Greek writers
at home, he conceived a great admiration for Pindar, and strove
successfully to imitate him. He was not less happy in catching the naive
and pleasant spirit of Anacreon; his canzonetti being distinguished for
their ease and elegance, while his _Lettere Famigliari_ was the first
attempt to introduce the poetical epistle into Italian Literature. He
wrote also several epics, bucolics, and dramatic poems. His _Opere_
appeared at Venice, in 6 vols., in 1768."

Wordsworth says of him, in his _Essay on Epitaphs_, where translations
of two of those Epitaphs of Chiabrera first appeared (see _The Friend_,
February 22, 1810, and notes to _The Excursion_)--"His life was long,
and every part of it bore appropriate fruits. Urbino, his birth-place,
might be proud of him, and the passenger who was entreated to pray for
his soul has a wish breathed for his welfare.... The Epitaphs of
Chiabrera are twenty-nine in number, and all of them, save two, upon men
probably little known at this day in their own country, and scarcely at
all beyond the limits of it; and the reader is generally made acquainted
with the moral and intellectual excellence which distinguished them by a
brief history of the course of their lives, or a selection of events and
circumstances, and thus they are individualized; but in the two other
instances, namely, in those of Tasso and Raphael, he enters into no
particulars, but contents himself with four lines expressing one
sentiment, upon the principle laid down in the former part of this
discourse, when the subject of the epitaph is a man of prime note...."

Compare the poem _Musings near Aquapendente_. In reference to the places
referred to in these Epitaphs of Chiabrera, it may be mentioned that
Savona (Epitaphs III., IV., V., VII., VIII.) is a town in the Genovese
territory; Permessus (Epitaphs V. and IX.) a river of Boeotia, rising
in Mount Helicon and flowing round it, hence sacred to the Muses; and
that the fountain of Hippocrene--also referred to in Epitaph V.--was not
far distant. Sebeto (Epitaph VII.), now cape Faro, is a Sicilian
promontory.--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

      Twine on the top of Pindus.-- ...                  1810.

[2] 1837.

      ... Song                                           1810.

[3] 1837.

      And fixed his Pindus upon Lebanon.                 1810.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] Wordsworth's extended commentary on this sonnet in his _Essay on
Epitaphs_ (see his "Prose Works" in this edition), should here be
referred to.--ED.

[B] In _The Friend_, January 4.--ED.




1810


As indicated in the editorial note to the poems belonging to the year
1809, those of 1810 were mainly sonnets, suggested by the events
occurring on the Continent of Europe, and the patriotic efforts of the
Spaniards to resist Napoleon. I have assigned the two referring to
Flamininus, entitled _On a Celebrated Event in Ancient History_, to the
same year. They were first published in 1815, and seem to have been due
to the same impulse which led Wordsworth to write the "Sonnets dedicated
to Liberty."--ED.




"AH! WHERE IS PALAFOX? NOR TONGUE NOR PEN"

Composed 1810.--Published 1815


All the sonnets of 1810 were "dedicated to Liberty." In every edition
this poem had for its title the date _1810_.--ED.


    Ah! where is Palafox? Nor tongue nor pen
    Reports of him, his dwelling or his grave!
    Does yet the unheard-of vessel ride the wave?
    Or is she swallowed up, remote from ken
    Of pitying human-nature? Once again                          5
    Methinks that we shall hail thee, Champion brave,
    Redeemed to baffle that imperial Slave,
    And through all Europe cheer desponding men
    With new-born hope. Unbounded is the might
    Of martyrdom, and fortitude, and right.                     10
    Hark, how thy Country triumphs!--Smilingly
    The Eternal looks upon her sword that gleams,
    Like his own lightning, over mountains high,
    On rampart, and the banks of all her streams.


See notes to sonnets (pp. 223 and 229).--ED.




"IN DUE OBSERVANCE OF AN ANCIENT RITE"

Composed 1810.--Published 1815


    In due observance of an ancient rite,
    The rude Biscayans, when their children lie
    Dead in the sinless time of infancy,
    Attire the peaceful corse in vestments white;
    And, in like sign of cloudless triumph bright,               5
    They bind the unoffending creature's brows
    With happy garlands of the pure white rose:
    Then do[1] a festal company unite
    In choral song; and, while the uplifted cross
    Of Jesus goes before, the child is borne                    10
    Uncovered to his grave: 'tis closed,--her loss
    The Mother _then_ mourns, as she needs must mourn;
    But soon, through Christian faith, is grief subdued;[2]
    And joy returns, to brighten fortitude.[3]


VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

      This done, ...                                     1815.

[2] 1837.

      Uncovered to his grave.--Her piteous loss
      The lonesome Mother cannot chuse but mourn;
      Yet soon by Christian faith is grief subdued,      1815.

[3] C. and 1838.

      And joy attends upon her fortitude.                1815.

      Or joy returns to brighten fortitude.              1837.




FEELINGS OF A NOBLE BISCAYAN AT ONE OF THOSE FUNERALS, 1810

Composed 1810.--Published 1815


    Yet, yet, Biscayans! we must meet our Foes
    With firmer soul, yet labour to regain
    Our ancient freedom; else 'twere worse than vain
    To gather round the bier these festal shows.
    A garland fashioned of the pure white rose                   5
    Becomes not one whose father is a slave:
    Oh, bear the infant covered to his grave!
    These venerable mountains now enclose
    A people sunk in apathy and fear.
    If this endure, farewell, for us, all good!                 10
    The awful light of heavenly innocence
    Will fail to illuminate the infant's bier;
    And guilt and shame, from which is no defence,
    Descend on all that issues from our blood.




ON A CELEBRATED EVENT IN ANCIENT HISTORY

Composed 1810.--Published 1815


    A Roman Master stands on Grecian ground,
    And to the people at the Isthmian Games
    Assembled, He, by a herald's voice, proclaims[1]
    THE LIBERTY OF GREECE:--the words rebound
    Until all voices in one voice are drowned;                   5
    Glad acclamation by which air was[2] rent!
    And birds, high flying in the element,
    Dropped[3] to the earth, astonished at the sound!
    Yet were the thoughtful grieved; and still that voice
    Haunts, with sad echoes, musing Fancy's ear:[4]             10
    Ah! that a _Conqueror's_ words[5] should be so dear:
    Ah! that a _boon_ could shed such rapturous joys!
    A gift of that which is not to be given
    By all the blended powers of Earth and Heaven.


This "Roman Master" "on Grecian ground" was T. Quintius Flamininus, one
of the ablest and noblest of the Roman generals (230-174 B.C.). He was
successful against Philip of Macedon, overran Thessaly in 198, and
conquered the Macedonian army in 197, defeating Philip at Cynoscephalae.
He concluded a peace with the vanquished. "In the spring of 196, the
Roman commission arrived in Greece to arrange, conjointly with
Flamininus, the affairs of the country: they also brought with them the
terms on which a definite peace was to be concluded with Philip.... The
Aetolians exerted themselves to excite suspicions among the Greeks as
to the sincerity of the Romans in their dealings with them. Flamininus,
however, insisted upon immediate compliance with the terms of the
peace.... In this summer, the Isthmian games were celebrated at Corinth,
and thousands from all parts of Greece flocked thither. Flamininus,
accompanied by the ten commissioners, entered the assembly, and, at his
command, a herald, in name of the Roman Senate, proclaimed the freedom
and independence of Greece. The joy and enthusiasm at this unexpected
declaration was beyond all description: the throngs of people that
crowded around Flamininus to catch a sight of their liberator or touch
his garment were so enormous, that even his life was endangered."
(Smith's _Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography_: Art. Flamininus, No.
4.)--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

      And to the Concourse of the Isthmian Games
      He, by his Herald's voice, aloud proclaims         1815.

[2] 1815.

      ... is ...                                         1838.

    The text of 1840 returns to that of 1815.

[3] 1815.

      Drop ...                                           1838.

    The text of 1840 returns to that of 1815.

[4] 1837.

                           ... at the sound!
      --A melancholy Echo of that noise
      Doth sometimes hang on musing Fancy's ear:         1815.

[5] 1815.

      ... word ...                                       1827.

    The text of 1837 returns to that of 1815.




UPON THE SAME EVENT

Composed (probably) 1810.--Published 1815


    When, far and wide, swift as the beams of morn
    The tidings passed of servitude repealed,
    And of that joy which shook the Isthmian Field,
    The rough Aetolians smiled with bitter scorn.
    "'Tis known," cried they, "that he, who would adorn
    His envied temples with the Isthmian crown,                  6
    Must either win, through effort of his own,
    The prize, or be content to see it worn
    By more deserving brows.--Yet so ye prop,
    Sons of the brave who fought at Marathon,                   10
    Your feeble spirits! Greece her head hath bowed,
    As if the wreath of liberty thereon
    Would fix itself as smoothly as a cloud,
    Which, at Jove's will, descends on Pelion's top."


The Aetolians were the only Greeks that entertained suspicion of the
Roman designs from the first. When Flamininus was wintering in Phocis in
196, and an insurrection broke out at Opus, some of the citizens had
called in the aid of the Aetolians against the Macedonian garrison; but
the gates of the city were not opened to admit the Aetolian volunteers
till Flamininus arrived. Then in the battle at the heights of
Cynoscephalae, where the Macedonian army was routed, the Aetolian
contingent, which had helped Flamininus, claimed the sole credit of the
victory; and wished no truce made with Philip, as they were bent on the
destruction of the Macedonian power. The Aetolians aimed subsequently at
exciting suspicion against the sincerity of Flamininus. In the second
sonnet, Wordsworth's sympathy seems to have been with the Aetolians, as
much as it was with the Swiss and the Tyrolese in their attitude to
Buonaparte. But Flamininus was not a Napoleon.--ED.




THE OAK OF GUERNICA

Composed 1810.--Published 1815


The ancient oak of Guernica, says Laborde in his account of Biscay, is a
  most venerable natural monument. Ferdinand and Isabella, in the year
  1476, after hearing mass in the church of Santa Maria de la Antigua,
  repaired to this tree, under which they swore to the Biscayans to
  maintain their _fueros_ (privileges). What other interest belongs to
  it in the minds of this people will appear from the following


      SUPPOSED ADDRESS TO THE SAME. 1810

    Oak of Guernica! Tree of holier power
    Than that which in Dodona did enshrine
    (So faith too fondly deemed) a voice divine
    Heard from the depths of its aerial bower--
    How canst thou flourish at this blighting hour?              5
    What hope, what joy can sunshine bring to thee,
    Or the soft breezes from the Atlantic sea,
    The dews of morn, or April's tender shower?
    Stroke merciful and welcome would that be
    Which should extend thy branches on the ground,             10
    If never more within their shady round
    Those lofty-minded Lawgivers shall meet,
    Peasant and lord, in their appointed seat,
    Guardians of Biscay's ancient liberty.


Prophetic power was believed to reside within the grove which surrounded
the temple of Jupiter near Dodona, in Epirus, and oracles were given
forth from the boughs of the sacred oak.--ED.




INDIGNATION OF A HIGH-MINDED SPANIARD, 1810

Composed 1810.--Published 1815


    We can endure that He should waste our lands,
    Despoil our temples, and by sword and flame
    Return us to the dust from which we came;
    Such food a Tyrant's appetite demands:
    And we can brook the thought that by his hands               5
    Spain may be overpowered, and he possess,
    For his delight, a solemn wilderness
    Where all the brave lie dead. But, when of bands
    Which he will break for us he dares to speak,
    Of benefits, and of a future day                            10
    When our enlightened minds shall bless his sway;
    _Then_, the strained heart of fortitude proves weak;
    Our groans, our blushes, our pale cheeks declare
    That he has power to inflict what we lack strength to bear.


Compare the two sonnets _On a Celebrated Event in Ancient History_ (pp.
242-44). The following note to the last line of this sonnet occurs in
Professor Reed's American edition of the Poems:--"The student of English
poetry will call to mind Cowley's impassioned expression of the
indignation of a Briton under the depression of disasters somewhat
similar.

                 Let rather Roman come again,
                 Or Saxon, Norman, or the Dane:
                 In all the bonds we ever bore,
      We grieved, we sighed, we wept, _we never blushed before_."

See Cowley's _Discourse on the Government of Oliver Cromwell_.--ED.




"AVAUNT ALL SPECIOUS PLIANCY OF MIND"

Composed 1810.--Published 1815


    Avaunt all specious pliancy of mind
    In men of low degree, all smooth pretence!
    I better like a blunt indifference,
    And self-respecting slowness, disinclined
    To win me at first sight: and be there joined                5
    Patience and temperance with this high reserve,
    Honour that knows the path and will not swerve;
    Affections, which, if put to proof, are kind;
    And piety towards God. Such men of old
    Were England's native growth; and, throughout Spain,
    (Thanks to high God) forests of such remain:[1]             11
    Then for that Country let our hopes be bold;
    For matched with these shall policy prove vain,
    Her arts, her strength, her iron, and her gold.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

      Forests of such do at this day remain;             1815.




"O'ERWEENING STATESMEN HAVE FULL LONG RELIED"

Composed 1810.--Published 1815


In all the editions this poem has for its title the date _1810_.--ED.


    O'erweening Statesmen have full long relied
    On fleets and armies, and external wealth:
    But from _within_ proceeds a Nation's health;
    Which shall not fail, though poor men cleave with pride
    To the paternal floor; or turn aside,                        5
    In the thronged city, from the walks of gain,
    As being all unworthy to detain
    A Soul by contemplation sanctified.
    There are who cannot languish in this strife,
    Spaniards of every rank, by whom the good                   10
    Of such high course was felt and understood;
    Who to their Country's cause have bound a life
    Erewhile, by solemn consecration, given
    To labour, and to prayer, to nature, and to heaven.[A]


FOOTNOTES:

[A] See Laborde's Character of the Spanish People; from him the
sentiment of these two last lines is taken.--W. W. 1815.




THE FRENCH AND THE SPANISH GUERILLAS

Composed 1810.--Published 1815


    Hunger, and sultry heat, and nipping blast
    From bleak hill-top, and length of march by night
    Through heavy swamp, or over snow-clad height--
    These hardships ill-sustained, these dangers past,
    The roving Spanish Bands are reached at last,                5
    Charged, and dispersed like foam: but as a flight
    Of scattered quails by signs do reunite,
    So these,--and, heard of once again, are chased
    With combinations of long-practised art
    And newly-kindled hope; but they are fled--                 10
    Gone are they, viewless as the buried dead:
    Where now?--Their sword is at the Foeman's heart!
    And thus from year to year his walk they thwart,
    And hang like dreams around his guilty bed.


See the note appended to the sonnet entitled _Spanish Guerillas_ (p.
254).--ED.




MATERNAL GRIEF

Composed 1810.--Published 1842


[This was in part an overflow from the Solitary's description of his own
and his wife's feelings upon the decease of their children. (See
_Excursion_, book 3rd.)--I. F.]

One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."--ED.


    Departed Child! I could forget thee once
    Though at my bosom nursed; this woeful gain
    Thy dissolution brings, that in my soul
    Is present and perpetually abides
    A shadow, never, never to be displaced                       5
    By the returning substance, seen or touched,
    Seen by mine eyes, or clasped in my embrace.
    Absence and death how differ they! and how
    Shall I admit that nothing can restore
    What one short sigh so easily removed?--                    10
    Death, life, and sleep, reality and thought,
    Assist me, God, their boundaries to know,
    O teach me calm submission to thy Will!

      The Child she mourned had overstepped the pale
    Of Infancy, but still did breathe the air                   15
    That sanctifies its confines, and partook
    Reflected beams of that celestial light[A]
    To all the Little-ones on sinful earth
    Not unvouchsafed--a light that warmed and cheered
    Those several qualities of heart and mind                   20
    Which, in her own blest nature, rooted deep,
    Daily before the Mother's watchful eye,
    And not hers only, their peculiar charms
    Unfolded,--beauty, for its present self,
    And for its promises to future years,                       25
    With not unfrequent rapture fondly hailed.

      Have you espied upon a dewy lawn
    A pair of Leverets each provoking each
    To a continuance of their fearless sport,
    Two separate Creatures in their several gifts               30
    Abounding, but so fashioned that, in all
    That Nature prompts them to display, their looks,
    Their starts of motion and their fits of rest,
    An undistinguishable style appears
    And character of gladness, as if Spring                     35
    Lodged in their innocent bosoms, and the spirit
    Of the rejoicing morning were their own?

      Such union, in the lovely Girl maintained
    And her twin Brother, had the parent seen,
    Ere, pouncing like a ravenous bird of prey,                 40
    Death in a moment parted them, and left
    The Mother, in her turns of anguish, worse
    Than desolate; for oft-times from the sound
    Of the survivor's sweetest voice (dear child,
    He knew it not) and from his happiest looks,                45
    Did she extract the food of self-reproach,
    As one that lived ungrateful for the stay
    By Heaven afforded to uphold her maimed
    And tottering spirit. And full oft the Boy,
    Now first acquainted with distress and grief,               50
    Shrunk from his Mother's presence, shunned with fear
    Her sad approach, and stole away to find,
    In his known haunts of joy where'er he might,
    A more congenial object. But, as time
    Softened her pangs and reconciled the child                 55
    To what he saw, he gradually returned,
    Like a scared Bird encouraged to renew
    A broken intercourse; and, while his eyes
    Were yet with pensive fear and gentle awe
    Turned upon her who bore him, she would stoop               60
    To imprint a kiss that lacked not power to spread
    Faint colour over both their pallid cheeks,
    And stilled his tremulous lip. Thus they were calmed
    And cheered; and now together breathe fresh air
    In open fields; and when the glare of day                   65
    Is gone, and twilight to the Mother's wish
    Befriends the observance, readily they join
    In walks whose boundary is the lost One's grave,
    Which he with flowers hath planted, finding there
    Amusement, where the Mother does not miss                   70
    Dear consolation, kneeling on the turf
    In prayer, yet blending with that solemn rite
    Of pious faith the vanities of grief;
    For such, by pitying Angels and by Spirits
    Transferred to regions upon which the clouds                75
    Of our weak nature rest not, must be deemed
    Those willing tears, and unforbidden sighs,
    And all those tokens of a cherished sorrow,
    Which, soothed and sweetened by the grace of Heaven
    As now it is, seems to her own fond heart,                  80
    Immortal as the love that gave it being.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare the _Ode, Intimations of Immortality_, l. 4, and _passim_
(vol. viii.)--ED.




1811


In the spring of 1811 Wordsworth left Allan Bank, to reside for two
years in the Rectory, Grasmere. A small fragment on his daughter
Catherine, the _Epistle to Sir George Beaumont, Bart., from the
south-west coast of Cumberland_, the lines _To the Poet, John Dyer_, and
four sonnets (mainly suggested by the events of the year in Spain)
comprise all the poems belonging to 1811.--ED.




CHARACTERISTICS OF A CHILD THREE YEARS OLD

Composed 1811.--Published 1815


[Written at Allanbank, Grasmere. Picture of my daughter, Catherine, who
died the year after.--I. F.]

Classed among the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."--ED.


    Loving she is, and tractable, though wild;
    And Innocence hath privilege in her
    To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes;
    And feats of cunning; and the pretty round
    Of trespasses, affected to provoke                           5
    Mock-chastisement and partnership in play.
    And, as a faggot sparkles on the hearth,
    Not less if unattended and alone
    Than when both young and old sit gathered round
    And take delight in its activity;                           10
    Even so this happy Creature of herself
    Is all-sufficient; solitude to her
    Is blithe society, who fills the air
    With gladness and involuntary songs.
    Light are her sallies as the tripping fawn's                15
    Forth-startled from the fern where she lay couched;
    Unthought-of, unexpected, as the stir
    Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow-flowers,
    Or from before it chasing wantonly
    The many-coloured images imprest                            20
    Upon the bosom of a placid lake.


On February 28, 1810, Dorothy Wordsworth wrote to Lady Beaumont,
"Catherine is the only funny child in the family; the rest of the
children are _lively_, but Catherine is comical in every look and
motion. Thomas perpetually forces a tender smile by his simplicity, but
Catherine makes you laugh outright, though she can hardly say a dozen
words, and she joins in the laugh, as if sensible of the drollery of her
appearance."--ED.




SPANISH GUERILLAS, 1811

Composed 1811.--Published 1815


Classed among the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty."--ED.


    They seek, are sought; to daily battle led,
    Shrink not, though far outnumbered by their Foes,
    For they have learnt to open and to close
    The ridges of grim war;[A] and at their head
    Are captains such as erst their country bred                 5
    Or fostered, self-supported chiefs,--like those
    Whom hardy Rome was fearful to oppose;
    Whose desperate shock the Carthaginian fled.
    In One who lived unknown a shepherd's life
    Redoubted Viriatus breathes again;[B]                       10
    And Mina, nourished in the studious shade,[C]
    With that great Leader[D] vies, who, sick of strife
    And bloodshed, longed in quiet to be laid
    In some green island of the western main.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare _Paradise Lost_, book vi. ll. 235-36--

                  and when to close
      The ridges of grim war.                              ED.

[B] Viriatus, for eight or fourteen years leader of the Lusitanians in
the war with the Romans in the middle of the second century B.C. He
defeated many of the Roman generals, including Q. Pompeius. Some of the
historians say that he was originally a shepherd, and then a robber or
guerilla chieftain. (See Livy, books 52 and 54.)--ED.

[C] "Whilst the chief force of the French was occupied in Portugal and
Andalusia, and there remained in the interior of Spain only a few weak
corps, the Guerilla system took deep root, and in the course of 1811
attained its greatest perfection. Left to itself the boldest and most
enterprising of its members rose to command, and the mode of warfare
best adapted to their force and habits was pursued. Each province
boasted of a hero, in command of a formidable band--Old Castile, Don
Julian Sanches; Aragon, Longa; Navarre, Esprez y Mina, ... with
innumerable others, whose deeds spread a lustre over every part of the
kingdom.... Mina and Longa headed armies of 6000 or 8000 men with
distinguished ability, and displayed manoeuvres oftentimes for months
together, in baffling the pursuit of more numerous bodies of French,
which would reflect credit on the most celebrated commanders." Mina had
been trained for clerical life. (See _Account of the War in Spain and
Portugal, and in the south of France, from 1808 to 1814 inclusive_, by
Lieut.-Colonel John T. Jones. London, 1818.)--ED.

[D] Sertorius.--W. W. 1827. See note to _The Prelude_ book i. vol. iii.
p. 138.--ED.




"THE POWER OF ARMIES IS A VISIBLE THING"

Composed 1811.--Published 1815


One of the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty."


    The power of Armies is a visible thing,[A]
    Formal, and circumscribed in time and space;[1]
    But who the limits of that power shall trace[2]
    Which a brave People into light can bring
    Or hide, at will,--for freedom combating                     5
    By just revenge inflamed? No foot may chase,[3]
    No eye can follow, to a fatal[4] place
    That power, that spirit, whether on the wing
    Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the wind
    Within its awful caves.--From year to year                  10
    Springs this indigenous produce far and near;
    No craft this subtle element can bind,
    Rising like water from the soil, to find
    In every nook a lip that it may cheer.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1827.

      ... and place;                                     1815.

[2] 1827.

      ... can trace                                      1815.

[3] 1827.

      ... can chase,                                     1815.

[4] The word "fatal" was _italicised_ in the editions of 1815-43.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare Aubrey de Vere's _Picturesque Sketches of Greece and
Turkey_, vol. i. chap. viii. p. 204.--ED.




"HERE PAUSE: THE POET CLAIMS AT LEAST THIS PRAISE"

Composed 1811.--Published 1815


Included among the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty." In 1815 it was called
_Conclusion_, as ending this series of poems in that edition. In all
editions it was headed by the date _1811_.--ED.


    Here pause: the poet claims at least this praise,
    That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope
    Of his pure song, which did not shrink from hope
    In the worst moment of these evil days;
    From hope, the paramount _duty_ that Heaven lays,            5
    For its own honour, on man's suffering heart.[A]
    Never may from our souls one truth depart--
    That an accursed[1] thing it is to gaze
    On prosperous tyrants with a dazzled eye;
    Nor--touched with due abhorrence of _their_ guilt           10
    For whose dire ends tears flow, and blood is spilt,
    And justice labours in extremity--
    Forget thy weakness, upon which is built,
    O wretched man, the throne of tyranny!


VARIANTS:

[1] The word "accursed" was _italicised_ in the editions of 1815-43.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare _The Excursion_ (book iv. l. 763)--

      We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love,

and S. T. C. in _The Friend_ (vol. i. p. 172). "What an awful duty, what
a nurse of all others, the fairest virtues, does not Hope become! We are
bad ourselves, because we despair of the goodness of others."--ED.




EPISTLE TO SIR GEORGE HOWLAND BEAUMONT, BART.

FROM THE SOUTH-WEST COAST OF CUMBERLAND.--1811

Composed 1811.--Published 1842


[This poem opened, when first written, with a paragraph that has been
transferred as an introduction to the first series of my Scotch
Memorials. The journey, of which the first part is here described, was
from Grasmere to Bootle on the south-west coast of Cumberland, the whole
among mountain roads through a beautiful country; and we had fine
weather. The verses end with our breakfast at the head of Yewdale in a
yeoman's house, which, like all the other property in that sequestered
vale, has passed or is passing into the hands of Mr. James Marshall of
Monk Coniston--in Mr. Knott's, the late owner's, time called Waterhead.
Our hostess married a Mr. Oldfield, a lieutenant in the Navy. They lived
together for some time at Hacket, where she still resides as his widow.
It was in front of that house, on the mountain side, near which stood
the peasant who, while we were passing at a distance, saluted us, waving
a kerchief in her hand as described in the poem.[A] (This matron and her
husband were then residing at the Hacket. The house and its inmates are
referred to in the fifth book of _The Excursion_, in the passage
beginning--

                                    You behold,
      High on the breast of yon dark mountain, dark
      With stony barrenness, a shining speck.--J. C.)[B]

The dog which we met with soon after our starting belonged to Mr.
Rowlandson, who for forty years was curate of Grasmere in place of the
rector who lived to extreme old age in a state of insanity. Of this Mr.
R. much might be said, both with reference to his character, and the way
in which he was regarded by his parishioners. He was a man of a robust
frame, had a firm voice and authoritative manner, of strong natural
talents, of which he was himself conscious, for he has been heard to say
(it grieves me to add) with an oath--"If I had been brought up at
college I should have been a bishop." Two vices used to struggle in him
for mastery, avarice and the love of strong drink; but avarice, as is
common in like cases, always got the better of its opponent; for, though
he was often intoxicated, it was never I believe at his own expense. As
has been said of one in a more exalted station, he would take any
_given_ quantity. I have heard a story of him which is worth the
telling. One summer's morning, our Grasmere curate, after a night's
carouse in the vale of Langdale, on his return home, having reached a
point near which the whole of the vale of Grasmere might be seen with
the lake immediately below him, stepped aside and sat down on the turf.
After looking for some time at the landscape, then in the perfection of
its morning beauty, he exclaimed--"Good God, that I should have led so
long such a life in such a place!" This no doubt was deeply felt by him
at the time, but I am not authorised to say that any noticeable
amendment followed. Penuriousness strengthened upon him as his body grew
feebler with age. He had purchased property and kept some land in his
own hands, but he could not find in his heart to lay out the necessary
hire for labourers at the proper season, and consequently he has often
been seen in half-dotage working his hay in the month of November by
moonlight, a melancholy sight which I myself have witnessed.
Notwithstanding all that has been said, this man, on account of his
talents and superior education, was looked up to by his parishioners,
who without a single exception lived at that time (and most of them upon
their own small inheritances) in a state of republican equality, a
condition favourable to the growth of kindly feelings among them, and
in a striking degree exclusive to temptations to gross vice and
scandalous behaviour. As a pastor their curate did little or nothing for
them; but what could more strikingly set forth the efficacy of the
Church of England through its Ordinances and Liturgy than that, in spite
of the unworthiness of the minister, his church was regularly attended;
and, though there was not much appearance in the flock of what might be
called animated piety, intoxication was rare, and dissolute morals
unknown. With the Bible they were for the most part well acquainted;
and, as was strikingly shown when they were under affliction, must have
been supported and comforted by habitual belief in those truths which it
is the aim of the Church to inculcate. _Loughrigg Tarn._--This beautiful
pool and the surrounding scene are minutely described in my little Book
upon the Lakes. Sir G. H. Beaumont, in the earlier part of his life, was
induced, by his love of nature and the art of painting, to take up his
abode at Old Brathay, about three miles from this spot, so that he must
have seen it under many aspects; and he was so much pleased with it that
he purchased the Tarn with a view to build, near it, such a residence as
is alluded to in this Epistle. Baronets and knights were not so common
in that day as now, and Sir Michael le Fleming, not liking to have a
rival in that kind of distinction so near him, claimed a sort of
Lordship over the territory, and showed dispositions little in unison
with those of Sir G. Beaumont, who was eminently a lover of peace. The
project of building was in consequence given up, Sir George retaining
possession of the Tarn. Many years afterwards a Kendal tradesman born
upon its banks applied to me for the purchase of it, and accordingly it
was sold for the sum that had been given for it, and the money was laid
out under my direction upon a substantial oak fence for a certain number
of yew trees to be planted in Grasmere church-yard; two were planted in
each enclosure, with a view to remove, after a certain time, the one
which throve least. After several years, the stouter plant being left,
the others were taken up and placed in other parts of the same
church-yard, and were adequately fenced at the expense and under the
care of the late Mr. Barber, Mr. Greenwood, and myself: the whole eight
are now thriving, and are already an ornament to a place which, during
late years, has lost much of its rustic simplicity by the introduction
of iron palisades to fence off family burying-grounds, and by numerous
monuments, some of them in very bad taste; from which this place of
burial was in my memory quite free. See the lines in the sixth book of
_The Excursion_ beginning--"Green is the church-yard, beautiful and
green." The _Epistle_ to which these notes refer, though written so far
back as 1804,[C] was carefully revised so late as 1842, previous to its
publication. I am loth to add, that it was never seen by the person to
whom it is addressed. So sensible am I of the deficiencies in all that I
write, and so far does everything I attempt fall short of what I wish it
to be, that even private publication, if such a term may be allowed,
requires more resolution than I can command. I have written to give vent
to my own mind, and not without hope that, some time or other, kindred
minds might benefit by my labours: but I am inclined to believe I should
never have ventured to send forth any verses of mine to the world if it
had not been done on the pressure of personal occasions. Had I been a
rich man, my productions, like this _Epistle_, the tragedy of _The
Borderers_, etc., would most likely have been confined to
manuscript.--I. F.]

Included among the "Miscellaneous Poems."--ED.


    Far from our home by Grasmere's quiet Lake,
    From the Vale's peace which all her fields partake,
    Here on the bleakest point of Cumbria's shore
    We sojourn stunned by Ocean's ceaseless roar;
    While, day by day, grim neighbour! huge Black Comb
    Frowns deepening visibly his native gloom,                   6
    Unless, perchance rejecting in despite
    What on the Plain _we_ have of warmth and light,
    In his own storms he hides himself from sight.
    Rough is the time; and thoughts, that would be free         10
    From heaviness, oft fly, dear Friend, to thee;
    Turn from a spot where neither sheltered road
    Nor hedge-row screen invites my steps abroad;
    Where one poor Plane-tree, having as it might
    Attained a stature twice a tall man's height,               15
    Hopeless of further growth, and brown and sere
    Through half the summer, stands with top cut sheer,
    Like an unshifting weathercock which proves
    How cold the quarter that the wind best loves,
    Or like a Centinel[1] that, evermore                        20
    Darkening the window, ill defends the door
    Of this unfinished house--a Fortress bare,
    Where strength has been the Builder's only care;
    Whose rugged walls may still for years demand
    The final polish of the Plasterer's hand.                   25
    --This Dwelling's Inmate more than three weeks' space
    And oft a Prisoner in the cheerless place,
    I--of whose touch the fiddle would complain,
    Whose breath would labour at the flute in vain,
    In music all unversed, nor blessed with skill               30
    A bridge to copy, or to paint a mill,
    Tired of my books, a scanty company!
    And tired of listening to the boisterous sea--
    Pace between door and window muttering rhyme,
    An old resource to cheat a froward time!                    35
    Though these dull hours (mine is it, or their shame?)
    Would tempt me to renounce that humble aim.
    --But if there be a Muse who, free to take
    Her seat upon Olympus, doth forsake
    Those heights (like Phoebus when his golden locks           40
    He veiled, attendant on Thessalian flocks)
    And, in disguise, a Milkmaid with her pail
    Trips down the pathways of some winding dale;
    Or, like a Mermaid, warbles on the shores
    To fishers mending nets beside their doors;                 45
    Or, Pilgrim-like, on forest moss reclined,
    Gives plaintive ditties to the heedless wind,
    Or listens to its play among the boughs
    Above her head and so forgets her vows--
    If such a Visitant of Earth there be                        50
    And she would deign this day to smile on me
    And aid my verse, content with local bounds
    Of natural beauty and life's daily rounds,
    Thoughts, chances, sights, or doings, which we tell
    Without reserve to those whom we love well--                55
    Then haply, Beaumont! words in current clear
    Will flow, and on a welcome page appear
    Duly before thy sight, unless they perish here.

      What shall I treat of? News from Mona's Isle?
    Such have we, but unvaried in its style;                    60
    No tales of Runagates fresh landed, whence
    And wherefore fugitive or on what pretence;
    Of feasts, or scandal, eddying like the wind
    Most restlessly alive when most confined.
    Ask not of me, whose tongue can best appease                65
    The mighty tumults of the HOUSE OF KEYS;
    The last year's cup whose Ram or Heifer gained,
    What slopes are planted, or what mosses drained:
    An eye of fancy only can I cast
    On that proud pageant now at hand or past,                  70
    When full five hundred boats in trim array,
    With nets and sails outspread and streamers gay,
    And chanted hymns and stiller voice of prayer,
    For the old Manx-harvest to the Deep repair,
    Soon as the herring-shoals at distance shine                75
    Like beds of moonlight shifting on the brine.

      Mona from our Abode is daily seen,
    But with a wilderness of waves between;
    And by conjecture only can we speak
    Of aught transacted there in bay or creek;                  80
    No tidings reach us thence from town or field,
    Only faint news her mountain sunbeams yield,
    And some we gather from the misty air,
    And some the hovering clouds, our telegraph, declare.
    But these poetic mysteries I withhold;                      85
    For Fancy hath her fits both hot and cold,
    And should the colder fit with You be on
    When You might read, my credit would be gone.

      Let more substantial themes the pen engage,
    And nearer interests culled from the opening stage          90
    Of our migration.--Ere the welcome dawn
    Had from the east her silver star withdrawn,
    The Wain stood ready, at our Cottage-door,
    Thoughtfully freighted with a various store;
    And long or ere the uprising of the Sun                     95
    O'er dew-damped dust our journey was begun,
    A needful journey, under favouring skies,
    Through peopled Vales; yet something in the guise
    Of those old Patriarchs when from well to well
    They roamed through Wastes where now the tented Arabs      100
        dwell.

      Say first, to whom did we the charge confide,
    Who promptly undertook the Wain to guide
    Up many a sharply-twining road and down,
    And over many a wide hill's craggy crown,
    Through the quick turns of many a hollow nook,             105
    And the rough bed of many an unbridged brook?
    A blooming Lass--who in her better hand
    Bore a light switch, her sceptre of command
    When, yet a slender Girl, she often led,
    Skilful and bold, the horse and burthened _sled_[D]        110
    From the peat-yielding Moss on Gowdar's head.
    What could go wrong with such a Charioteer
    For goods and chattels, or those Infants dear,
    A Pair who smilingly sat side by side,
    Our hope confirming that the salt-sea tide,                115
    Whose free embraces we were bound to seek,
    Would their lost strength restore and freshen the pale cheek?
    Such hope did either Parent entertain
    Pacing behind along the silent lane.

      Blithe hopes and happy musings soon took flight,         120
    For lo! an uncouth melancholy sight--
    On a green bank a creature stood forlorn
    Just half protruded to the light of morn,
    Its hinder part concealed by hedge-row thorn.
    The Figure called to mind a beast of prey                  125
    Stript of its frightful powers by slow decay,
    And, though no longer upon rapine bent,
    Dim memory keeping of its old intent.
    We started, looked again with anxious eyes,
    And in that griesly object recognise                       130
    The Curate's Dog--his long-tried friend, for they,
    As well we knew, together had grown grey.
    The Master died, his drooping servant's grief
    Found at the Widow's feet some sad relief;[2]
    Yet still he lived in pining discontent,                   135
    Sadness which no indulgence could prevent;
    Hence whole day wanderings, broken nightly sleeps
    And lonesome watch that out of doors he keeps;
    Not oftentimes, I trust, as we, poor brute!
    Espied him on his legs sustained, blank, mute,             140
    And of all visible motion destitute,
    So that the very heaving of his breath
    Seemed stopt, though by some other power than death.
    Long as we gazed upon the form and face,
    A mild domestic pity kept its place,                       145
    Unscared by thronging fancies of strange hue
    That haunted us in spite of what we knew.
    Even now I sometimes think of him as lost
    In second-sight appearances, or crost
    By spectral shapes of guilt, or to the ground,             150
    On which he stood, by spells unnatural bound,
    Like a gaunt shaggy Porter forced to wait
    In days of old romance at Archimago's gate.

      Advancing Summer, Nature's law fulfilled,
    The choristers in every grove had stilled;                 155
    But we, we lacked not music of our own,
    For lightsome Fanny had thus early thrown,
    Mid the gay prattle of those infant tongues,
    Some notes prelusive, from the round of songs
    With which, more zealous than the liveliest bird           160
    That in wild Arden's brakes was ever heard,
    Her work and her work's partners she can cheer,
    The whole day long, and all days of the year.

      Thus gladdened from our own dear Vale we pass
    And soon approach Diana's Looking-glass!                   165
    To Loughrigg-tarn, round, clear, and bright as heaven,
    Such name Italian fancy would have given,
    Ere on its banks the few grey cabins rose
    That yet disturb not its concealed repose
    More than the feeblest wind that idly blows.               170

      Ah, Beaumont! when an opening in the road
    Stopped me at once by charm of what it showed,
    The encircling region vividly exprest
    Within the mirror's depth, a world at rest--
    Sky streaked with purple, grove and craggy _bield_,[E]     175
    And the smooth green of many a pendent field,
    And, quieted and soothed, a torrent small,
    A little daring would-be waterfall,
    One chimney smoking and its azure wreath,
    Associate all in the calm Pool beneath,                    180
    With here and there a faint imperfect gleam
    Of water-lilies veiled in misty steam--
    What wonder at this hour of stillness deep,
    A shadowy link 'tween wakefulness and sleep,
    When Nature's self, amid such blending, seems              185
    To render visible her own soft dreams,
    If, mixed with what appeared of rock, lawn, wood,
    Fondly embosomed in the tranquil flood,
    A glimpse I caught of that Abode, by Thee
    Designed to rise in humble privacy,                        190
    A lowly Dwelling, here to be outspread,
    Like a small Hamlet, with its bashful head
    Half hid in native trees. Alas 'tis not,
    Nor ever was; I sighed, and left the spot
    Unconscious of its own untoward lot,                       195
    And thought in silence, with regret too keen,
    Of unexperienced joys that might have been;
    Of neighbourhood and intermingling arts,
    And golden summer days uniting cheerful hearts.
    But time, irrevocable time, is flown,                      200
    And let us utter thanks for blessings sown
    And reaped--what hath been, and what is, our own.

      Not far we travelled ere a shout of glee,
    Startling us all, dispersed my reverie;
    Such shout as many a sportive echo meeting                 205
    Oft-times from Alpine _chalets_ sends a greeting.
    Whence the blithe hail? behold a Peasant stand
    On high, a kerchief waving in her hand!
    Not unexpectant that by early day
    Our little Band would thrid this mountain way,             210
    Before her cottage on the bright hill side
    She hath advanced with hope to be descried.
    Right gladly answering signals we displayed,
    Moving along a tract of morning shade,
    And vocal wishes sent of like good will                    215
    To our kind Friend high on the sunny hill--
    Luminous region, fair as if the prime
    Were tempting all astir to look aloft or climb;
    Only the centre of the shining cot
    With door left open makes a gloomy spot,                   220
    Emblem of those dark corners sometimes found
    Within the happiest breast on earthly ground.

      Rich prospect left behind of stream and vale,
    And mountain-tops, a barren ridge we scale;
    Descend and reach, in Yewdale's depths, a plain            225
    With haycocks studded, striped with yellowing grain--
    An area level as a Lake and spread
    Under a rock too steep for man to tread,
    Where sheltered from the north and bleak north-west
    Aloft the Raven hangs a visible nest,                      230
    Fearless of all assaults that would her brood molest.
    Hot sunbeams fill the steaming vale; but hark,
    At our approach, a jealous watch-dog's bark,
    Noise that brings forth no liveried Page of state,
    But the whole household, that our coming wait.             235
    With Young and Old warm greetings we exchange,
    And jocund smiles, and toward the lowly Grange
    Press forward by the teasing dogs unscared.
    Entering, we find the morning meal prepared:
    So down we sit, though not till each had cast              240
    Pleased looks around the delicate repast--
    Rich cream, and snow-white eggs fresh from the nest,
    With amber honey from the mountain's breast;
    Strawberries from lane or woodland, offering wild
    Of children's industry, in hillocks piled;                 245
    Cakes for the nonce,[3] and butter fit to lie
    Upon a lordly dish; frank hospitality
    Where simple art with bounteous nature vied,
    And cottage comfort shunned not seemly pride.

      Kind Hostess! Handmaid also of the feast,                250
    If thou be lovelier than the kindling East,
    Words by thy presence unrestrained may speak
    Of a perpetual dawn from brow and cheek
    Instinct with light whose sweetest promise lies,
    Never retiring, in thy large dark eyes,                    255
    Dark but to every gentle feeling true,
    As if their lustre flowed from ether's purest blue.

      Let me not ask what tears may have been wept
    By those bright eyes, what weary vigils kept,
    Beside that hearth what sighs may have been heaved         260
    For wounds inflicted, nor what toil relieved
    By fortitude and patience, and the grace
    Of heaven in pity visiting the place.
    Not unadvisedly those secret springs
    I leave unsearched: enough that memory clings,             265
    Here as elsewhere, to notices that make
    Their own significance for hearts awake,
    To rural incidents, whose genial powers
    Filled with delight three summer morning hours.

      More could my pen report of grave or gay                 270
    That through our gipsy travel cheered the way;
    But, bursting forth above the waves, the Sun
    Laughs at my pains, and seems to say, "Be done."
    Yet, Beaumont, thou wilt not, I trust, reprove
    This humble offering made by Truth to Love,                275
    Nor chide the Muse that stooped to break a spell
    Which might have else been on me yet:--
                                          FAREWELL.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1845.

      Or stedfast Centinel ...                             1842.

[2]

      Until the Vale she quitted, and their door
      Was closed, to which she will return no more;
      But first old Faithful to a neighbour's care
      Was given in charge; nor lacked he dainty fare,
      And in the chimney nook was free to lie
      And doze, or, if his hour were come, to die.

    Inserted only in the edition of 1842.

[3] The phrase "for the nonce" was _italicised_ in 1842.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] In the MS. of these Fenwick notes, the following is written in
pencil, the passage referred to beginning with "Our hostess," and ending
at "the poem." "Revise this sentence. Here is something involved."--ED.

[B] _i.e._ John Carter, Wordsworth's confidential clerk, who saw the
edition of 1857 through the press. The sentence enclosed within brackets
and signed J. C. is his.--ED.

[C] See the note dealing with this date (p. 269). It should be 1811.--ED.

[D] A local word for Sledge.--W. W. 1842.

[E] A word common in the country, signifying shelter, as in Scotland.--W.
W. 1842.




UPON PERUSING THE FOREGOING EPISTLE THIRTY YEARS AFTER ITS COMPOSITION

Composed 1841.--Published 1842


Included among the "Miscellaneous Poems."--ED.


    Soon did the Almighty Giver of all rest
    Take those dear young Ones to a fearless nest;
    And in Death's arms has long reposed the Friend
    For whom this simple Register was penned.
    Thanks to the moth that spared it for our eyes;              5
    And Strangers even the slighted Scroll may prize,
    Moved by the touch of kindred sympathies.
    For--save the calm, repentance sheds o'er strife
    Raised by remembrances of misused life,
    The light from past endeavours purely willed                10
    And by Heaven's favour happily fulfilled;
    Save hope that we, yet bound to Earth, may share
    The joys of the Departed--what so fair
    As blameless pleasure, not without some tears,
    Reviewed through Love's transparent veil of years?[A]       15


      The mighty tumults of the HOUSE OF KEYS;

The Isle of Man has a constitution of its own, independent of the
Imperial Parliament. The House of twenty-four Keys is the popular
assembly, corresponding to the British House of Commons; the
Lieutenant-Governor and Council constitute the Upper House. All
legislative measures must be first considered and passed by both
branches, and afterwards transmitted to the English Sovereign for the
Royal Assent before becoming law.

      Mona from our Abode is daily seen,
      But with a wilderness of waves between;

In a letter written from Bootle to Sir George Beaumont on the 28th
August 1811, Wordsworth says:--

  "This is like most others, a bleak and treeless coast, but
  abounding in corn fields, and with a noble beach, which is
  delightful either for walking or riding. The Isle of Man is right
  opposite our window; and though in this unsettled weather often
  invisible, its appearance has afforded us great amusement. One
  afternoon above the whole length of it was stretched a body of
  clouds, shaped and coloured like a magnificent grove in winter,
  when whitened with snow and illuminated, by the morning sun,
  which, having melted the snow in part, has intermingled black
  masses among the brightness. The whole sky was scattered over with
  fleecy dark clouds, such as any sunshiny day produces, and which
  were changing their shapes and positions every moment. But this
  line of clouds was immovably attached to the island, and
  manifestly took their shape from the influence of its mountains.
  There appeared to be just span enough of sky to allow the hand to
  slide between the top of Snafell, the highest peak in the island,
  and the base of this glorious forest, in which little change was
  noticeable for more than the space of half an hour."

In the Fenwick note, Wordsworth tells us that this _Epistle_ was written
in 1804; and by referring to the note prefixed to the first poem in the
"Memorials of a Tour in Scotland," 1803, (see vol. ii. p. 377), it will
be seen that the lines entitled _Departure from the Vale of Grasmere,
August, 1803_, beginning--

      The gentlest Shade that walked Elysian plains,

were "not actually written for the occasion, but transplanted from my
_Epistle to Sir George Beaumont_."

It does not follow from this, however, that the lines belong to the year
1803 or 1804; because they were not published along with the earlier
"Memorials" of the Scotch Tour, but appeared for the first time in the
edition of 1827. It is certain that Wordsworth travelled down with his
household from the Grasmere Parsonage to Bootle in August 1811--mainly
to get some sea-air for his invalid children--and that he lived there
for some time during the autumn of that year. He _may_ have also gone
down to the south-west coast of Cumberland in 1804, and then written a
part of the poem; but we have no direct evidence of this; and I rather
think that the mention of the year 1804 to Miss Fenwick is just another
instance in which Wordsworth's memory failed him while dictating these
memoranda. If the poem was not written at different times, but was
composed as a whole in 1811, we may partly account for the date he gave
to Miss Fenwick, when we remember that in the year 1827 he transferred
a part of it (viz. the introduction) to these "Memorials" of the Scotch
Tour of 1803.

      Up many a sharply-twining road and down,
      And over many a wide hill's craggy crown,
      Through the quick turns of many a hollow nook,
      And the rough bed of many an unbridged brook.

Their route would be from Grasmere by Red Bank, over by High Close to
Elter Water, by Colwith into Yewdale, on to Waterhead; then probably,
from Coniston over Walna Scar, into Duddondale, and thence to Bootle.

      Like a gaunt shaggy Porter forced to wait
      In days of old romance at Archimago's gate.

See Spenser's _Faerie Queene_, book i. canto i. stanza 8.

                         ... the liveliest bird
      That in wild Arden's brakes was ever heard.

Compare _As you like it_, act II. scene 5.

      And soon approach Diana's Looking-glass!
      To Loughrigg-tarn, etc.

See the note appended by Wordsworth to the sequel to this poem.

      A glimpse I caught of that Abode, by Thee
      Designed to rise in humble privacy.

He imagines the house which Sir George Beaumont intended to build at
Loughrigg Tarn, but which he never erected, to be really built by his
friend, very much as in the sonnet named _Anticipation, October, 1803_,
he supposes England to have been invaded, and the battle fought in which
"the Invaders were laid low."

                            ... behold a Peasant stand
      On high, a kerchief waving in her hand!

See the Fenwick note preceding the poem.

                       ... a barren ridge we scale;
      Descend and reach, in Yewdale's depths, a plain.

They went up Little Langdale, I think, past the Tarn to Fell Foot, and
crossed over the ridge of Tilberthwaite, into Yewdale by the copper
mines.

      Under a rock too steep for man to tread,
      Where sheltered from the north and bleak north-west
      Aloft the Raven hangs a visible nest,
      Fearless of all assaults that would her brood molest.

There is a Raven crag in Yewdale, evidently the one referred to in this
passage, and also in the passage in the first book of _The Prelude_ (see
vol. iii. p. 142), beginning--

                       Oh! when I have hung
      Above the raven's nest, by knots of grass
      And half-inch fissures in the slippery rock
      But ill sustained, etc.

                   ... toward the lowly Grange
      Press forward,

To Waterhead at the top of Coniston Lake.

In connection with Loughrigg Tarn, compare the note to the poem
beginning--

      So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive,

and also the Biographical Sketch of Professor Archer Butler, prefixed to
his _Sermons_, vol. i.--ED.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] LOUGHRIGG TARN, alluded to in the foregoing _Epistle_, resembles,
though much smaller in compass, the Lake Nemi, or _Speculum Dianae_ as it
is often called, not only in its clear waters and circular form, and the
beauty immediately surrounding it, but also as being overlooked by the
eminence of Langdale Pikes as Lake Nemi is by that of Monte Calvo. Since
this _Epistle_ was written Loughrigg Tarn has lost much of its beauty by
the felling of many natural clumps of wood, relics of the old forest,
particularly upon the farm called "The Oaks" from the abundance of that
tree which grew there.

It is to be regretted, upon public grounds, that Sir George Beaumont did
not carry into effect his intention of constructing here a Summer
Retreat in the style I have described; as his Taste would have set an
example how buildings, with all the accommodations modern society
requires, might be introduced even into the most secluded parts of this
country without injuring their native character. The design was not
abandoned from failure of inclination on his part, but in consequence of
local untowardnesses which need not be particularised.--W. W. 1842.




UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE,

PAINTED BY SIR G. H. BEAUMONT, BART.

Composed 1811.--Published 1815


[This was written when we dwelt in the Parsonage at Grasmere. The
principal features of the picture are Bredon Hill and Cloud Hill near
Coleorton. I shall never forget the happy feeling with which my heart
was filled when I was impelled to compose this Sonnet. We resided only
two years in this house, and during the last half of the time, which was
after this poem had been written, we lost our two children, Thomas and
Catherine. Our sorrow upon these events often brought it to my mind, and
cast me upon the support to which the last line of it gives expression--

      "The appropriate calm of blest eternity."

It is scarcely necessary to add that we still possess the Picture.--I.F.]

Included among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets." In 1815 the title was simply
_Upon the Sight of a Beautiful Picture_.--ED.


    Praised be the Art whose subtle power could stay
    Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape;
    Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape,[A]
    Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day;
    Which stopped that band of travellers on their way,          5
    Ere they were lost within the shady wood;
    And showed the Bark upon the glassy flood
    For ever anchored in her sheltering bay.
    Soul-soothing Art! whom[1] Morning, Noon-tide, Even,
    Do serve with all their changeful pageantry;                10
    Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime,
    Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast given
    To one brief moment caught from fleeting time
    The appropriate calm of blest eternity,[B]


Compare the _Elegiac Stanzas, suggested by a picture of Peele Castle, in
a Storm, painted by Sir George Beaumont_--especially the first three,
and the fifth, sixth, and seventh stanzas. (See vol. iii. p. 54.)

In the letter written to Sir George Beaumont from Bootle, in
1811--partly quoted in the note to the previous poem (p.
268)--Wordsworth says, "A few days after I had enjoyed the pleasure of
seeing, in different moods of mind, your Coleorton landscape from my
fireside, it _suggested_ to me the following sonnet, which--having
walked out to the side of Grasmere brook, where it murmurs through the
meadows near the Church--I composed immediately--

      Praised be the Art....

"The images of the smoke and the travellers are taken from your picture;
the rest were added, in order to place the thought in a clear point of
view, and for the sake of variety."--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] C. and 1838.

      ... which ...                                      1815.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare, in Pope's _Moral Essays_, ii. 19--

      Choose a firm cloud before it fall, and in it
      Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute.   ED.

[B] Compare, in the _Elegiac Stanzas, suggested by a Picture of Peele
Castle, in a Storm_ (vol. iii. p. 55)--

      Elysian quiet, without toil or strife.               ED.




TO THE POET, JOHN DYER

Composed 1811.--Published 1815


Classed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets." In the edition of 1815 the
title was, _To the Poet, Dyer_.--ED.


    Bard of the Fleece, whose skilful genius made
    That work a living landscape fair and bright;
    Nor hallowed less with musical delight
    Than those soft scenes through which thy childhood strayed,
    Those southern tracts of Cambria, deep embayed,              5
    With green hills fenced, with[1] ocean's murmur lull'd;[A]
    Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet culled
    For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade
    Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced,
    Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still,         10
    A grateful few, shall love thy modest Lay,
    Long as the shepherd's bleating flock shall stray
    O'er naked Snowdon's wide aerial waste;
    Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill!


John Dyer, author of _Grongar Hill_ (1726), and _The Fleece_ (1757), was
born at Aberglasney, in Caermarthenshire, in 1698, and died in 1758.
Both Akenside and Gray, before Wordsworth's time, had signalised his
merit, in opposition to the dicta of Johnson and Horace Walpole. The
passage which Wordsworth quotes is from _The Fleece_, in which Dyer is
referring to his own ancestors, who were weavers, and "fugitives from
superstition's rage," and who brought the art of weaving "from Devon" to

                                 that soft tract
      Of Cambria, deep-embayed, Dimetian land,
      By green hills fenced, by ocean's murmur lulled.

It will be observed that Wordsworth quotes this last line of Dyer
accurately in the edition of 1815, but changed it in 1827.

This sonnet was possibly written before 1811, as in a letter to Lady
Beaumont, dated November 20, 1811, he speaks of it as written "some time
ago." In that letter Wordsworth writes thus of Dyer:--"His poem is in
several places dry and heavy, but its beauties are innumerable, and of a
high order. In point of _imagination_ and purity of style, I am not sure
that he is not superior to any writer of verse since the time of
Milton." He then transcribes his sonnet, and adds--"In the above is one
whole line from _The Fleece_, and also other expressions. When you read
_The Fleece_, you will recognise them."--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1827.

      By green hills fenced, by ...                      1815.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] Compare Dyer's _Fleece_, book iii.--ED.




1812


The years 1812 and 1813 were poetically even less productive than 1811
had been. The first of them was saddened by domestic losses, which
deprived the poet, for a time, of the power of work, and almost of any
interest in the labour to which his life was devoted. Three short pieces
are all that belong to 1812 and 1813 respectively.--ED.




SONG FOR THE SPINNING WHEEL

FOUNDED UPON A BELIEF PREVALENT AMONG THE PASTORAL VALES OF WESTMORELAND

Composed 1812.--Published 1820


[The belief on which this is founded I have often heard expressed by an
old neighbour of Grasmere.--I. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Fancy."--ED.


    Swiftly turn the murmuring wheel!
    Night has brought the welcome hour,
    When the weary fingers feel
    Help, as if from faery power;
    Dewy night o'ershades the ground;                            5
    Turn the swift wheel round and round!

    Now, beneath the starry sky,
    Couch[1] the widely-scattered sheep;--
    Ply the pleasant labour, ply!
    For the spindle, while they sleep,                          10
    Runs with speed more smooth and fine,
    Gathering[2] up a trustier line.

    Short-lived likings may be bred
    By a glance from fickle eyes;
    But true love is like the thread                            15
    Which the kindly wool supplies,
    When the flocks are all at rest
    Sleeping on the mountain's breast.


It was for Sarah Hutchinson that this _Song_ was written. She lived, for
the most part, either at Brinsop Court Herefordshire, or at Rydal Mount
Westmoreland, or at Greta Hall Keswick. When living at Greta Hall, she
acted as Southey's amanuensis. She also frequently transcribed poems for
Wordsworth, at Grasmere, Coleorton, and Rydal Mount.

Compare the sonnet addressed _To S. H._ in the "Miscellaneous Sonnets,"
I. xx.--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1827.

      Rest ...                                           1820.

[2] 1832.

      With a motion smooth and fine
      Gathers ...                                        1820.

      Runs with motion smooth and fine,
      Gathering ...                                      1827.




COMPOSED ON THE EVE OF THE MARRIAGE OF A FRIEND IN THE VALE OF
  GRASMERE, 1812

Composed 1812.--Published 1815


Classed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.


    What need of clamorous bells, or ribands gay,
    These humble nuptials to proclaim or grace?
    Angels of love, look down upon the place;
    Shed on the chosen vale a sun-bright day!
    Yet no proud gladness would the Bride display                5
    Even for such promise:[1]--serious is her face,
    Modest her mien; and she, whose thoughts keep pace
    With gentleness, in that becoming way
    Will thank you. Faultless does the Maid appear;
    No disproportion in her soul, no strife:                    10
    But, when the closer view of wedded life
    Hath shown that nothing human can be clear
    From frailty, for that insight may the Wife
    To her indulgent Lord become more dear.


This refers to the marriage of Thomas Hutchinson (Mrs. Wordsworth's
brother) to Mary Monkhouse, sister of the Mr. Monkhouse with whom
Wordsworth afterwards travelled on the Continent. The marriage took
place on November 1, 1812. They lived at Nadnorth for eighteen years,
and afterwards at Brinsop Court, Herefordshire, for twenty-one years. To
their son--the Rev. Thomas Hutchinson of Kimbolton, Leominster,
Herefordshire--and to their daughter--Miss Elizabeth Hutchinson of Rock
Villa, West Malvern--I am indebted for much information in reference to
their uncle and aunts. The portrait of Wordsworth in his forty-seventh
year, by Richard Carruthers, is in Mr. Hutchinson's possession at the
Rectory, Kimbolton.--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1827.

      Even for such omen would the Bride display
      No mirthful gladness:--                            1815.




WATER-FOWL[A]

Composed 1812.--Published 1827


  "Let me be allowed the aid of verse to describe the evolutions
  which these visitants sometimes perform, on a fine day towards the
  close of winter."--_Extract from the Author's Book on the
  Lakes._--W. W. 1827.

[Observed frequently over the lakes of Rydal and Grasmere.--I. F.]

Placed among the "Poems of the Imagination."--ED.


    Mark how the feathered tenants of the flood,
    With grace of motion that might scarcely seem[B]
    Inferior to angelical, prolong
    Their curious pastime! shaping in mid air
    (And sometimes with ambitious wing that soars                5
    High as the level of the mountain-tops)
    A circuit ampler than the lake beneath--
    Their own domain; but ever, while intent
    On tracing and retracing that large round,
    Their jubilant activity evolves                             10
    Hundreds of curves and circlets, to and fro,
    Upward and downward, progress intricate
    Yet unperplexed, as if one spirit swayed
    Their indefatigable flight. 'Tis done--
    Ten times, or more, I fancied it had ceased;                15
    But lo! the vanished company again
    Ascending; they approach--I hear their wings,
    Faint, faint at first; and then an eager sound,
    Past in a moment--and as faint again!
    They tempt the sun to sport amid their plumes;              20
    They tempt the water, or the gleaming ice,
    To show them a fair image; 'tis themselves,
    Their own fair forms, upon the glimmering plain,
    Painted more soft and fair as they descend
    Almost to touch;--then up again aloft,                      25
    Up with a sally and a flash of speed,
    As if they scorned both resting-place and rest!


FOOTNOTES:

[A] This is part of the canto of _The Recluse_, entitled "Home at
Grasmere."--ED.

[B] For the original text, which differs from this, see _The Recluse_,
vol. viii. of this edition.--ED.




1813


See the note to the previous year, 1812.--ED.




VIEW FROM THE TOP OF BLACK COMB

Composed 1813.--Published 1815


Black Comb stands at the southern extremity of Cumberland: its base
covers a much greater extent of ground than any other mountain in these
parts; and, from its situation, the summit commands a more extensive
view than any other point in Britain.--W. W. 1827.

[Mrs. Wordsworth and I, as mentioned in the _Epistle to Sir G.
Beaumont_, lived sometime under its shadow.--I. F.]

Included among the "Poems of the Imagination." (See the editorial note
to the following poem.)--ED.


    This Height a ministering Angel might select:
    For from the summit of BLACK COMB (dread name
    Derived from clouds and storms!) the amplest range
    Of unobstructed prospect may be seen
    That British ground commands:--low dusky tracts,             5
    Where Trent is nursed, far southward! Cambrian hills
    To the south-west, a multitudinous show;
    And, in a line of eye-sight linked with these,
    The hoary peaks of Scotland that give birth
    To Tiviot's stream, to Annan, Tweed, and Clyde:--           10
    Crowding the quarter whence the sun comes forth
    Gigantic mountains rough with crags; beneath,
    Right at the imperial station's western base
    Main ocean, breaking audibly, and stretched
    Far into silent regions blue and pale;--                    15
    And visibly engirding Mona's Isle
    That, as we left the plain, before our sight
    Stood like a lofty mount, uplifting slowly
    (Above the convex of the watery globe)
    Into clear view the cultured fields that streak             20
    Her[1] habitable shores, but now appears
    A dwindled object, and submits to lie
    At the spectator's feet.--Yon azure ridge,
    Is it a perishable cloud? Or there
    Do we behold the line[2] of Erin's coast?[A]                25
    Land sometimes by the roving shepherd-swain
    (Like the bright confines of another world)
    Not doubtfully perceived.--Look homeward now!
    In depth, in height, in circuit, how serene
    The spectacle, how pure!--Of Nature's works,                30
    In earth, and air, and earth-embracing sea,
    A revelation infinite it seems;
    Display august of man's inheritance,
    Of Britain's calm felicity and power![B]


VARIANTS:

[1] 1827.

      Its ...                                            1815.

[2] 1832.

      ... the frame ...                                  1815.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] The Irish coast can be seen from Black Comb, but it is seldom
visible till after sundown.--ED.

[B] Compare, in _The Minstrels of Winandermere_, by Charles Farish, p.
33--

      Close by the sea, lone sentinel,
      Black Comb his forward station keeps;
      He breaks the sea's tumultuous swell,
      And ponders o'er the level deeps.                    ED.




WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL ON A STONE, ON THE SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN OF
  BLACK COMB

Composed 1813.--Published 1815


[The circumstance, alluded to at the conclusion of these verses, was
told me by Dr. Satterthwaite, who was Incumbent of Bootle, a small town
at the foot of Black Comb. He had the particulars from one of the
engineers who was employed in making trigonometrical surveys of that
region.--I. F.]

Included among the "Inscriptions."--ED.


    Stay, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs
    On this commodious Seat! for much remains
    Of hard ascent before thou reach the top
    Of this huge Eminence,--from blackness named,
    And, to far-travelled storms of sea and land,                5
    A favourite spot of tournament and war!
    But thee may no such boisterous visitants
    Molest; may gentle breezes fan thy brow;
    And neither cloud conceal, nor misty air
    Bedim, the grand terraqueous spectacle,                     10
    From centre to circumference, unveiled!
    Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy rest,
    That on the summit whither thou art bound,
    A geographic Labourer pitched his tent,
    With books supplied and instruments of art,                 15
    To measure height and distance; lonely task,
    Week after week pursued!--To him was given
    Full many a glimpse (but sparingly bestowed
    On timid man) of Nature's processes
    Upon the exalted hills. He made report                      20
    That once, while there he plied his studious work
    Within that canvass Dwelling, colours, lines,
    And the whole surface of the out-spread map,[1]
    Became invisible: for all around
    Had darkness fallen--unthreatened, unproclaimed--           25
    As if the golden day itself had been
    Extinguished in a moment; total gloom,
    In which he sate alone, with unclosed eyes,
    Upon the blinded mountain's silent top!


In the editions of 1815 and 1820, the note to the previous poem, _View
from the top of Black Comb_, was appended to this one. In 1827 it was
transferred to its appropriate and permanent place.--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1837.

      Within that canvass Dwelling, suddenly
      The many-coloured map before his eyes              1815.




NOVEMBER, 1813

Composed November 1813.--Published 1815


Included among the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty."--ED.


    Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright,
    Our aged Sovereign sits, to the ebb and flow
    Of states and kingdoms, to their joy or woe,
    Insensible. He sits deprived of sight,
    And lamentably wrapped in twofold night,                     5
    Whom no weak hopes deceived; whose mind ensued,
    Through perilous war, with regal fortitude,
    Peace that should claim respect from lawless Might.
    Dread King of Kings, vouchsafe a ray divine
    To his forlorn condition! let thy grace                     10
    Upon his inner[1] soul in mercy shine;
    Permit his heart to kindle, and to embrace[2]
    (Though it were[3] only for a moment's space)
    The triumphs of this hour; for they are THINE!


The reference is to the rejoicings on the Leipzig victory of the Allied
Forces, October 16 to 19, 1813. Napoleon crossed the Rhine on the 2nd
November, and returned to Paris with the wreck of his army. George III.
was English Sovereign; but, owing to his illness, the Prince of Wales
had been appointed Regent, and assumed executive power in January 1811.
The King died at Windsor in 1820, being eighty-two years of age. He had
been entirely blind for some years before his death. The "twofold night"
referred to in the sonnet is sufficiently obvious.--ED.


VARIANTS:

[1] 1815.

      ... inmost ...                                     1838.

    The text of 1840 returns to that of 1815.

[2] C. and 1838.

      ... and embrace,                                   1815.

[3] 1832.

      (Though were it ...)                               1815.


END OF VOL. IV

_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.




       *       *       *       *       *




Transcriber's note:


1. The Tyrolese Sonnets in German were originally printed in the
   Fraktur Black Letter font and are unmarked. Within these sonnets
   several words appear in gesperrt (s p a c e d), these words have been
   surrounded by ~tilde signs~.

2. A full line ellipsis in poetry is represented by a single "..." and
   a full line ellipsis in quoted text is represented by a row of spaced
   periods, "       .       .       .       .       .       "

3. Minor punctuation errors have been corrected.

4. All footnotes have been moved to the chapter or sub-chapter ends
   EXCEPTING the footnote at the end of Tyrolese Sonnet VI which has
   been placed immediately after the sonnet though the chapter continues
   and other succeeding footnotes appear at the end.

   Numbered footnotes are "variants" of words or phrases changed by Mr.
   Wordsworth in various published versions of his work. Lettered
   footnotes are those of the Editor Mr. Knight.

   In the original text the printer used multiple periods to push
   single and multiple word "Variants" into the place in the notes where
   they occured in the poem. In this e-text a single ellipsis (...) is
   used to represent positioning of preceeding and succeeding words.
   The variant anchor point indicates the relative position of the word
   variant in the poem.

   In footnote [A] to the poem "In the Grounds of Coleorton", p. 79 "l.
   7." has been changed to p. 79 "l. 13." While the note correctly
   identifies the 7th line of the text of the poem printed on p. 79, it
   is actually l. 13. of the poem.

5. All poetry line markers have been retained as placed and numbered
   by the printer at 5, 4 or 6 line intervals.

6. No spelling alterations have been made. A number of alternate and/or
   inconsistent spellings appear in this text, including but not limited
   to:

   "achieves" and "atchieved"

   "antient", "ancyent", and "ancient"

   "beloved" and "beloved"

   "birthplace" (by ED.) and "birth-place" (in poetry and notes)

   "blessed" and "blessed"

   "Buonaparte" and "Buonaparte"

   "cheer(ed)(ful)" and "chear(ed)(ful)"

   "eye-sight" and "eyesight"

   "farm-house" and "farmhouse"

   "Mauleverers" and "Mauliverers"

   "negociation" and "negotiation"

   "out-spread" and "outspread"

   "re-appearing" and "reappearing"

   "recognised" and "recognized"

   "Shakspeare('s)" (3) and "Shakespeare('s)" (3)

   "Stockton-on-Tees" and "Stockton-upon-Tees"

   "strong-hold" (in poetry) and "stronghold" (in letter)

   "winged" and "winged"

   "wreathed" and "wreathed"

Printers error corrections:

7. Pg. 5. "in" to "on" (befell him on the way.)

8. Pg. 197, Note II. corrected p. "201" to "204" (Founding of Bolton
   Priory, p. 204.)



***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POETICAL WORKS OF WILLIAM
WORDSWORTH, VOLUME IV (OF 8)***


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