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                              THE POETICAL WORKS

                                     OF



                              WILLIAM WORDSWORTH





                                  EDITED BY
                               WILLIAM KNIGHT


                                   VOL. II


                                    1896






CONTENTS



Peter Bell

Lines, composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey, on revisiting the Banks
of the Wye during a tour, July 13, 1798

There was a Boy

The Two Thieves; or, the Last Stage of Avarice

Written with a Slate Pencil upon a Stone, the largest of a Heap lying
near a Deserted Quarry, upon one of the Islands at Rydal


1799

  Influence of Natural Objects in calling forth and strengthening the
  Imagination in Boyhood and Early Youth

  The Simplon Pass

  Nutting

  Written in Germany, on one of the Coldest Days of the Century

  A Poet's Epitaph

  "Strange fits of passion have I known"

  "She dwelt among the untrodden ways"

  "I travelled among unknown men"

  "Three years she grew in sun and shower"

  "A slumber did my spirit seal"

  Address to the Scholars of the Village School of----

  Matthew

  The Two April Mornings

  The Fountain

  To a Sexton

  The Danish Boy

  Lucy Gray; or, Solitude

  Ruth


1800

  "On Nature's invitation do I come"

  "Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak"

  Ellen Irwin; or, The Braes of Kirtle

  Hart-Leap Well

  The Idle Shepherd-Boys; or, Dungeon-Ghyll Force

  The Pet-Lamb

  The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale


Poems on the Naming of Places:

  "It was an April morning: fresh and clear"

  To Joanna

  "There is an Eminence,--of these our hills"

  "A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags"

  To M. H.

  The Waterfall and the Eglantine

  The Oak and the Broom

  "'Tis said, that some have died for love"

  The Childless Father

  Song for the Wandering Jew

  The Brothers

  The Seven Sisters; or, The Solitude of Binnorie

  Rural Architecture

  A Character

  Inscription for the spot where the Hermitage stood on St. Herbert's
  Island, Derwent-Water

  Written with a Pencil upon a Stone in the Wall of the House (an
  Out-House), on the Island at Grasmere

  Michael


1801

  The Sparrow's Nest

  "Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side"

  Selections from Chaucer Modernised:

    The Prioress' Tale

    The Cuckoo and the Nightingale

    Troilus and Cresida

1802

  The Sailor's Mother

  Alice Fell; or, Poverty

  Beggars

  Sequel to the Foregoing

  To a Butterfly

  The Emigrant Mother

  To the Cuckoo

  "My heart leaps up when I behold"

  Written in March, while resting on the Bridge at the Foot of Brothers
  Water

  The Redbreast chasing the Butterfly

  To a Butterfly

  Foresight

  To the Small Celandine

  To the Same Flower

  Stanzas written in my Pocket Copy of Thomson's "Castle of Indolence"

  Resolution and Independence

  "I grieved for Buonaparte"

  A Farewell

  "The sun has long been set"

  Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802

  Composed by the Sea-side, near Calais, August, 1802

  Calais, August, 1802

  Composed near Calais, on the Road leading to Ardres, August 7, 1802

  Calais, August 15, 1802

  "It is a beauteous evening, calm and free"

  On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic

  The King of Sweden

  To Toussaint L'Ouverture

  Composed in the Valley near Dover, on the Day of Landing

  September 1, 1802

  September, 1802, near Dover

  Written in London, September, 1802

  London, 1802

  "Great men have been among us; hands that penned"

  "It is not to be thought of that the Flood"

  "When I have borne in memory what has tamed"

  Composed after a Journey across the Hambleton Hills, Yorkshire

  To H. C.

  To the Daisy

  To the Same Flower

  To the Daisy

  Louisa

  To a Young Lady, who had been Reproached for taking Long Walks in the
  Country

1803

  The Green Linnet

  Yew-Trees

  "Who fancied what a pretty sight"

  "It is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown"

  Memorials of a Tour in Scotland:

    Departure from the Vale of Grasmere. August, 1803

    At the Grave of Burns, 1803. Seven Years after his Death

    Thoughts suggested the Day following, on the Banks of Nith, near the
    Poet's Residence

    To the Sons of Burns, after Visiting the Grave of their Father

    To a Highland Girl

    Glen-Almain; or, The Narrow Glen

    Stepping Westward

    The Solitary Reaper

    Address to Kilchurn Castle

    Rob Roy's Grave

    Sonnet composed at----Castle

    Yarrow Unvisited

    The Matron of Jedborough and her Husband

    "Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale"

    The Blind Highland Boy

October, 1803

"There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear"

October, 1803

"England! the time is come when thou should'st wean"

October, 1803

To the Men of Kent. October, 1803

In the Pass of Killicranky

Anticipation. October, 1803

Lines on the Expected Invasion, 1803





       *       *       *       *       *





                     WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS





       *       *       *       *       *





PETER BELL: A TALE [A]


Composed 1798. [B]--Published 1819.


  'What's in a Name?' [C]

  'Brutus will start a Spirit as soon as Caesar!' [D]


  To ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ., P.L., ETC., ETC.

  MY DEAR FRIEND--The Tale of 'Peter Bell', which I now introduce to
  your notice, and to that of the Public, has, in its Manuscript state,
  nearly survived its _minority_:--for it first saw the light in the
  summer of 1798. During this long interval, pains have been taken at
  different times to make the production less unworthy of a favourable
  reception; or, rather, to fit it for filling _permanently_ a station,
  however humble, in the Literature of our Country. This has, indeed,
  been the aim of all my endeavours in Poetry, which, you know, have
  been sufficiently laborious to prove that I deem the Art not lightly
  to be approached; and that the attainment of excellence in it, may
  laudably be made the principal object of intellectual pursuit by any
  man, who, with reasonable consideration of circumstances, has faith in
  his own impulses.

  The Poem of 'Peter Bell', as the Prologue will show, was composed
  under a belief that the Imagination not only does not require for its
  exercise the intervention of supernatural agency, but that, though
  such agency be excluded, the faculty may be called forth as
  imperiously and for kindred results of pleasure, by incidents, within
  the compass of poetic probability, in the humblest departments of
  daily life. Since that Prologue was written, _you_ have exhibited most
  splendid effects of judicious daring, in the opposite and usual
  course. Let this acknowledgment make my peace with the lovers of the
  supernatural; and I am persuaded it will be admitted, that to you, as
  a Master in that province of the art, the following Tale, whether from
  contrast or congruity, is not an unappropriate offering. Accept it,
  then, as a public testimony of affectionate admiration from one with
  whose name yours has been often coupled (to use your own words) for
  evil and for good; and believe me to be, with earnest wishes that life
  and health may be granted you to complete the many important works in
  which you are engaged, and with high respect, Most faithfully yours,

  WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

  RYDAL MOUNT, April 7, 1819.


[Written at Alfoxden. Founded upon an anecdote which I read in a
newspaper, of an ass being found hanging his head over a canal in a
wretched posture. Upon examination a dead body was found in the water,
and proved to be the body of its master. The countenance, gait, and
figure of Peter were taken from a wild rover with whom I walked from
Builth, on the river Wye, downwards, nearly as far as the town of Hay.
He told me strange stories. It has always been a pleasure to me through
life, to catch at every opportunity that has occurred in my rambles of
becoming acquainted with this class of people. The number of Peter's
wives was taken from the trespasses, in this way, of a lawless creature,
who lived in the county of Durham, and used to be attended by many
women, sometimes not less than half a dozen, as disorderly as himself,
and a story went in the country that he had been heard to say, while
they were quarrelling, "Why can't ye be quiet, there's none so many of
you?" Benoni, or the child of sorrow, I knew when I was a schoolboy. His
mother had been deserted by a gentleman in the neighbourhood, she
herself being a gentlewoman by birth. The circumstances of her story
were told me by my dear old dame, Ann Tyson, who was her confidante. The
lady died broken-hearted. In the woods of Alfoxden I used to take great
delight in noticing the habits, tricks, and physiognomy of asses; and I
have no doubt that I was thus put upon writing the poem out of liking
for the creature that is often so dreadfully abused. The crescent moon,
which makes such a figure in the prologue, assumed this character one
evening while I was watching its beauty in front of Alfoxden House. I
intended this poem for the volume before spoken of, but it was not
published for more than twenty years afterwards. The worship of the
Methodists, or Ranters, is often heard during the stillness of the
summer evening, in the country, with affecting accompaniments of rural
beauty. In both the psalmody and voice of the preacher there is, not
unfrequently, much solemnity likely to impress the feelings of the
rudest characters under favourable circumstances.--I. F.]


Classed by Wordsworth among his "Poems of the Imagination."--ED.



PROLOGUE

  There's something in a flying horse,
  There's something [1] in a huge balloon;
  But through the clouds I'll never float
  Until I have a little Boat,
  Shaped like [2] the crescent-moon.                         5

  And now I _have_ a little Boat,
  In shape a very crescent-moon:
  Fast through the clouds my boat can sail;
  But if perchance your faith should fail,
  Look up--and you shall see me soon!                       10

  The woods, my Friends, are round you roaring,
  Rocking and roaring like a sea;
  The noise of danger's in [3] your ears,
  And ye have all a thousand fears
  Both for my little Boat and me!                           15

  Meanwhile untroubled I admire [4]
  The pointed horns of my canoe;
  And, did not pity touch my breast,
  To see how ye are all distrest,
  Till my ribs ached, I'd laugh at you!                     20

  Away we go, my Boat and I--
  Frail man ne'er sate in such another;
  Whether among the winds we strive,
  Or deep into the clouds [5] we dive,
  Each is contented with the other.                         25

  Away we go--and what care we
  For treasons, tumults, and for wars?
  We are as calm in our delight
  As is the crescent-moon so bright
  Among the scattered stars.                                30

  Up goes my Boat among [6] the stars
  Through many a breathless field of light,
  Through many a long blue field of ether,
  Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her:
  Up goes my little Boat so bright!                         35

  The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull--
  We pry among them all; have shot
  High o'er the red-haired race of Mars,
  Covered from top to toe with scars;
  Such company I like it not!                               40

  The towns in Saturn are decayed,
  And melancholy Spectres throng them;--[7]
  The Pleiads, that appear to kiss
  Each other in the vast abyss,
  With joy I sail among [8] them,                           45

  Swift Mercury resounds with mirth,
  Great Jove is full of stately bowers;
  But these, and all that they contain,
  What are they to that tiny grain,
  That little Earth [9] of ours?                            50

  Then back to Earth, the dear green Earth:--
  Whole ages if I here should roam,
  The world for my remarks and me
  Would not a whit the better be;
  I've left my heart at home.                               55

  See! there she is, [10] the matchless Earth!
  There spreads the famed Pacific Ocean!
  Old Andes thrusts yon craggy spear
  Through the grey clouds; the Alps are here,
  Like waters in commotion!                                 60

  Yon tawny slip is Libya's sands
  That silver thread the river Dnieper;
  And look, where clothed in brightest green
  Is a sweet Isle, of isles the Queen;
  Ye fairies, from all evil keep her!                       65

  And see the town where I was born!
  Around those happy fields we span
  In boyish gambols;--I was lost
  Where I have been, but on this coast
  I feel I am a man.                                        70

  Never did fifty things at once
  Appear so lovely, never, never;--
  How tunefully the forests ring!
  To hear the earth's soft murmuring
  Thus could I hang for ever!                               75

  "Shame on you!" cried my little Boat,
  "Was ever such a homesick [11] Loon,
  Within a living Boat to sit,
  And make no better use of it;
  A Boat twin-sister of the crescent-moon!                  80

  [12]

  "Ne'er in the breast of full-grown Poet
  Fluttered so faint a heart before;--
  Was it the music of the spheres
  That overpowered your mortal ears?
  --Such din shall trouble them no more.                    85

  "These nether precincts do not lack
  Charms of their own;--then come with me;
  I want a comrade, and for you
  There's nothing that I would not do;
  Nought is there that you shall not see.                   90

  "Haste! and above Siberian snows
  We'll sport amid the boreal morning;
  Will mingle with her lustres gliding
  Among the stars, the stars now hiding,
  And now the stars adorning.                               95

  "I know the secrets of a land
  Where human foot did never stray;
  Fair is that land [13] as evening skies,
  And cool, though in the depth it lies
  Of burning Africa.                                       100

  "Or we'll into the realm of Faery,
  Among the lovely shades of things;
  The shadowy forms of mountains bare,
  And streams, and bowers, and ladies fair,
  The shades of palaces and kings!                         105

  "Or, if you thirst with hardy zeal
  Less quiet regions to explore,
  Prompt voyage shall to you reveal
  How earth and heaven are taught to feel
  The might of magic lore!"                                110

  "My little vagrant Form of light,
  My gay and beautiful Canoe,
  Well have you played your friendly part;
  As kindly take what from my heart
  Experience forces--then adieu!                           115

  "Temptation lurks among your words;
  But, while these pleasures you're pursuing
  Without impediment or let,
  No wonder if you quite forget [14]
  What on the earth is doing.                              120

  "There was a time when all mankind
  Did listen with a faith sincere
  To tuneful tongues in mystery versed;
  _Then_ Poets fearlessly rehearsed
  The wonders of a wild career.                            125

  "Go--(but the world's a sleepy world,
  And 'tis, I fear, an age too late)
  Take with you some ambitious Youth!
  For, restless Wanderer! I, in truth, [15]
  Am all unfit to be your mate.                            130

  "Long have I loved what I behold,
  The night that calms, the day that cheers;
  The common growth of mother-earth
  Suffices me--her tears, her mirth,
  Her humblest mirth and tears.                            135

  "The dragon's wing, the magic ring,
  I shall not covet for my dower,
  If I along that lowly way
  With sympathetic heart may stray,
  And with a soul of power.                                140

  "These given, what more need I desire
  To stir, to soothe, or elevate?
  What nobler marvels than the mind
  May in life's daily prospect find,
  May find or there create?                                145

  "A potent wand doth Sorrow wield;
  What spell so strong as guilty Fear!
  Repentance is a tender Sprite;
  If aught on earth have heavenly might,
  'Tis lodged within her silent tear.                      150

  "But grant my wishes,--let us now
  Descend from this ethereal height;
  Then take thy way, adventurous Skiff,
  More daring far than Hippogriff,
  And be thy own delight!                                  155

  "To the stone-table in my garden,
  Loved haunt of many a summer hour, [E]
  The Squire is come: his daughter Bess
  Beside him in the cool recess
  Sits blooming like a flower.                             160

  "With these are many more convened;
  They know not I have been so far;--
  I see them there, in number nine,
  Beneath the spreading Weymouth-pine!
  I see them--there they are!                              165

  "There sits the Vicar and his Dame;
  And there my good friend, Stephen Otter;
  And, ere the light of evening fail,
  To them I must relate the Tale
  Of Peter Bell the Potter."                               170

  Off flew the Boat--away she flees,
  Spurning her freight with indignation! [16]
  "And I, as well as I was able,
  On two poor legs, toward my stone-table
  Limped on with sore vexation.  [17]                      175

  "O, here he is!" cried little Bess--
  She saw me at the garden-door;
  "We've waited anxiously and long,"
  They cried, and all around me throng,
  Full nine of them or more!                               180

  "Reproach me not--your fears be still--
  Be thankful we again have met;--
  Resume, my Friends! within the shade
  Your seats, and quickly [18] shall be paid
  The well-remembered debt."                               185

  I spake with faltering voice, like one
  Not wholly rescued from the pale
  Of a wild dream, or worse illusion;
  But, straight, to cover my confusion,
  Began the promised Tale. [19]                            190



PART FIRST

  All by the moonlight river side
  Groaned the poor Beast--alas! in vain;
  The staff was raised to loftier height,
  And the blows fell with heavier weight
  As Peter struck--and struck again. [20]                  195

  [21]

  "Hold!" cried the Squire, "against the rules
  Of common sense you're surely sinning;
  This leap is for us all too bold; [22]
  Who Peter was, let that be told,
  And start from the beginning."                           200

--"A Potter, [F] Sir, he was by trade,"
  Said I, becoming quite collected;
  "And wheresoever he appeared,
  Full twenty times was Peter feared
  For once that Peter was respected.                       205

  "He two-and-thirty years or more,
  Had been a wild and woodland rover;
  Had heard the Atlantic surges roar
  On farthest Cornwall's rocky shore,
  And trod the cliffs of Dover.                            210

  "And he had seen Caernarvon's towers,
  And well he knew the spire of Sarum;
  And he had been where Lincoln bell
  Flings o'er the fen that ponderous knell--
  A far-renowned alarum. [23]                              215

  "At Doncaster, at York, and Leeds,
  And merry Carlisle had he been;
  And all along the Lowlands fair,
  All through the bonny shire of Ayr;
  And far as Aberdeen.                                     220

  "And he had been at Inverness;
  And Peter, by the mountain-rills,
  Had danced his round with Highland lasses;
  And he had lain beside his asses
  On lofty Cheviot Hills:                                  225

  "And he had trudged through Yorkshire dales,
  Among the rocks and winding _scars_;
  Where deep and low the hamlets lie
  Beneath their little patch of sky
  And little lot of stars:                                 230

  "And all along the indented coast,
  Bespattered with the salt-sea foam;
  Where'er a knot of houses lay
  On headland, or in hollow bay;--
  Sure never man like him did roam!                        235

  "As well might Peter, in the Fleet,
  Have been fast bound, a begging debtor;--
  He travelled here, he travelled there;--
  But not the value of a hair
  Was heart or head the better.                            240

  "He roved among the vales and streams,
  In the green wood and hollow dell;
  They were his dwellings night and day,--
  But nature ne'er could find the way
  Into the heart of Peter Bell.                            245

  "In vain, through every changeful year,
  Did Nature lead him as before;
  A primrose by a river's brim
  A yellow primrose was to him,
  And it was nothing more.                                 250

  "Small change it made in Peter's heart
  To see his gentle panniered train
  With more than vernal pleasure feeding,
  Where'er the tender grass was leading
  Its earliest green along the lane.                       255

  "In vain, through water, earth, and air,
  The soul of happy sound was spread,
  When Peter on some April morn,
  Beneath the broom or budding thorn,
  Made the warm earth his lazy bed.                        260

  "At noon, when, by the forest's edge
  He lay beneath the branches high,
  The soft blue sky did never melt
  Into his heart; he never felt
  The witchery of the soft blue sky!                       265

  "On a fair prospect some have looked
  And felt, as I have heard them say,
  As if the moving time had been
  A thing as steadfast as the scene
  On which they gazed themselves away.                     270

  "Within the breast of Peter Bell
  These silent raptures found no place; [24]
  He was a Carl as wild and rude
  As ever hue-and-cry pursued,
  As ever ran a felon's race.                              275

  "Of all that lead a lawless life,
  Of all that love their lawless lives,
  In city or in village small,
  He was the wildest far of all;--
  He had a dozen wedded wives.                             280

  "Nay, start not!--wedded wives--and twelve!
  But how one wife could e'er come near him,
  In simple truth I cannot tell;
  For, be it said of Peter Bell,
  To see him was to fear him.                              285

  "Though Nature could not touch his heart
  By lovely forms, and silent [25] weather,
  And tender sounds, yet you might see
  At once, that Peter Bell and she
  Had often been together.                                 290

  "A savage wildness round him hung
  As of a dweller out of doors;
  In his whole figure and his mien
  A savage character was seen
  Of mountains and of dreary moors.                        295

  "To all the unshaped half-human thoughts
  Which solitary Nature feeds
  'Mid summer storms or winter's ice,
  Had Peter joined whatever vice
  The cruel city breeds.                                   300

  "His face was keen as is the wind
  That cuts along the hawthorn-fence;
  Of courage you saw little there,
  But, in its stead, a medley air
  Of cunning and of impudence.                             305

  "He had a dark and sidelong walk,
  And long and slouching was his gait;
  Beneath his looks so bare and bold,
  You might perceive, his spirit cold
  Was playing with some inward bait.                       310

  "His forehead wrinkled was and furred;
  A work, one half of which was done
  By thinking of his '_whens_,' and '_hows_';
  And half, by knitting of his brows
  Beneath the glaring sun.                                 315

  "There was a hardness in his cheek,
  There was a hardness in his eye,
  As if the man had fixed his face,
  In many a solitary place,
  Against the wind and open sky!"                          320


         *       *       *       *       *


  One night, (and now my little Bess!
  We've reached at last the promised Tale;)
  One beautiful November night,
  When the full moon was shining bright
  Upon the rapid river Swale,                              325

  Along the river's winding banks
  Peter was travelling all alone;
  Whether to buy or sell, or led
  By pleasure running in his head,
  To me was never known.                                   330

  He trudged along through copse and brake,
  He trudged along o'er hill and dale;
  Nor for the moon cared he a tittle,
  And for the stars he cared as little,
  And for the murmuring river Swale.                       335

  But, chancing to espy a path
  That promised to cut short the way;
  As many a wiser man hath done,
  He left a trusty guide for one
  That might his steps betray.                             340

  To a thick wood he soon is brought
  Where cheerily [26] his course he weaves,
  And whistling loud may yet be heard,
  Though often buried, like a bird
  Darkling, among the boughs and leaves.                   345

  But quickly Peter's mood is changed,
  And on he drives with cheeks that burn
  In downright fury and in wrath;--
  There's little sign the treacherous path
  Will to the road return!                                 350

  The path grows dim, and dimmer still;
  Now up, now down, the Rover wends,
  With all the sail that he can carry,
  Till brought to a deserted quarry--[27]
  And there the pathway ends.                              355

  [28]

  He paused--for shadows of strange shape,
  Massy and black, before him lay;
  But through the dark, and through the cold, [29]
  And through the yawning fissures old,
  Did Peter boldly press his way                           360

  Right through the quarry;--and behold
  A scene of soft and lovely hue!
  Where blue and grey, and tender green,
  Together make [30] as sweet a scene
  As ever human eye did view.                              365

  Beneath the clear blue sky he saw
  A little field of meadow ground;
  But field or meadow name it not;
  Call it of earth a small green plot,
  With rocks encompassed round.                            370

  The Swale flowed under the grey rocks,
  But he flowed quiet and unseen;--
  You need a strong and stormy gale
  To bring the noises of the Swale
  To that green spot, so calm and green!                   375

  [31]

  And is there no one dwelling here,
  No hermit with his beads and glass?
  And does no little cottage look
  Upon this soft and fertile nook?
  Does no one live near this green grass?                  380

  Across the [32] deep and quiet spot
  Is Peter driving through the grass--
  And now has reached the skirting trees; [33]
  When, turning round his head, he sees
  A solitary Ass.                                          385

  [34]

  "A prize!" cries Peter--but he first
  Must spy about him far and near: [35]
  There's not a single house in sight,
  No woodman's hut, no cottage light--
  Peter, you need not fear!                                390

  There's nothing to be seen but woods,
  And rocks that spread a hoary gleam,
  And this one Beast, that from the bed
  Of the green meadow hangs his head
  Over the silent stream.                                  395

  His head is with a halter bound;
  The halter seizing, Peter leapt
  Upon the Creature's back, [36] and plied
  With ready heels his shaggy side; [37]
  But still the Ass his station kept.                      400

  [38]

  Then Peter gave a sudden jerk,
  A jerk that from a dungeon-floor
  Would have pulled up an iron ring;
  But still the heavy-headed Thing
  Stood just as he had stood before!                       405

  Quoth Peter, leaping from his seat,
  "There is some plot against me laid";
  Once more the little meadow-ground
  And all the hoary cliffs around
  He cautiously surveyed.                                  410

  All, all is silent--rocks and woods,
  All still and silent--far and near!
  Only the Ass, with motion dull,
  Upon the pivot of his skull
  Turns round his long left ear.                           415

  Thought Peter, What can mean all this?
  Some ugly witchcraft must be here!
--Once more the Ass, with motion dull,
  Upon the pivot of his skull
  Turned round his long left ear.                          420

  Suspicion ripened into dread;
  Yet with deliberate action slow,
  His staff high-raising, in the pride
  Of skill, upon the sounding hide, [39]
  He dealt a sturdy blow.                                  425

  The poor Ass staggered with the shock;
  And then, as if to take his ease, [40]
  In quiet uncomplaining mood,
  Upon the spot where he had stood,
  Dropped gently down upon his knees;                      430

  As gently on [41] his side he fell;
  And by the river's brink did lie;
  And, while [42] he lay like one that mourned,
  The patient Beast on Peter turned
  His shining hazel eye. [43]                              435

  'Twas but one mild, reproachful look,
  A look more tender than severe;
  And straight in sorrow, not in dread,
  He turned the eye-ball in his head
  Towards the smooth river [44] deep and clear.            440

  Upon the Beast the sapling rings;
  His lank sides heaved, [45] his limbs they stirred;
  He gave a groan, and then another,
  Of that which went before the brother,
  And then he gave a third.                                445

  All by the moonlight river side
  He gave three miserable groans;
  And not till now hath Peter seen
  How gaunt the Creature is,--how lean
  And sharp his staring bones! [46]                         450

  With legs stretched out and stiff he lay:--
  No word of kind commiseration
  Fell at the sight from Peter's tongue;
  With hard contempt his heart was wrung,
  With hatred and vexation.                                455

  The meagre beast lay still as death;
  And Peter's lips with fury quiver;
  Quoth he, "You little mulish dog,
  I'll fling your carcass like a log
  Head-foremost down the river!"                           460

  An impious oath confirmed the threat--
  Whereat from the earth on which he lay [47]
  To all the echoes, south and north,
  And east and west, the Ass sent forth
  A long and clamorous bray! [48]                          465

  This outcry, on the heart of Peter,
  Seems like a note of joy to strike,--
  Joy at [49] the heart of Peter knocks;
  But in the echo of the rocks
  Was something Peter did not like.                        470

  Whether to cheer his coward breast,
  Or that he could not break the chain,
  In this serene and solemn hour,
  Twined round him by demoniac power,
  To the blind work he turned again.                       475

  Among the rocks and winding crags;
  Among the mountains far away;
  Once more the Ass did lengthen out
  More ruefully a deep-drawn shout,
  The hard dry see-saw of his horrible bray! [50]          480

  What is there now in Peter's heart!
  Or whence the might of this strange sound?
  The moon uneasy looked and dimmer,
  The broad blue heavens appeared to glimmer,
  And the rocks staggered all around--485

  From Peter's hand the sapling dropped!
  Threat has he none to execute;
  "If any one should come and see
  That I am here, they'll think," quoth he,
  "I'm helping this poor dying brute."                     490

  He scans the Ass from limb to limb,
  And ventures now to uplift his eyes;
  More steady looks the moon, and clear,
  More like themselves the rocks appear
  And touch more quiet skies. [51]                         495

  His scorn returns--his hate revives;
  He stoops the Ass's neck to seize
  With malice--that again takes flight;
  For in the pool a startling sight
  Meets him, among the inverted trees. [52]                500

  Is it the moon's distorted face?
  The ghost-like image of a cloud?
  Is it a gallows [53] there portrayed?
  Is Peter of himself afraid?
  Is it a coffin,--or a shroud?                            505

  A grisly idol hewn in stone?
  Or imp from witch's lap let fall?
  Perhaps a ring of shining fairies?
  Such as pursue their feared vagaries [54]
  In sylvan bower, or haunted hall?                        510

  Is it a fiend that to a stake
  Of fire his desperate self is tethering?
  Or stubborn spirit doomed to yell
  In solitary ward or cell,
  Ten thousand miles from all his brethren?                515

  [55]

  Never did pulse so quickly throb,
  And never heart so loudly panted; [56]
  He looks, he cannot choose but look;
  Like some one reading in a book--[57]
  A book that is enchanted.                                520

  Ah, well-a-day for Peter Bell!
  He will be turned to iron soon,
  Meet Statue for the court of Fear!
  His hat is up--and every hair
  Bristles, and whitens in the moon!                       525

  He looks, he ponders, looks again;
  He sees a motion--hears a groan;
  His eyes will burst--his heart will break--
  He gives a loud and frightful shriek,
  And back he falls, [58] as if his life were flown!       530


PART SECOND

  We left our Hero in a trance,
  Beneath the alders, near the river;
  The Ass is by the river-side,
  And, where the feeble breezes glide,
  Upon the stream the moonbeams quiver.                    535

  A happy respite! but at length
  He feels the glimmering of the moon;
  Wakes with glazed eye, and feebly sighing--
  To sink, perhaps, where he is lying,
  Into a second swoon! [59]                                540

  He lifts his head, he sees his staff;
  He touches--'tis to him a treasure!
  Faint recollection seems to tell
  That he is yet where mortals dwell--
  A thought received with languid pleasure!                545

  His head upon his elbow propped,
  Becoming less and less perplexed,
  Sky-ward he looks--to rock and wood--
  And then--upon the glassy [60] flood
  His wandering eye is fixed.                              550

  Thought he, that is the face of one
  In his last sleep securely bound!
  So toward the stream his head he bent,
  And downward thrust his staff, intent
  The river's depth to sound. [61]                         555

  _Now_--like a tempest-shattered bark,
  That overwhelmed and prostrate lies,
  And in a moment to the verge
  Is lifted of a foaming surge--
  Full suddenly the Ass doth rise!                         560

  His staring bones all shake with joy,
  And close by Peter's side he stands:
  While Peter o'er the river bends,
  The little Ass his neck extends,
  And fondly licks his hands.                              565

  Such life is in the Ass's eyes,
  Such life is in his limbs and ears;
  That Peter Bell, if he had been
  The veriest coward ever seen,
  Must now have thrown aside his fears.                    570

  The Ass looks on--and to his work
  Is Peter quietly resigned;
  He touches here--he touches there--
  And now among the dead man's hair
  His sapling Peter has entwined.                          575

  He pulls--and looks--and pulls again;
  And he whom the poor Ass had lost,
  The man who had been four days dead,
  Head-foremost from the river's bed
  Uprises like a ghost! [G]                                580

  And Peter draws him to dry land;
  And through the brain of Peter pass
  Some poignant twitches, fast and faster;
  "No doubt," quoth he, "he is the Master
  Of this poor miserable Ass!"                             585

  The meagre shadow that looks on--
  What would he now? [62] what is he doing?
  His sudden fit of joy is flown,--
  He on his knees hath laid him down,
  As if he were his grief renewing;                        590

  But no--that Peter on his back
  Must mount, he shows well as he can: [63]
  Thought Peter then, come weal or woe
  I'll do what he would have me do,
  In pity to this poor drowned man.                        595

  With that resolve he boldly mounts [64]
  Upon the pleased and thankful Ass;
  And then, without a moment's stay,
  That [65] earnest Creature turned away,
  Leaving the body on the grass.                           600

  Intent upon his faithful watch,
  The Beast four days and nights had past;
  A sweeter meadow ne'er was seen,
  And there the Ass four days had been,
  Nor ever once did break his fast:                        605

  Yet firm his step, and stout his heart;
  The mead is crossed--the quarry's mouth
  Is reached; but there the trusty guide
  Into a thicket turns aside,
  And deftly ambles [66] towards the south.                610

  When hark a burst of doleful sound!
  And Peter honestly might say,
  The like came never to his ears,
  Though he has been, full thirty years,
  A rover--night and day!                                  615

  'Tis not a plover of the moors,
  'Tis not a bittern of the fen;
  Nor can it be a barking fox,
  Nor night-bird chambered in the rocks,
  Nor wild-cat in a woody glen!                            620

  The Ass is startled--and stops short
  Right in the middle of the thicket;
  And Peter, wont to whistle loud
  Whether alone or in a crowd,
  Is silent as a silent cricket.                           625

  What ails you now, my little Bess?
  Well may you tremble and look grave!
  This cry--that rings along the wood,
  This cry--that floats adown the flood,
  Comes from the entrance of a cave:                       630

  I see a blooming Wood-boy there,
  And if I had the power to say
  How sorrowful the wanderer is,
  Your heart would be as sad as his
  Till you had kissed his tears away!                      635

  Grasping [67] a hawthorn branch in hand,
  All bright with berries ripe and red,
  Into the cavern's mouth he peeps;
  Thence back into the moonlight creeps;
  Whom seeks he--whom?--the silent dead: [68]              640

  His father!--Him doth he require--
  Him hath he sought [69] with fruitless pains,
  Among the rocks, behind the trees;
  Now creeping on his hands and knees,
  Now running o'er the open plains.                        645

  And hither is he come at last,
  When he through such a day has gone,
  By this dark cave to be distrest
  Like a poor bird--her plundered nest
  Hovering around with dolorous moan!                      650

  Of that intense and piercing cry
  The listening Ass conjectures well; [70]
  Wild as it is, he there can read
  Some intermingled notes that plead
  With touches irresistible.                               655

  But Peter--when he saw the Ass
  Not only stop but turn, and change
  The cherished tenor of his pace
  That lamentable cry [71] to chase--
  It wrought in him conviction strange;                    660

  A faith that, for the dead man's sake
  And this poor slave who loved him well,
  Vengeance upon his head will fall,
  Some visitation worse than all
  Which ever till this night befel.                        665

  Meanwhile the Ass to reach his home, [72]
  Is striving stoutly as he may;
  But, while he climbs the woody hill,
  The cry grows weak--and weaker still;
  And now at last it dies away.                            670

  So with his freight the Creature turns
  Into a gloomy grove of beech,
  Along the shade with footsteps [73] true
  Descending slowly, till the two
  The open moonlight reach.                                675

  And there, along the [74] narrow dell,
  A fair smooth pathway you discern,
  A length of green and open road--
  As if it from a fountain flowed--
  Winding away between the fern.                           680

  The rocks that tower on either side
  Build up a wild fantastic scene;
  Temples like those among the Hindoos,
  And mosques, and spires, and abbey-windows,
  And castles all with ivy green!                          685

  And, while the Ass pursues his way,
  Along this solitary dell,
  As pensively his steps advance,
  The mosques and spires change countenance,
  And look at Peter Bell!                                  690

  That unintelligible cry
  Hath left him high in preparation,--
  Convinced that he, or soon or late,
  This very night will meet his fate--
  And so he sits in expectation!                           695

  [75]

  The strenuous Animal hath clomb
  With the green path; and now he wends
  Where, shining like the smoothest sea,
  In undisturbed immensity
  A [76] level plain extends.                              700

  But whence this faintly-rustling sound
  By which the journeying pair are chased?
--A withered leaf is close behind, [77]
  Light plaything for the sportive wind
  Upon that solitary waste.                                705

  When Peter spied the moving thing,
  It only doubled his distress; [78]
  "Where there is not a bush or tree,
  The very leaves they follow me--
  So huge hath been my wickedness!"                        710

  To a close lane they now are come,
  Where, as before, the enduring Ass
  Moves on without a moment's stop,
  Nor once turns round his head to crop
  A bramble-leaf or blade of grass.                        715

  Between the hedges as they go,
  The white dust sleeps upon the lane;
  And Peter, ever and anon
  Back-looking, sees, upon a stone,
  Or in the dust, a crimson stain.                         720

  A stain--as of a drop of blood
  By moonlight made more faint and wan;
  Ha! why these sinkings of despair? [79]
  He knows not how the blood comes there--
  And Peter is a wicked man.                               725

  At length he spies a bleeding wound,
  Where he had struck the Ass's head; [80]
  He sees the blood, knows what it is,--
  A glimpse of sudden joy was his,
  But then it quickly fled;                                730

  Of him whom sudden death had seized
  He thought,--of thee, O faithful Ass!
  And once again those ghastly pains,
  Shoot to and fro through heart and reins,
  And through his brain like lightning pass. [81]          735


PART THIRD

  I've heard of one, a gentle Soul,
  Though given to sadness and to gloom,
  And for the fact will vouch,--one night
  It chanced that by a taper's light
  This man was reading in his room;                        740

  Bending, as you or I might bend
  At night o'er any pious book, [82]
  When sudden blackness overspread
  The snow white page on which he read,
  And made the good man round him look.                    745

  The chamber walls were dark all round,--
  And to his book he turned again;
--The light had left the lonely taper, [83]
  And formed itself upon the paper
  Into large letters--bright and plain!                    750

  The godly book was in his hand--
  And, on the page, more black than coal,
  Appeared, set forth in strange array,
  A _word_--which to his dying day
  Perplexed the good man's gentle soul.                    755

  The ghostly word, thus plainly seen, [84]
  Did never from his lips depart;
  But he hath said, poor gentle wight!
  It brought full many a sin to light
  Out of the bottom of his heart.                          760

  Dread Spirits! to confound the meek [85]
  Why wander from your course so far,
  Disordering colour, form, and stature!
--Let good men feel the soul of nature,
  And see things as they are.                              765

  Yet, potent Spirits! well I know,
  How ye, that play with soul and sense,
  Are not unused to trouble friends
  Of goodness, for most gracious ends--[86]
  And this I speak in reverence!                           770

  But might I give advice to you,
  Whom in my fear I love so well;
  From men of pensive virtue go,
  Dread Beings! and your empire show
  On hearts like that of Peter Bell.                       775

  Your presence often have I [87] felt
  In darkness and the stormy night;
  And, with like force, [88] if need there be,
  Ye can put forth your agency
  When earth is calm, and heaven is bright.                780

  Then, coming from the wayward world,
  That powerful world in which ye dwell,
  Come, Spirits of the Mind! and try,
  To-night, beneath the moonlight sky,
  What may be done with Peter Bell!                        785

--O, would that some more skilful voice
  My further labour might prevent!
  Kind Listeners, that around me sit,
  I feel that I am all unfit
  For such high argument.                                  790

  I've played, I've danced, [89] with my narration;
  I loitered long ere I began:
  Ye waited then on my good pleasure;
  Pour out indulgence still, in measure
  As liberal as ye can!                                    795

  Our Travellers, ye remember well,
  Are thridding a sequestered lane;
  And Peter many tricks is trying,
  And many anodynes applying,
  To ease his conscience of its pain.                      800

  By this his heart is lighter far;
  And, finding that he can account
  So snugly [90] for that crimson stain,
  His evil spirit up again
  Does like an empty bucket mount.                         805

  And Peter is a deep logician
  Who hath no lack of wit mercurial;
  "Blood drops--leaves rustle--yet," quoth he,
  "This poor man never, but for me,
  Could have had Christian burial.                         810

  "And, say the best you can, 'tis plain,
  That here has [91] been some wicked dealing;
  No doubt the devil in me wrought;
  I'm not the man who could have thought
  An Ass like this was worth the stealing!"                815

  So from his pocket Peter takes
  His shining horn tobacco-box;
  And, in a light and careless way,
  As men who with their purpose play,
  Upon the lid he knocks.                                  820

  Let them whose voice can stop the clouds,
  Whose cunning eye can see the wind,
  Tell to a curious world the cause
  Why, making here a sudden pause,
  The Ass turned round his head, and _grinned_.            825

  Appalling process! I have marked
  The like on heath, in lonely wood;
  And, verily, have seldom met
  A spectacle more hideous--yet
  It suited Peter's present mood.                          830

  And, grinning in his turn, his teeth
  He in jocose defiance showed--
  When, to upset [92] his spiteful mirth,
  A murmur, pent within the earth,
  In the dead earth beneath the road,                      835

  Rolled audibly! it swept along,
  A muffled noise--a rumbling sound!--
  'Twas by a troop of miners made,
  Plying with gunpowder their trade,
  Some twenty fathoms underground.                         840

  Small cause of dire effect! for, surely,
  If ever mortal, King or Cotter,
  Believed that earth was charged to quake
  And yawn for his unworthy sake,
  'Twas Peter Bell the Potter.                             845

  But, as an oak in breathless air
  Will stand though to the centre hewn;
  Or as the weakest things, if frost
  Have stiffened them, maintain their post;
  So he, beneath the gazing moon!--850

  The Beast bestriding thus, he reached
  A spot where, in a sheltering cove, [93]
  A little chapel stands alone,
  With greenest ivy overgrown,
  And tufted with an ivy grove;                            855

  Dying insensibly away
  From human thoughts and purposes,
  It seemed--wall, window, roof and tower [94]--
  To bow to some transforming power,
  And blend with the surrounding trees.                    860

  As ruinous a place it was,
  Thought Peter, in the shire of Fife
  That served my turn, when following still
  From land to land a reckless will [95]
  I married my sixth wife!                                 865

  The unheeding Ass moves slowly on,
  And now is passing by an inn
  Brim-full of a carousing crew,
  That make, [96] with curses not a few,
  An uproar and a drunken din.                             870

  I cannot well express the thoughts
  Which Peter in those noises found;--
  A stifling power compressed his frame,
  While-as a swimming darkness came [97]
  Over that dull and dreary sound.                         875

  For well did Peter know the sound;
  The language of those drunken joys
  To him, a jovial soul, I ween,
  But a few hours ago, had been
  A gladsome and a welcome noise.                          880

  _Now_, [98] turned adrift into the past,
  He finds no solace in his course;
  Like planet-stricken men of yore,
  He trembles, smitten to the core
  By strong compunction and remorse.                       885

  But, more than all, his heart is stung
  To think of one, almost a child;
  A sweet and playful Highland girl,
  As light and beauteous as a squirrel,
  As beauteous and as wild!                                890

  Her dwelling was a lonely house, [99]
  A cottage in a heathy dell;
  And she put on her gown of green,
  And left her mother at sixteen,
  And followed Peter Bell.                                 895

  But many good and pious thoughts
  Had she; and, in the kirk to pray,
  Two long Scotch miles, through rain or snow,
  To kirk she had been used to go,
  Twice every Sabbath-day.                                 900

  And, when she followed Peter Bell,
  It was to lead an honest life;
  For he, with tongue not used to falter,
  Had pledged his troth before the altar
  To love her as his wedded wife.                          905

  A mother's hope is hers;--but soon
  She drooped and pined like one forlorn;
  From Scripture she a name [100] did borrow;
  Benoni, or the child of sorrow,
  She called her babe unborn.                              910

  For she had learned how Peter lived,
  And took it in most grievous part;
  She to the very bone was worn,
  And, ere that little child was born,
  Died of a broken heart.                                  915

  And now the Spirits of the Mind
  Are busy with poor Peter Bell;
  Upon the rights of visual sense
  Usurping, with a prevalence
  More terrible than magic spell. [101]                    920

  Close by a brake of flowering furze
  (Above it shivering aspens play)
  He sees an unsubstantial creature,
  His very self in form and feature,
  Not four yards from the broad highway:                   925

  And stretched beneath the furze he sees
  The Highland girl--it is no other;
  And hears her crying as she cried,
  The very moment that she died,
  "My mother! oh my mother!"                               930

  The sweat pours down from Peter's face,
  So grievous is his heart's contrition;
  With agony his eye-balls ache
  While he beholds by the furze-brake
  This miserable vision!                                   935

  Calm is the well-deserving brute,
  _His_ peace hath no offence betrayed;
  But now, while down that <DW72> he wends,
  A voice to Peter's ear [102] ascends,
  Resounding from the woody glade:                         940

  The voice, though clamorous as a horn
  Re-echoed by a naked rock,
  Comes from that tabernacle--List! [103]
  Within, a fervent [104] Methodist
  Is preaching to no heedless flock!                       945

  "Repent! repent!" he cries aloud,
  "While yet ye may find mercy;--strive
  To love the Lord with all your might;
  Turn to him, seek him day and night,
  And save your souls alive!                               950

  "Repent! repent! though ye have gone,
  Through paths of wickedness and woe,
  After the Babylonian harlot;
  And, though your sins be red as scarlet,
  They shall be white as snow!"                            955

  Even as he passed the door, these words
  Did plainly come to Peter's ears;
  And they such joyful tidings were,
  The joy was more than he could bear!--
  He melted into tears.                                    960

  Sweet tears of hope and tenderness!
  And fast they fell, a plenteous shower!
  His nerves, his sinews seemed to melt;
  Through all his iron frame was felt
  A gentle, a relaxing, power!                             965

  Each fibre of his frame was weak;
  Weak all the animal within;
  But, in its helplessness, grew mild
  And gentle as an infant child,
  An infant that has known no sin.                         970

  'Tis said, meek Beast! that, through Heaven's grace,[105] [H]
  He not unmoved did notice now
  The cross [I] upon thy shoulder scored,
  For lasting impress, by the Lord [106]
  To whom all human-kind shall bow;                        975

  Memorial of his touch--that day [107]
  When Jesus humbly deigned to ride,
  Entering the proud Jerusalem,
  By an immeasurable stream [J]
  Of shouting people deified!                              980

  Meanwhile the persevering Ass,
  Turned towards a gate that hung in view
  Across a shady lane; [108] his chest
  Against the yielding gate he pressed
  And quietly passed through.                              985

  And up the stony lane he goes;
  No ghost more softly ever trod;
  Among the stones and pebbles, he
  Sets down his hoofs inaudibly,
  As if with felt his hoofs were shod.                     990

  Along the lane the trusty Ass
  Went twice two hundred yards or more,
  And no one could have guessed his aim,--
  Till to a lonely house he came,
  And stopped beside the door. [109]                       995

  Thought Peter, 'tis the poor man's home!
  He listens--not a sound is heard
  Save from the trickling household rill;
  But, stepping o'er the cottage-sill,
  Forthwith a little Girl appeared.                       1000

  She to the Meeting-house was bound
  In hopes [110] some tidings there to gather:
  No glimpse it is, no doubtful gleam;
  She saw--and uttered with a scream,
  "My father! here's my father!"                          1005

  The very word was plainly heard,
  Heard plainly by the wretched Mother--
  Her joy was like a deep affright:
  And forth she rushed into the light,
  And saw it was another!                                 1010

  And, instantly, upon the earth,
  Beneath the full moon shining bright,
  Close to [111] the Ass's feet she fell;
  At the same moment Peter Bell
  Dismounts in most unhappy plight.                       1015

  As he beheld the Woman lie [112]
  Breathless and motionless, the mind
  Of Peter sadly was confused;
  But, though to such demands unused,
  And helpless almost as the blind,                       1020

  He raised her up; and, while he held
  Her body propped against his knee,
  The Woman waked--and when she spied
  The poor Ass standing by her side,
  She moaned most bitterly.                               1025

  "Oh! God be praised--my heart's at ease--
  For he is dead--I know it well!"
--At this she wept a bitter flood;
  And, in the best way that he could,
  His tale did Peter tell.                                1030

  He trembles--he is pale as death;
  His voice is weak with perturbation;
  He turns aside his head, he pauses;
  Poor Peter from a thousand causes,
  Is crippled sore in his narration.                      1035

  At length she learned how he espied
  The Ass in that small meadow-ground;
  And that her Husband now lay dead,
  Beside that luckless river's bed
  In which he had been drowned.                           1040

  A piercing look the Widow [113] cast
  Upon the Beast that near her stands;
  She sees 'tis he, that 'tis the same;
  She calls the poor Ass by his name,
  And wrings, and wrings her hands.                       1045

  "O wretched loss--untimely stroke!
  If he had died upon his bed!
  He knew not one forewarning pain;
  He never will come home again--
  Is dead, for ever dead!"                                1050

  Beside the Woman Peter stands;
  His heart is opening more and more;
  A holy sense pervades his mind;
  He feels what he for human-kind
  Had never felt before.                                  1055

  At length, by Peter's arm sustained,
  The Woman rises from the ground--
  "Oh, mercy! something must be done,
  My little Rachel, you must run,--
  Some willing neighbour must be found.                   1060

  "Make haste--my little Rachel--do,
  The first you meet with--bid him come,
  Ask him to lend his horse to-night,
  And this good Man, whom Heaven requite,
  Will help to bring the body home."                      1065

  Away goes Rachel weeping loud;--
  An Infant, waked by her distress,
  Makes in the house a piteous cry;
  And Peter hears the Mother sigh,
  "Seven are they, and all fatherless!"                   1070

  And now is Peter taught to feel
  That man's heart is a holy thing;
  And Nature, through a world of death,
  Breathes into him a second breath,
  More searching than the breath of spring.               1075

  Upon a stone the Woman sits
  In agony of silent grief--
  From his own thoughts did Peter start;
  He longs to press her to his heart,
  From love that cannot find relief.                      1080

  But roused, as if through every limb
  Had past a sudden shock of dread,
  The Mother o'er the threshold flies,
  And up the cottage stairs [114] she hies,
  And on the pillow lays [115] her burning head.          1085

  And Peter turns his steps aside
  Into a shade of darksome trees,
  Where he sits down, he knows not how,
  With his hands pressed against his brow,
  His elbows on [116] his tremulous knees.                1090

  There, self-involved, does Peter sit
  Until no sign of life he makes,
  As if his mind were sinking deep
  Through years that have been long asleep!
  The trance is passed away--he wakes;                    1095

  He lifts [117] his head--and sees the Ass
  Yet standing in the clear moonshine;
  "When shall I be as good as thou?
  Oh! would, poor beast, that I had now
  A heart but half as good as thine!"                     1100

  But _He_--who deviously hath sought
  His Father through the lonesome woods,
  Hath sought, proclaiming to the ear
  Of night his grief and sorrowful fear--[118]
  He comes, escaped from fields and floods;--1105

  With weary pace is drawing nigh;
  He sees the Ass--and nothing living
  Had ever such a fit of joy
  As hath [119] this little orphan Boy,
  For he has no misgiving!                                1110

  Forth to [120] the gentle Ass he springs,
  And up about his neck he climbs;
  In loving words he talks to him,
  He kisses, kisses face and limb,--
  He kisses him a thousand times!                         1115

  This Peter sees, while in the shade
  He stood beside the cottage-door;
  And Peter Bell, the ruffian wild,
  Sobs loud, he sobs even like a child,
  "Oh! God, I can endure no more!"                        1120

--Here ends my Tale: for in a trice
  Arrived a neighbour with his horse;
  Peter went forth with him straightway;
  And, with due care, ere break of day,
  Together they brought back the Corse.                   1125

  And many years did this poor Ass,
  Whom once it was my luck to see
  Cropping the shrubs of Leming-Lane,
  Help by his labour to maintain
  The Widow and her family.                               1130

  And Peter Bell, who, till that night,
  Had been the wildest of his clan,
  Forsook his crimes, renounced [121] his folly,
  And, after ten months' melancholy,
  Became a good and honest man. [K]                       1135



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1: 1827.

  And something               1819.]



[Variant 2:

1849.

  Whose shape is like         1819.

  For shape just like         1845.]


[Variant 3:

1845.

  The noise of danger fills     1819.]


[Variant 4:

1827.

  Meanwhile I from the helm admire      1819.

              ... I soberly admire       C.]


[Variant 5:

1827.

  Or deep into the heavens     1819.
  Or into massy clouds         1820.]


[Variant 6:

1820.

  ... between ...         1819.]


[Variant 7:

1827.

  ... are ill-built,
  But proud let him be who has seen them;      1819.]


[Variant 8:

1827.

  ... between ...      1819.]


[Variant 9:

1827.

  That darling speck ...      1819.]


[Variant 10:

1836.

  And there it is, ...      1819.]


[Variant 11:

1827

  ... heartless ... 1819.]


[Variant 12:

In the editions of 1819 and 1820 only.

  Out--out--and, like a brooding hen,
  Beside your sooty hearth-stone cower;
  Go, creep along the dirt, and pick
  Your way with your good walking-stick,
  Just three good miles an hour!]


[Variant 13:

1827.

  ... the land ...      1819.]


[Variant 14:

1845.

  My radiant Pinnace, you forget       1819.]


[Variant 15:

1827.

  For I myself, in very truth,       1819.]


[Variant 16:

1845.

  Off flew my sparkling Boat in scorn,
  Yea in a trance of indignation!           1819.

  Spurning her freight with indignation!    1820.]


[Variant 17:

1845.

  ... to my stone-table
  Limp'd on with some vexation.    1819.

  ... tow'rd my stone-table        1827.]


[Variant 18:

1827.

  ... promptly ...    1819.]


[Variant 19:

1827.

  Breath fail'd me as I spake--but soon
  With lips, no doubt, and visage pale,
  And sore too from a slight contusion,
  Did I, to cover my confusion,
  Begin the _promised_ Tale.               1819.]


[Variant 20:

1820.

  All by the moonlight river side
  It gave three miserable groans;
  "'Tis come then to a pretty pass,"
  Said Peter to the groaning Ass,
  "But I will _bang_ your bones!"    1819.]


[Variant 21:

In the two editions of 1819 only.

  "Good Sir!"--the Vicar's voice exclaim'd,
  "You rush at once into the middle;"
  And little Bess, with accent sweeter,
  Cried, "O dear Sir! but who is Peter?"
  Said Stephen,--"'Tis a downright riddle!"]


[Variant 22:

1836.

  The Squire said, "Sure as paradise
  Was lost to man by Adam's sinning,
  This leap is for us all too bold;              1819.

  Like winds that lash the waves, or smite
  The woods, the autumnal foliage thinning--
  "Hold!" said the Squire, "I pray you, hold!    1820.

  The woods, autumnal foliage thinning--1827.]


[Variant 23:

1845.

  ... its ponderous knell,
  Its far-renowned alarum!    1819.

  ... his ponderous knell,
  A far-renowned alarum!    1836.

  ... that ponderous knell--
  His far-renowned alarum!    1840.]


[Variant 24:

1820.

  With Peter Bell, I need not tell
  That this had never been the case;--1819.]


[Variant 25:

1819.

  ... placid ...    1820.

The text of 1827 returns to that of 1819.]


[Variant 26:

1836.
  ... cheerfully ...    1819.]


[Variant 27:

1827.

  Till he is brought to an old quarry,    1819.]


[Variant 28: In the two editions of 1819 only.

  "What! would'st thou daunt me grisly den?
  Back must I, having come so far?
  Stretch as thou wilt thy gloomy jaws,
  I'll on, nor would I give two straws
  For lantern or for star!"]


[Variant 29:

1820.

  And so, where on the huge rough stones
  The black and massy shadows lay,
  And through the dark, ...    1819.]


[Variant 30:

1827.

  ... made ...    1819.]


[Variant 31: In the two editions of 1819 only.

  Now you'll suppose that Peter Bell
  Felt small temptation here to tarry,
  And so it was,--but I must add,
  His heart was not a little glad
  When he was out of the old quarry.]


[Variant 32:

1827.

  Across that ...    1819.]


[Variant 33:

1836.

  And now he is among the trees;    1819.]


[Variant 34:

  "No doubt I'm founder'd in these woods--
  For once," quoth he, "I will be wise,
  With better speed I'll back again--
  And, lest the journey should prove vain,
  Will take yon Ass, my lawful prize!"

  Off Peter hied,--"A comely beast!
  Though not so plump as he might be;
  My honest friend, with such a platter,
  You should have been a little fatter,
  But come, Sir, come with me!"    1819.

(The first of these stanzas was omitted in 1827 and afterwards;
the second was withdrawn in 1820.)]


[Variant 35:

1836.

  But first doth Peter deem it fit
  To spy about him far and near;    1819.

  "A prize," cried Peter, stepping back
  To spy ...    1827.]


[Variant 36:

1827.

  ... Ass's back, ...    1819.]


[Variant 37:

1836.

  With ready heel the creature's side;    1819.

  With ready heel his shaggy side;    1827.]


[Variant 38: In the editions of 1819 to 1832 only.

  "What's this!" cried Peter, brandishing
  A new-peel'd sapling white as cream;
  The Ass knew well what Peter said,
  But, as before, hung down his head
  Over the silent stream.    1819.

  A new-peeled sapling;--though, I deem,
  The Ass knew well what Peter said,
  He, as before, ...    1820.

    ...--though I deem,
  This threat was understood full well,
  Firm, as before, the Sentinel
  Stood by the silent stream.    1827.]


[Variant 39:

1827.

  "I'll cure you of these desperate tricks"--
  And, with deliberate action slow,
  His staff high-raising, in the pride
  Of skill, upon the Ass's hide    C. and 1819.]


[Variant 40:

1836.

What followed?--yielding to the shock
The Ass, as if ...    1819.]


[Variant 41:

1836.

  And then upon ...    1819.]


[Variant 42:

1840.

  ... as ...    1819.]


[Variant 43:

1819.

  The Beast on his tormentor turned
  A shining hazel eye.    1827.

  His shining ...    1832.

The edition of 1836 returns to the text of 1819.]


[Variant 44:

1836.

  Towards the river ...    1819.]


[Variant 45:

1832.

  Heav'd his lank sides, ...    1819.]


[Variant 46: 1836. In the two editions of 1819 this stanza formed two
stanzas, thus:

  All by the moonlight river side
  He gave three miserable groans,
  "'Tis come then to a pretty pass,"
  Said Peter to the groaning ass,
  "But I will _bang_ your bones!"

  And Peter halts to gather breath,
  And now full clearly was it shown
  (What he before in part had seen)
  How gaunt was the poor Ass and lean,
  Yea wasted to a skeleton!    1819.

In the editions of 1820-1832, only the second of these stanzas is
retained, with the following change of text in 1827:

  And, while he halts, was clearly shown
  (What he before in part had seen)
  How gaunt the Creature was, and lean,    1827.

In the final text of 1836 the two stanzas of 1819 are compressed into
one (ll. 446-50).]


[Variant 47:

1836.

  But, while upon the ground he lay,    1819.

  That instant, while outstretched he lay,    1827.]


[Variant 48:

1836.

  A loud and piteous bray!    1819.]


[Variant 49:

1820.

  Joy on ...    1819.]


[Variant 50:

1836.

  ... an endless shout,
  The long dry see-saw ...    1819.]


[Variant 51:

1836.

  And Peter now uplifts his eyes;
  Steady the moon doth look and clear,
  And like themselves the rocks appear,
  And tranquil are the skies,     1819.

  And quiet are the skies.    1820.]


[Variant 52:

1836.

  Whereat, in resolute mood, once more
  He stoops the Ass's neck to seize--
  Foul purpose, quickly put to flight!
  For in the pool a startling sight
  Meets him, beneath the shadowy trees.    1819.]


[Variant 53:

1819.

  ... the gallows ...    1832.

The text of 1836 returns to that of 1819.]


[Variant 54:

1836.

  Or a gay ring of shining fairies,
  Such as pursue their brisk vagaries    1819.]


[Variant 55: In the two editions of 1819 only.

  Is it a party in a parlour?
  Cramm'd just as they on earth were cramm'd--
  Some sipping punch, some sipping tea,
  But, as you by their faces see,
  All silent and all damn'd! [a]]


[Variant 56:

1827.

  A throbbing pulse the Gazer hath--
  Puzzled he was, and now is daunted;    1819.]


[Variant 57:

1836.

  Like one intent upon a book--1819.]


[Variant 58:

1836.

  And drops, a senseless weight, ...    1819.]


[Variant 59:

1827.

  A happy respite!--but he wakes;--
  And feels the glimmering of the moon--
  And to stretch forth his hands is trying;--
  Sure, when he knows where he is lying,
  He'll sink into a second swoon.    1819.]


[Variant 60:

1827.

  ... placid ...    1819.]


[Variant 61:

1827.

  So, faltering not in _this_ intent,
  He makes his staff an instrument
  The river's depth to sound--1819.

  So toward the stream his head he bent,
  And downward thrust his staff, intent
  To reach the Man who there lay drowned.--1820.]


[Variant 62:

1836.

  The meagre Shadow all this while--
  What aim is his? ...    1819.]


[Variant 63:

1836.

  That Peter on his back should mount
  He shows a wish, well as he can,
  "I'll go, I'll go, whate'er betide--
  He to his home my way will guide,
  The cottage of the drowned man."      1819.]

  But no--his purpose and his wish
  The Suppliant shews, well as he can;
  Thought Peter whatsoe'er betide
  I'll go, and he my way will guide
  To the cottage of the drowned man.    1820.]


[Variant 64:

1836.

  This utter'd, Peter mounts forthwith    1819.

  This hoping,                            1820.

  Encouraged by this hope, he mounts      1827.

  This hoping, Peter boldly mounts        1832.]


[Variant 65:

1827.

  The    1819.]


[Variant 66:

1836.

  And takes his way ...    1819.]


[Variant 67:

1840.

  Holding ...    1819.]


[Variant 68:

1840 and c.

  What seeks the boy?--the silent dead!    1819.

  Seeking for whom?--...                  1836.]


[Variant 69:

1836.

  Whom he hath sought ...    1819.]


[Variant 70:

1820.

  ... doth rightly spell;    1819.]


[Variant 71:

1836.

  ... noise ...    1819.]


[Variant 72:

1820.

  ... to gain his end    1819.]


[Variant 73:

1845.

  ... footstep ...    1819.]


[Variant 74:

1836.

  ... along a ...    1819.]


[Variant 75: In the editions of 1819 and 1820 the following stanza
occurs:

  The verdant pathway, in and out,
  Winds upwards like a straggling chain;
  And, when two toilsome miles are past,
  Up through the rocks it leads at last
  Into a high and open plain.]


[Variant 76:

1827.

  The ...    1819.]


[Variant 77:

1836.

  How blank!--but whence this rustling sound
  Which, all too long, the pair hath chased!
--A dancing leaf is close behind,         1819.

  But whence that faintly-rustling sound    1820.

  But whence this faintly rustling sound
  By which the pair have long been chased?    c.]


[Variant 78:

1836.

  When Peter spies the withered leaf,
  It yields no cure to his distress--1819.]


[Variant 79:

1836.

  Ha! why this comfortless despair?    1819.]


[Variant 80:

1819.

  ... the Creature's head;    1827.

The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.]


[Variant 81:

1836.

  ... those darting pains,
  As meteors shoot through heaven's wide plains,
  Pass through his bosom--and repass!            1819.]


[Variant 82:

1827.

  Reading, as you or I might read
  At night in any pious book,     1819.]


[Variant 83:

1836.

  ... the good man's taper, 1819.]


[Variant 84:

1836.

  The ghostly word, which thus was fram'd,     1819.

  ... full plainly seen,                       1827.]


[Variant 85:

1836.

  ... to torment the good    1819.]


[Variant 86:

1836.

  I know you, potent Spirits! well,
  How with the feeling and the sense
  Playing, ye govern foes or friends.
  Yok'd to your will, for fearful ends--1819.]


[Variant 87:

1836.

  ... I have often ...    1819.]


[Variant 88:

1836.

  And well I know ...    1819.]


[Variant 89:

1836.

  ... and danc'd ...    1819.]


[Variant 90:

1836.

  ... clearly ...    1819.]


[Variant 91:

1836.

  ... hath ...    1819.]


[Variant 92:

1836.

  ... to confound ...    1819.]


[Variant 93:

1836.

  But now the pair have reach'd a spot
  Where, shelter'd by a rocky cove,    1819.

  Meanwhile the pair                   1820.]


[Variant 94:

1836.

  The building seems, wall, roof, and tower,    1819.]


[Variant 95:

1836.

  Deep sighing as he pass'd along,
  Quoth Peter, "In the shire of Fife,
  'Mid such a ruin, following still
  From land to land a lawless will,    1819.]


[Variant 96:

1827.

  Making, ...      1819.]


[Variant 97:

1836.

  As if confusing darkness came        1819.

  And a confusing                      1832.

  While clouds of swimming darkness came
  Over his eyesight with the sound.       C.]


[Variant 98: _Italics_ were first used in the edition of 1820.]


[Variant 99:

1836.

  A lonely house her dwelling was,    1819.]


[Variant 100:

1819.

  ... her name ...    1820.

The edition of 1827 returns to the text of 1819.]


[Variant 101:

1820.

  Distraction reigns in soul and sense,
  And reason drops in impotence
  From her deserted pinnacle!    1819.]


[Variant 102:

1820.

  ... ears ...    1819.]


[Variant 103:

1836.

  Though clamorous as a hunter's horn
  Re-echoed from a naked rock,
  'Tis from that tabernacle--List!    1819.

  The voice, though clamorous as a horn
  Re-echoed by a naked rock,
  Is from ....                        1832.]


[Variant 104:

1819.

  ... pious ... c.]


[Variant 105:

1836.

  'Tis said, that through prevailing grace    1819.]


[Variant 106:

1836.

  ... shoulders scored
  Meek beast! in memory of the Lord    1819.

  Faithful memorial of the Lord        c.]


[Variant 107:

1836.

  In memory of that solemn day    1819.]


[Variant 108:

1836.

  Towards a gate in open view
  Turns up a narrow lane; ...    1819.]


[Variant 109:

1836.

  Had gone two hundred yards, not more;
  When to a lonely house he came;
  He turn'd aside towards the same
  And stopp'd before the door.       1819.]


[Variant 110:

1836.

  In hope ...       1819.]


[Variant 111:

1827.

  Close at ...       1819.]


[Variant 112:

1832.

  What could he do?--The Woman lay       1819.]


[Variant 113:

1836.

  ... the sufferer ...       1819.]


[Variant 114:

1819.

  ... stair ...       1820.

The edition of 1827 returns to the text of 1819.]


[Variant 115:

1836.

  And to the pillow gives ...       1819.]


[Variant 116:

1827.

  And resting on ...       1819.]


[Variant 117:

1827.

  He turns ...       1819.]


[Variant 118:

1836.

  ... his inward grief and fear--1819.

  ... his sorrow and his fear--C.]


[Variant 119:

1827.

  ... had ...    1819.]


[Variant 120:

1836.

  Towards ...    1819.]


[Variant 121:

1832.

  ... repressed ...      1819.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The title in the two editions of 1819 was 'Peter Bell: A
Tale in Verse.'--Ed.]


[Footnote B: In Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal the following
occurs, under date April 20, 1798: "The moon crescent. 'Peter Bell'
begun."--Ed.]


[Footnote C: 'Romeo and Juliet', act II. scene ii. l. 44. This motto
first appeared on the half-title of 'Peter Bell', second edition, 1819,
under the advertisement of 'Benjamin the Waggoner', its first line being
"What's a Name?" When 'The Waggoner' appeared, a few days afterwards,
the motto stood on its title-page. In the collective edition of the
Poems (1820), it disappeared; but reappeared, in its final position, in
the edition of 1827.--Ed.]


[Footnote D: 'Julius Caesar', act I. scene ii. l. 147.--Ed.]


[Footnote E: Compare 'The Prelude', book iv. l. 47:

  'the sunny seat
  Round the stone table under the dark pine.'

Ed.]


[Footnote F: In the dialect of the North, a hawker of earthen-ware is
thus designated.--W. W. 1819 (second edition).]


[Footnote G: Compare 'The Prelude', book v. l. 448:

  'At last, the dead man, 'mid that beauteous scene
  Of trees and hills and water, bolt upright
  Rose, with his ghastly face, a spectre shape
  Of terror.'

Ed.]


[Footnote H: This and the next stanza were omitted from the edition of
1827, but restored in 1832.--Ed.]


[Footnote I: The notion is very general, that the Cross on the back and
shoulders of this Animal has the origin here alluded to.--W. W. 1819.]


[Footnote J: I cannot suffer this line to pass, without noticing that it
was suggested by Mr. Haydon's noble Picture of Christ's Entry into
Jerusalem.--W. W. 1820. Into the same picture Haydon "introduced
Wordsworth bowing in reverence and awe." See the essay on "The Portraits
of Wordsworth" in a later volume, and the portrait itself, which will be
reproduced in the volume containing the 'Life' of the poet.--Ed.]


[Footnote K: The first and second editions of 'Peter Bell' (1819)
contained, as frontispiece, an engraving by J.C. Bromley, after a
picture by Sir George Beaumont. In 1807, Wordsworth wrote to Sir George:

  "I am quite delighted to hear of your picture for 'Peter Bell' ....
  But remember that no poem of mine will ever be popular, and I am
  afraid that the sale of 'Peter' would not carry the expense of
  engraving .... The people would love the poem of 'Peter Bell', but the
  _public_ (a very different thing) will never love it."

Some days before Wordsworth's 'Peter Bell' was issued in 1819, another
'Peter Bell' was published by Messrs. Taylor and Hessey. It was a parody
written by J. Hamilton Reynolds, and issued as 'Peter Bell, a Lyrical
Ballad', with the sentence on its title page, "I do affirm that I am the
_real_ Simon Pure." The preface, which follows, is too paltry to quote;
and the stanzas which make up the poem contain allusions to the more
trivial of the early "Lyrical Ballads" (Betty Foy, Harry Gill, etc.).
Wordsworth's 'Peter Bell' was published about a week later; and Shelley
afterwards published his 'Peter Bell the Third'. Charles Lamb wrote to
Wordsworth, in May 1819:

  "Dear Wordsworth--I received a copy of 'Peter Bell' a week ago, and I
  hope the author will not be offended if I say I do not much relish it.
  The humour, if it is meant for humour, is forced; and then the
  price!--sixpence would have been dear for it. Mind, I do not mean
  _your_ 'Peter Bell', but _a Peter Bell_, which preceded it about a
  week, and is in every bookseller's shop window in London, the type and
  paper nothing differing from the true one, the preface signed W. W.,
  and the supplementary preface quoting, as the author's words, an
  extract from the supplementary preface to the 'Lyrical Ballads.' Is
  there no law against these rascals? I would have this Lambert Simnel
  whipt at the cart's tail." ('The Letters of Charles Lamb', edited by
  A. Ainger, vol. ii. p. 20.)

Barron Field wrote on the title-page of his copy of the edition of
'Peter Bell', 1819,

  "And his carcase was cast in the way, and the ass stood by it."

  1 Kings xiii. 24.--Ed.]



       *       *       *       *       *


SUB-FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT


[Sub-Footnote a: This stanza, which was deleted from every edition of
'Peter Bell' after the two of 1819, was prefixed by Shelley to his poem
of 'Peter Bell the Third', and many of his contemporaries thought that
it was an invention of Shelley's. See the note which follows this poem,
p. 50. Crabb Robinson wrote in his 'Diary', June 6, 1812:

  "Mrs. Basil Montagu told me she had no doubt she had suggested this
  image to Wordsworth by relating to him an anecdote. A person, walking
  in a friend's garden, looking in at a window, saw a company of ladies
  at a table near the window, with countenances _fixed_. In an instant
  he was aware of their condition, and broke the window. He saved them
  from incipient suffocation."

Wordsworth subsequently said that he had omitted the stanza only in
deference to the "unco guid." Crabb Robinson remonstrated with him
against its exclusion.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





LINES,[A] COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE
BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR, JULY 13, 1798 [B]


Composed July 1798.--Published 1798


[July 1798. No poem of mine was composed under circumstances more
pleasant for me to remember than this. I began it upon leaving Tintern,
after crossing the Wye, and concluded it just as I was entering Bristol
in the evening, after a ramble of four or five days, with my sister. Not
a line of it was altered, and not any part of it written down till I
reached Bristol. It was published almost immediately after in the little
volume of which so much has been said in these Notes, the "Lyrical
Ballads," as first published at Bristol by Cottle.--I.F.]


Included among the "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed.



  Five years have past; five summers, with the length
  Of five long winters![C] and again I hear
  These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
  With a soft [1] inland murmur. [D]--Once again
  Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,                      5
  That [2] on a wild secluded scene impress
  Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
  The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
  The day is come when I again repose
  Here, under this dark sycamore, and view                      10
  These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
  Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
  Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
  'Mid groves and copses. [3] Once again I see
  These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines             15
  Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,
  Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
  Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! [E]
  With some uncertain notice, as might seem
  Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,                   20
  Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire
  The Hermit sits alone.
      These beauteous forms,
  Through a long absence, have not been to me [4]
  As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:                       25
  But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
  Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
  In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
  Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
  And passing even into my purer mind, [5]                      30
  With tranquil restoration:--feelings too
  Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
  As have no slight or trivial influence [6]
  On that best portion of a good man's life,
  His little, nameless, unremembered, acts                      35
  Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
  To them I may have owed another gift,
  Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
  In which the burthen of the mystery,
  In which the heavy and the weary weight                       40
  Of all this unintelligible world,
  Is lightened:--that serene and blessed mood,
  In which the affections gently lead us on,--
  Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
  And even the motion of our human blood                        45
  Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
  In body, and become a living soul:
  While with an eye made quiet by the power
  Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
  We see into the life of things.                               50
      If this
  Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft--
  In darkness and amid the many shapes
  Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
  Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,                     55
  Have hung upon the beatings of my heart--
  How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
  O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods, [7]
  How often has my spirit turned to thee!
      And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,        60
  With many recognitions dim and faint,
  And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
  The picture of the mind revives again:
  While here I stand, not only with the sense
  Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts               65
  That in this moment there is life and food
  For future years. And so I dare to hope,
  Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first
  I came among these hills; when like a roe
  I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides                    70
  Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
  Wherever nature led: more like a man
  Flying from something that he dreads, than one
  Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
  (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,                     75
  And their glad animal movements all gone by)
  To me was all in all.--I cannot paint
  What then I was. The sounding cataract
  Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
  The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,                   80
  Their colours and their forms, were then to me
  An appetite; a feeling and a love,
  That had no need of a remoter charm,
  By thought supplied, nor [8] any interest
  Unborrowed from the eye.--That time is past,                  85
  And all its aching joys are now no more,
  And all its dizzy raptures. [F] Not for this
  Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts
  Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,
  Abundant recompence. For I have learned                       90
  To look on nature, not as in the hour
  Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
  The still, sad music of humanity,
  Nor [9] harsh nor grating, though of ample power
  To chasten and subdue. And I have felt                        95
  A presence that disturbs me with the joy
  Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
  Of something far more deeply interfused,
  Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
  And the round ocean and the living air,                      100
  And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:
  A motion and a spirit, that impels
  All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
  And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
  A lover of the meadows and the woods,                        105
  And mountains; and of all that we behold
  From this green earth; of all the mighty world
  Of eye, and ear,--both what they half create, [G]
  And what perceive; well pleased to recognise
  In nature and the language of the sense,                     110
  The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
  The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
  Of all my moral being.
      Nor perchance,
  If I were not thus taught, should I the more                 115
  Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
  For thou art with me here upon the banks
  Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,
  My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch
  The language of my former heart, and read                    120
  My former pleasures in the shooting lights
  Of thy wild eyes, [H] Oh! yet a little while
  May I behold in thee what I was once,
  My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,
  Knowing that Nature never did betray                         125
  The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
  Through all the years of this our life, to lead
  From joy to joy: for she can so inform
  The mind that is within us, so impress
  With quietness and beauty, and so feed                       130
  With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
  Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
  Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
  The dreary intercourse of daily life,
  Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb                    135
  Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
  Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
  Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
  And let the misty mountain-winds be free
  To blow against thee: and, in after years,                   140
  When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
  Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind
  Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
  Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
  For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,                145
  If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
  Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
  Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
  And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance--
  If I should be where I no more can hear                      150
  Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
  Of past existence [B]--wilt thou then forget
  That on the banks of this delightful stream
  We stood together; and that I, so long
  A worshipper of Nature, hither came                          155
  Unwearied in that service: rather say
  With warmer love--oh! with far deeper zeal
  Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
  That after many wanderings, many years
  Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,              160
  And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
  More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

  ... sweet ...    1798.]


[Variant 2:

1827.

  Which ...    1798.]


[Variant 3:

1845.

  ... with their unripe fruits,
  Among the woods and copses lose themselves,
  Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb
  The wild green landscape ...                   1798.

  Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
  Among the woods and copses, nor disturb        1802.]


[Variant 4:

1827.

  ... Though absent long,
  These forms of beauty have not been to me,    1798.]


[Variant 5:

1798.

  ... inmost mind,    MS.]


[Variant 6:

1820.

  As may have had no trivial influence     1798.]


[Variant 7:

1798.

  ... wood,     1798 (some copies).]


[Variant 8:

1836.

  ... or ...    1798.]


[Variant 9:

1800.

  Not ...    1798.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: I have not ventured to call this Poem an Ode; but it was
written with a hope that in the transitions, and the impassioned music
of the versification would be found the principal requisites of that
species of composition.--W. W. 1800.]


[Footnote B: The title in 1798 was 'Lines, written a few miles', etc. In
1815 it assumed its final form.--Ed.]


[Footnote C: Compare the Fenwick note to the poem 'Guilt and Sorrow'
(vol. i. p.78) This visit, five years before, was on his way from "Sarum
plain," on foot and alone--after parting with his friend William
Calvert--to visit another friend, Robert Jones, in Wales.--Ed.]


[Footnote D: The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above
Tintern.--W. W. 1798.]


[Footnote E: In the edition of 1798, an additional line is here
introduced, but it is deleted in the 'errata'. It is

  'And the low copses--coming from the trees.'

Ed.]


[Footnote F: Compare 'The Prelude', book xi. l. 108:

  'Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,
  But to be young was very Heaven.'

Ed.]


[Footnote G: This line has a close resemblance to an admirable line of
Young, the exact expression of which I cannot recollect.--W. W. 1798.

It is the line:

  'And half-create the wondrous world they see.'

'Night Thoughts', (Night vi. l. 427).--Ed.]


[Footnote H: Compare, in _The Recluse_, canto "Home at Grasmere," l. 91:

  Her voice was like a hidden Bird that sang,
  The thought of her was like a flash of light,
  Or an _unseen_ companionship.

Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





THERE WAS A BOY


Composed 1798.--Published 1800


[Written in Germany, 1799. This is an extract from the Poem on my own
poetical education. This practice of making an instrument of their own
fingers is known to most boys, though some are more skilful at it than
others. William Raincock of Rayrigg, a fine spirited lad, took the lead
of all my schoolfellows in this art.--I. F.]

This "extract" will be found in the fifth book of 'The Prelude', ll.
364-397. It was included among the "Poems of the Imagination." In the
editions of 1800 to 1832 it had no title, except in the table of
contents. In 1836, the finally adopted title of the poem was given in
the text, as well as in the table of contents.--Ed.



  There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs
  And islands of Winander!--many a time,
  At evening, when the earliest stars began [1]
  To move along the edges of the hills,
  Rising or setting, would he stand alone,                        5
  Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;
  And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands
  Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth
  Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,
  Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,                        10
  That they might answer him.--And they would shout
  Across the watery vale, and shout again,
  Responsive to his call,--with quivering peals,
  And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud
  Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild                        15
  Of jocund din! [2] And, when there came a pause
  Of silence such as baffled his best skill: [3]
  Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
  Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise
  Has carried far into his heart the voice                       20
  Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene
  Would enter unawares into his mind
  With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
  Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received
  Into the bosom of the steady lake.                             25

    This boy was taken from his mates, and died [4]
  In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. [5]
  Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale
  Where he was born and bred: the church-yard hangs [6]
  Upon a <DW72> above the village-school;                         30
  And, through that church-yard when my way has led
  On summer-evenings, I believe, that there [7]
  A long half-hour together I have stood
  Mute--looking at the grave in which he lies![A] [8]



Wordsworth sent this fragment in MS. to Coleridge, who was then living
at Ratzeburg, and Coleridge wrote in reply on the 10th Dec. 1798:

  "The blank lines gave me as much direct pleasure as was possible in
  the general bustle of pleasure with which I received and read your
  letter. I observed, I remember, that the 'fingers woven,' etc., only
  puzzled me; and though I liked the twelve or fourteen first lines very
  well, yet I liked the remainder much better. Well, now I have read
  them again, they are very beautiful, and leave an affecting
  impression. That

    'uncertain heaven received
    Into the bosom of the steady lake,'

  I should have recognised anywhere; and had I met these lines, running
  wild in the deserts of Arabia, I should have instantly screamed out
  'Wordsworth'!"

The MS. copy of this poem sent to Coleridge probably lacked
the explanatory line,

  'Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth,'

as another MS., in the possession of the poet's grandson, lacks it; and
the line was possibly added--as the late Mr. <DW18>s Campbell
suggested--"in deference to S. T. C.'s expression of puzzlement."

Fletcher Raincock--an elder brother of the William Raincock referred to
in the Fenwick note to this poem, as Wordsworth's schoolfellow at
Hawkshead--was with him also at Cambridge. He attended Pembroke College,
and was second wrangler in 1790. [B] John Fleming of Rayrigg, his
half-brother--the boy with whom Wordsworth used to walk round the lake
of Esthwaite, in the morning before school-time, ("five miles of
pleasant wandering")--was also at St. John's College, Cambridge, at this
time, and had been fifth Wrangler in the preceding year, 1789. He is
referred to both in the second and the fifth books of 'The Prelude'
(see notes to that poem). It is perhaps not unworthy of note that
Wrangham, whose French stanzas on "The Birth of Love" Wordsworth
translated into English, was in the same year--1789--third Wrangler,
second Smith's prizeman, and first Chancellor's medallist; while Robert
Greenwood, "the Minstrel of the Troop," who "blew his flute, alone upon
the rock" in Windermere,--also one of the characters referred to in the
second book of 'The Prelude',--was sixteenth Wrangler in
Wordsworth's year, viz. 1791. William Raincock was at St. John's
College, Cambridge.--Ed.



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1815.

  ... when the stars had just begun    1800.]


[Variant 2:

1836.

  ... a wild scene
  Of mirth and jocund din! ...    1800.

  ... concourse wild              1805.]


[Variant 3:

1836.

  ... And, when it chanced
  That pauses of deep silence mock'd his skill,    1800.

  ... and, when a lengthened pause
  Of silence came and baffled his best skill,
                                    'The Prelude', 1850.]


[Variant 4: This and the following line were added in 1805.]


[Variant 5:

1815.

  ... ere he was ten years old.    1805.]


[Variant 6:

1845.

  Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot,
  The vale where he was born: the Church-yard hangs    1800.

  Fair is the spot, most beautiful the Vale
  Where he was born: the grassy Church-yard hangs      1827.

The text of 1840 returns to that of 1800.]


[Variant 7:

1836.

  And there along that bank when I have pass'd
  At evening, I believe, that near his grave          1800.

  ... I believe, that oftentimes                      1805.

  And through that Church-yard when my way has led    1827.]


[Variant 8:

1815.

  A full half-hour together I have stood,
  Mute--for he died when he was ten years old.    1800.

  Mute--looking at the grave in which he lies.    1805.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: In 'The Prelude' the version of 1827 is adopted for the
most part.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: See 'Graduati Cantabrigienses' (1850), by Joseph Romily,
the Registrar to the University 1832-1862.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





THE TWO THIEVES; OR, THE LAST STAGE OF AVARICE


Composed 1798.--Published 1800


[This is described from the life, as I was in the habit of observing
when a boy at Hawkshead School. Daniel was more than eighty years older
than myself when he was daily, thus occupied, under my notice. No books
have so early taught me to think of the changes to which human life is
subject, and while looking at him I could not but say to myself--we may,
one of us, I or the happiest of my playmates, live to become still more
the object of pity, than this old man, this half-doating
pilferer.--I.F.]

Included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Old Age."--Ed.



  O now that the genius of Bewick [A] were mine,
  And the skill which he learned on the banks of the Tyne,
  Then the Muses might deal with me just as they chose,
  For I'd take my last leave both of verse and of prose. [1]

  What feats would I work with my magical hand!                     5
  Book-learning and books should be banished the land: [2]
  And, for hunger and thirst and such troublesome calls,
  Every ale-house should then have a feast on its walls.

  The traveller would hang his wet clothes on a chair;
  Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw. Would he care!        10
  For the Prodigal Son, Joseph's Dream and his sheaves,
  Oh, what would they be to my tale of two Thieves?

  The One, yet unbreeched, is not three birthdays old,[3]
  His Grandsire that age more than thirty times told;
  There are ninety good seasons of fair and foul weather           15
  Between them, and both go a-pilfering [4] together.

  With chips is the carpenter strewing his floor?
  Is a cart-load of turf [5] at an old woman's door?
  Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide!
  And his Grandson's as busy at work by his side.                  20

  Old Daniel begins; he stops short--and his eye,
  Through the lost look of dotage, is cunning and sly:
  'Tis a look which at this time is hardly his own,
  But tells a plain tale of the days that are flown.

  He once [6] had a heart which was moved by the wires             25
  Of manifold pleasures and many desires:
  And what if he cherished his purse? 'Twas no more
  Than treading a path trod by thousands before.

  'Twas a path trod by thousands; but Daniel is one
  Who went something farther than others have gone, [7]            30
  And now with old Daniel you see how it fares;
  You see to what end he has brought his grey hairs.

  The pair sally forth hand in hand: ere the sun
  Has peered o'er the beeches, their work is begun:
  And yet, into whatever sin they may fall,                        35
  This child but half knows it, and that not at all.

  They hunt through the streets [8] with deliberate tread,
  And each, in his turn, becomes leader or led; [9]
  And, wherever they carry their plots and their wiles,
  Every face in the village is dimpled with smiles.                40

  Neither checked by the rich nor the needy they roam;
  For the grey-headed Sire [10] has a daughter at home,
  Who will gladly repair all the damage that's done;
  And three, were it asked, would be rendered for one.

  Old Man! whom so oft I with pity have eyed,                      45
  I love thee, and love the sweet Boy at thy side:
  Long yet may'st thou live! for a teacher we see
  That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee. [B]



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1800.

  Oh! now that the boxwood and graver were mine,
  Of the Poet who lives on the banks of the Tyne,
  Who has plied his rude tools with more fortunate toil
  Than Reynolds e'er brought to his canvas and oil.
                                                       MS. 1798.]


[Variant 2:

1800.

  Then Books, and Book-learning, I'd ring out your knell,
  The Vicar should scarce know an A from an L.           MS. 1798.]


[Variant 3:

1820.

  Little Dan is unbreech'd, he is three birth-days old,    1800.]


[Variant 4:

1837.

  ... a-stealing ...    1800.]


[Variant 5:

1827.

  ... of peats ...    1800.]


[Variant 6:

1820.

  Dan once ...    1800.]


[Variant 7:

1800.

  'Twas a smooth pleasant pathway, a gentle descent,
  And leisurely down it, and down it, he went.       MS. 1798.]


[Variant 8:

1802.

  ... street ...       1800.]


[Variant 9:

1837.

  ... is both leader and led;       1800.]


[Variant 10:

1837.

  For grey-headed Dan ...        1800.

  The grey-headed Sire ...       1820.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Thomas Bewick, the wood engraver, born at Cherryburn, near
Newcastle-on-Tyne, in 1753, died 1828. He revived the art of wood
engraving in England. His illustrations--drawn for the 'General History
of British Quadrupeds' (1790), and for his own 'History of British
Birds' (1797 and 1804)--were unrivalled in their way.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: Charles Lamb, writing to Wordsworth in 1815, spoke of

  "that delicacy towards aberrations from the strict path, which is so
  fine in the 'Old Thief and the Boy by his side,' which always brings
  water into my eyes."

(See 'Letters of Charles Lamb', edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i. p.
287.)--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL UPON A STONE, THE LARGEST OF A HEAP LYING
NEAR A DESERTED QUARRY, UPON ONE OF THE ISLANDS [A] AT RYDAL


Composed 1798.--Published 1800


Included among the "Inscriptions."--Ed.




  Stranger! this hillock of mis-shapen stones
  Is not a Ruin spared or made by time, [1]
  Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn
  Of some old British Chief: 'tis nothing more
  Than the rude embryo of a little Dome                          5
  Or Pleasure-house, once destined to be built [2]
  Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle. [3]
  But, as it chanced, Sir William having learned
  That from the shore a full-grown man might wade,
  And make himself a freeman of this spot                       10
  At any hour he chose, the prudent Knight [4]
  Desisted, and the quarry and the mound
  Are monuments of his unfinished task.
  The block on which these lines are traced, perhaps,
  Was once selected as the corner-stone                         15
  Of that [5] intended Pile, which would have been
  Some quaint odd plaything of elaborate skill,
  So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush,
  And other little builders who dwell here,
  Had wondered at the work. But blame him not,                  20
  For old Sir William was a gentle Knight,
  Bred in this vale, to which he appertained [6]
  With all his ancestry. Then peace to him,
  And for the outrage which he had devised
  Entire forgiveness!--But if thou art one                      25
  On fire with thy impatience to become
  An inmate of these mountains,--if, disturbed
  By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn
  Out of the quiet rock the elements
  Of thy trim Mansion destined soon to blaze                    30
  In snow white splendour, [B] [7]--think again; and, taught
  By old Sir William and his quarry, leave
  Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose;
  There let the vernal slow warm sun himself,
  And let the redbreast hop from stone to stone.                35



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1837.

  Is not a ruin of the ancient time,      1800.

  ... antique ...       MS.]


[Variant 2:

1802.

  ... which was to have been built       1800.]


[Variant 3:

1800.

  Of some old British warrior: so, to speak
  The honest truth, 'tis neither more nor less
  Than the rude germ of what was to have been
  A pleasure-house, and built upon this isle.      MS.]


[Variant 4:

1837.

  ... the Knight forthwith       1800.]


[Variant 5:

1837.

  Of the ...    1800.]


[Variant 6:

1800.

  Bred here, and to this valley appertained    MS. 1798.]


[Variant 7:

1800.

  ... glory, ...    1802.

The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: In a MS. copy this is given as "the lesser Island."--Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare Wordsworth's

  "objections to white, as a colour, in large spots or masses in
  landscape,"

in his 'Guide through the district of the Lakes' (section third).--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





1799


The poems belonging to the year 1799 were chiefly, if not wholly,
composed at Goslar, in Germany; and all, with three exceptions, appeared
in the second edition of "Lyrical Ballads" (1800). The exceptions were
the following: The lyric beginning, "I travelled among unknown men,"
which was first published in the "Poems" of 1807; and two fragments from
'The Prelude', viz. 'The Influence of Natural Objects' (which appeared
in 'The Friend' in 1809), and 'The Simplon Pass' (first published in the
8vo edition of the Poems in 1845).

Wordsworth reached Goslar on the 6th of October 1798, and left it on the
10th of February 1799. It is impossible to determine the precise order
in which the nineteen or twenty poems associated with that city were
composed. But it is certain that the fragment on the immortal boy of
Windermere--whom its cliffs and islands knew so well--was written in
1798, and not in 1799 (as Wordsworth himself states); because Coleridge
sent a letter to his friend, thanking him for a MS. copy of these lines,
and commenting on them, of which the date is "Ratzeburg, Dec. 10, 1798."
For obvious reasons, however, I place the fragments originally meant to
be parts of 'The Recluse' together; and, since Wordsworth gave the date
1799 to the others, it would be gratuitous to suppose that he erred in
reference to them all, because we know that his memory failed him in
reference to one of the series. Therefore, although he spent more than
twice as many days in 1798 as in 1799 at Goslar, I set down this group
of poems as belonging to 1799, rather than to the previous year. It will
be seen that, after placing all the poems of this Goslar period in the
year to which they belong, it is possible also to group them according
to their subject matter, without violating chronological order. I
therefore put the fragments, afterwards incorporated in 'The Prelude',
together. These are naturally followed by 'Nutting'--a poem intended for
'The Prelude', but afterwards excluded, as inappropriate. The five poems
referring to "Lucy" are placed in sequence, and the same is done with
the four "Matthew" poems. A small group of four poems follows
appropriately, viz. 'To a Sexton', 'The Danish Boy', 'Lucy Gray', and
'Ruth'; while the Fenwick note almost necessitates our placing the
'Poet's Epitaph' immediately after the Lines 'Written in Germany'; and,
with Wordsworth's life at Goslar, we naturally associate five
things--the cold winter, 'The Prelude', the "Lucy" and the "Matthew"
poems, and the 'Poet's Epitaph'.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS IN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGTHENING THE
IMAGINATION IN BOYHOOD AND EARLY YOUTH

FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM

[This extract is reprinted from "THE FRIEND."[A]]

Composed 1799.--Published 1809

It was included by Wordsworth among the "Poems referring to the Period
of Childhood."--Ed.




  Wisdom and Spirit of the universe!
  Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought!
  And giv'st [1] to forms and images a breath
  And everlasting motion! not in vain,
  By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn              5
  Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me
  The passions that build up our human soul;
  Not [2] with the mean and vulgar works of Man:
  But with high objects, with enduring things,
  With life and nature: purifying thus                      10
  The elements of feeling and of thought,
  And sanctifying by such discipline
  Both pain and fear,--until we recognise
  A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.

    Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me                15
  With stinted kindness. In November days,
  When vapours rolling down the valleys [3] made
  A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods
  At noon; and 'mid the calm of summer nights,
  When, by the margin of the trembling lake,                20
  Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went [4]
  In solitude, such intercourse was mine:
  Mine was it in the fields [5] both day and night,
  And by the waters, all the summer long.
  And in the frosty season, when the sun                    25
  Was set, and, visible for many a mile,
  The cottage-windows through the twilight blazed, [6]
  I heeded not the summons: happy time
  It was indeed for all of us; for me [7]
  It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud                  30
  The village-clock tolled six--I wheeled about,
  Proud and exulting like an untired horse
  That cares not for his home. [8]--All shod with steel
  We hissed along the polished ice, in games
  Confederate, imitative of the chase                       35
  And woodland pleasures,--the resounding horn,
  The pack loud-chiming, [9] and the hunted hare.
  So through the darkness and the cold we flew,
  And not a voice was idle: with the din
  Smitten, [10] the precipices rang aloud;                  40
  The leafless trees and every icy crag
  Tinkled like iron; while far-distant hills [11]
  Into the tumult sent an alien sound
  Of melancholy, not unnoticed while the stars,
  Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west           45
  The orange sky of evening died away.

    Not seldom from the uproar I retired
  Into a silent bay, or sportively
  Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng,
  To cut across the reflex [12] of a star;                  50
  Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed
  Upon the glassy plain: and oftentimes, [13]
  When we had given our bodies to the wind,
  And all the shadowy banks on either side
  Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still        55
  The rapid line of motion, then at once
  Have I, reclining back upon my heels,
  Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs
  Wheeled by me--even as if the earth had rolled
  With visible motion her diurnal round!                    60
  Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
  Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched
  Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. [14]



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1809.

  That givest ...       'The Prelude', 1850.]


[Variant 2:

1815.

  Nor ...     1809.]


[Variant 3:

1809.

  ... valley ...    The Prelude', 1850.]


[Variant 4:

1836.

  ... I homeward went    1809.]


[Variant 5:

1845.

  'Twas mine among the fields ...    1809.]


[Variant 6:

1809.

  ... blazed through twilight gloom,    'The Prelude', 1850.]


[Variant 7:

1815.

  ... to me    1809.]


[Variant 8:

1827.

  ... car'd not for its home--...    1809.

  ... cares not ...                   1815.]


[Variant 9:

1840.

  ... loud bellowing ...    1809.]


[Variant 10:

1836.

  Meanwhile ...    1809.]


[Variant 11:

1845.

  ... while the distant hills    1809.]


[Variant 12:

1827.

  To cut across the image ...          1809.

  To cross the bright reflection ...   1820.]


[Variant 13:

1820.

  That gleam'd upon the ice; and oftentimes    1809.

(This line occupied the place of lines 51-52 of the final text.)

  That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed
  Upon the glassy plain; and oftentimes,    'The Prelude', 1850.]


[Variant 14:

1809.

  ... as a dreamless sleep.    'The Prelude', 1850.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The title of the fragment, as it appeared in 'The Friend',
No. 19, (Dec. 28, 1809,) was 'Growth of Genius from the Influences of
Natural Objects on the Imagination, in Boyhood and Early Youth'. It
first appeared in Wordsworth's Poems in the edition of 1815. It was
afterwards included in the first book of 'The Prelude', l. 401.

The lake referred to with its "silent bays" and "shadowy banks" is that
of Esthwaite; the village clock is that of Hawkshead (see the footnotes
to 'The Prelude'). The only physical accomplishment in which Wordsworth
thought he excelled was skating, an accomplishment in which his brother
poet and acquaintance, Klopstock, also excelled.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





THE SIMPLON PASS [A]


Composed 1799.--Published 1845


Included among the "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed.




--Brook and road
  Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass, [1]
  And with them did we journey several hours
  At a slow step. [2] The immeasurable height
  Of woods decaying, never to be decayed,                        5
  The stationary blasts of waterfalls,
  And in the narrow rent, at every turn,
  Winds thwarting winds bewildered and forlorn,
  The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky,
  The rocks that muttered close upon our ears,                  10
  Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside
  As if a voice were in them, the sick sight
  And giddy prospect of the raving stream,
  The unfettered clouds and region of the heavens,
  Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light--15
  Were all like workings of one mind, the features
  Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree,
  Characters of the great Apocalypse,
  The types and symbols of Eternity,
  Of first, and last, and midst, and without end.               20



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

  ... gloomy strait,    'The Prelude', 1850.]


[Variant 2:

1845.

  ... pace ...    'The Prelude', 1850.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: This is an extract from the sixth book of 'The Prelude', l.
621. It refers to Wordsworth's first experience of Switzerland, when he
crossed the Alps by the Simplon route, in 1790, in company with his
friend Robert Jones.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





NUTTING


Composed 1799.--Published 1800


[Written in Germany; intended as part of a poem on my own life, but
struck out as not being wanted there. Like most of my schoolfellows I
was an impassioned <DW42>. For this pleasure, the Vale of Esthwaite,
abounding in coppice wood, furnished a very wide range. These verses
arose out of the remembrance of feelings I had often had when a boy, and
particularly in the extensive woods that still stretch from the side of
Esthwaite Lake towards Graythwaite, the seat of the ancient family of
Sandys.--I.F.]

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



--It seems a day
  (I speak of one from many singled out)
  One of those heavenly days that [1] cannot die;
  When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, [2]
  I left our cottage-threshold, [A] sallying forth [3]                5
  With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, [4]
  A nutting-crook in hand; and turned [5] my steps
  Tow'rd some far-distant wood, [6] a Figure quaint,
  Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds
  Which for that service had been husbanded,                         10
  By exhortation of my frugal Dame--[7]
  Motley accoutrement, of power to smile
  At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,--and, in truth,
  More ragged than need was! O'er pathless rocks,
  Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets,                 15
  Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook [8]
  Unvisited, where not a broken bough
  Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign
  Of devastation; but the hazels rose
  Tall and erect, with tempting clusters [9] hung,                   20
  A virgin scene!--A little while I stood,
  Breathing with such suppression of the heart
  As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint
  Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed
  The banquet;--or beneath the trees I sate                          25
  Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played;
  A temper known to those, who, after long
  And weary expectation, have been blest
  With sudden happiness beyond all hope.
  Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves                        30
  The violets of five seasons re-appear
  And fade, unseen by any human eye;
  Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on
  For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam,
  And--with my cheek on one of those green stones                    35
  That, fleeced with moss, under [10] the shady trees,
  Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep--
  I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound,
  In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay
  Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure,                           40
  The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,
  Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,
  And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,
  And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash
  And merciless ravage: and the shady nook                           45
  Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower,
  Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up
  Their quiet being: and, unless I now
  Confound my present feelings with the past;
  Ere from the mutilated bower I turned [11]                         50
  Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,
  I felt a sense of pain when I beheld
  The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky.--[12]
  Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades
  In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand                           55
  Touch--for there is a spirit in the woods.



The woods round Esthwaite Lake have undergone considerable change since
Wordsworth's school-days at Hawkshead; but hazel coppice is still
abundant to the south and west of the Lake.--Ed.



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1836.

  ... which ...    1800.]


[Variant 2: This line was added in the edition of 1827.]


[Variant 3:

1827.

  When forth I sallied from our cottage-door,    1800.]


[Variant 4:

1832.

  And with a wallet o'er my shoulder slung,     1800.

  With a huge wallet o'er my shoulder slung,    1815.]


[Variant 5:

1815.

  ... I turn'd ...    1800.]


[Variant 6:

1836.

  Towards the distant woods, ...    1800.

  Toward ...                        1832.]


[Variant 7:

1815.

  ... of Beggar's weeds
  Put on for the occasion, by advice
  And exhortation ...                 1800.]


[Variant 8:

1836.

  ... Among the woods,
  And o'er the pathless rocks, I forc'd my way
  Until, at length, I came ...        1800.]


[Variant 9:

1845.

  ... milk-white clusters ...    1800.]


[Variant 10:

1845.

  ... beneath ...    1800.]


[Variant 11:

1836.

  Even then, when from the bower I turn'd away,    1800.]


[Variant 12:

1836.

  ... and the intruding sky.--1800.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The house at which I was boarded during the time I was at
School.--W. W. 1800.]





       *       *       *       *       *





WRITTEN IN GERMANY, ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY


Composed 1799.--Published 1800


I must apprize the Reader that the stoves in North Germany generally
have the impression of a galloping Horse upon them, this being part of
the Brunswick Arms.--W. W. 1800.

[A bitter winter it was when these verses were composed by the side of
my sister, in our lodgings at a draper's house, in the romantic imperial
town of Goslar, on the edge of the Hartz Forest. In this town the German
emperors of the Franconian Line were accustomed to keep their court, and
it retains vestiges of ancient splendour. So severe was the cold of this
winter, that when we passed out of the parlour warmed by the stove, our
cheeks were struck by the air as by cold iron. I slept in a room over a
passage that was not ceiled. The people of the house used to say rather
unfeelingly, that they expected I should be frozen to death some night;
but with the protection of a pelisse lined with fur, and a dog's skin
bonnet, such as was worn by the peasants, I walked daily on the
ramparts, or on a sort of public ground or garden, in which was a pond.
Here I had no companion but a kingfisher, a beautiful creature that used
to glance by me. I consequently became much attached to it. During these
walks I composed the poem that follows, _A Poet's Epitaph_.--I.F.]

One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection." Wordsworth originally
gave to this poem the title "The Fly," but erased it before
publication.--Ed.




  A plague on [1] your languages, German and Norse!
  Let me have the song of the kettle;
  And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse
  That gallops away with such fury and force
  On this [2] dreary dull plate of black metal.                       5
  [3]
  See that Fly, [4]--a disconsolate creature! perhaps
  A child of the field or the grove;
  And, sorrow for him! the [5] dull treacherous heat
  Has seduced the poor fool from his winter retreat,
  And he creeps to the edge of my stove.                             10

  Alas! how he fumbles about the domains
  Which this comfortless oven environ!
  He cannot find out in what track he must crawl,
  Now back to the tiles, then in search of the wall, [6]
  And now on the brink of the iron.                                  15

  Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemazed:
  The best of his skill he has tried;
  His feelers, methinks, I can see him put forth
  To the east and the west, to [7] the south and the north
  But he finds neither guide-post nor guide.                         20

  His spindles [8] sink under him, foot, leg, and thigh!
  His eyesight and hearing are lost;
  Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws;
  And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze
  Are glued to his sides by the frost.                               25

  No brother, no mate [9] has he near him--while I
  Can draw warmth from the cheek of my Love;
  As blest and as glad, in this desolate gloom,
  As if green summer grass were the floor of my room,
  And woodbines were hanging above.                                  30

  Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing!
  Thy life I would gladly sustain
  Till summer come [10] up from the south, and with crowds
  Of thy brethren a march thou should'st sound through the clouds.
  And back to the forests again!                                     35



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1820.

  A fig for ...    1800.]


[Variant 2:

1800.

  On his ...    1827.

The text of 1837 returns to that of 1800.]


[Variant 3:

  Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff,
  But her pulses beat slower and slower,
  The weather in Forty was cutting and rough,
  And then, as Heaven knows, the glass stood low enough,
  And _now_ it is four degrees lower.

This stanza occurs only in the editions of 1800 to 1815.]


[Variant 4:

1820.

  Here's a Fly, ...      1800.]


[Variant 5:

1827.

  ... this ...       1800.]


[Variant 6:

1837.

  ... and not back to the wall,       1800.]


[Variant 7:

1827.

  ... and the South ...      1800.]


[Variant 8:

1845.

  See! his spindles ...      1800.

  How his spindles ...       1827.]


[Variant 9:

1827.

  ... no Friend ...                            1800.

  No brother has he, no companion, while I       MS.]


[Variant 10:

1837.

  ... comes ...      1800.]





       *       *       *       *       *





A POET'S EPITAPH


Composed 1799.--Published 1800


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




  Art thou a Statist [1] in the van
  Of public conflicts [2] trained and bred?
--First learn to love one living man;
  _Then_ may'st thou think upon the dead.

  A Lawyer art thou?--draw not nigh!                         5
  Go, carry to some fitter place
  The keenness of that practised eye,
  The hardness of that sallow face. [3]

  Art thou a Man of purple cheer?
  A rosy Man, right plump to see?                           10
  Approach; yet, Doctor, [A] not too near,
  This grave no cushion is for thee.

  Or art thou one of gallant pride, [4]
  A Soldier and no man of chaff?
  Welcome!--but lay thy sword aside,                        15
  And lean upon a peasant's staff.

  Physician art thou?--one, all eyes,
  Philosopher!--a fingering slave,
  One that would peep and botanize
  Upon his mother's grave?                                  20

  Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece,
  O turn aside,--and take, I pray,
  That he below may rest in peace,
  Thy ever-dwindling soul, away! [5]

  A Moralist perchance appears;                             25
  Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod:
  And he has neither eyes nor ears;
  Himself his world, and his own God;

  One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling
  Nor form, nor feeling, great or [6] small;                30
  A reasoning, self-sufficing [7] thing,
  An intellectual All-in-all!

  Shut close the door; press down the latch;
  Sleep in thy intellectual crust;
  Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch                        35
  Near this unprofitable dust.

  But who is He, with modest looks,
  And clad in homely russet brown? [B]
  He murmurs near the running brooks
  A music sweeter than their own.                           40

  He is retired as noontide dew,
  Or fountain in a noon-day grove;
  And you must love him, ere to you
  He will seem worthy of your love.

  The outward shows of sky and earth,                       45
  Of hill and valley, he has viewed;
  And impulses of deeper birth
  Have come to him in solitude.

  In common things that round us lie
  Some random truths he can impart,--50
  The harvest of a quiet eye
  That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

  But he is weak; both Man and Boy,
  Hath been an idler in the land;
  Contented if he might enjoy                               55
  The things which others understand.

--Come hither in thy hour of strength;
  Come, weak as is a breaking wave!
  Here stretch thy body at full length;
  Or build thy house upon this grave.                       60




See the Fenwick note to the poem, 'Written in Germany, on one of the
coldest Days of the Century' (p. 73).

  "The 'Poet's Epitaph' is disfigured to my taste by the common satire
  upon parsons and lawyers in the beginning, and the coarse epithet of
  'pin-point', in the sixth stanza. All the rest is eminently good, and
  your own."

(Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth, January 1801.)--Ed.



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1837.

  ... Statesman, ...       1800.]


[Variant 2:

1837.

  Of public business ...       1800.]


[Variant 3:

1820.

  ... to some other place
  The hardness of thy coward eye,
  The falsehood of thy sallow face.       1800.]


[Variant 4:

1820.

  Art thou a man of gallant pride,      1800.]


[Variant 5:

1837.

  Thy pin-point of a soul away!           1800.

  That abject thing, thy soul, away!      1815.]


[Variant 6:

1837.

  ... nor ...      1800.]


[Variant 7:

1800.

  ... self-sufficient ...      1802.

The edition of 1815 returns to the text of 1800.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: D. D., not M. D. The physician is referred to in the fifth
stanza.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare Thomson's description of the Bard, in his 'Castle
of Indolence' (canto ii., stanza xxxiii.):

  He came, the bard, a little Druid wight,
  Of withered aspect; but his eye was keen,
  With sweetness mixed. In russet brown bedight,
  He crept along, etc.

Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





"STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE I KNOWN"


Composed 1799.--Published 1800


[Written in Germany, 1799.--I.F.]

One of the "Poems founded on the Affections." In MS. Wordsworth gave, as
the title, "A Reverie," but erased it.--Ed.



  Strange fits of passion have I known: [1]
  And I will dare to tell,
  But in the Lover's ear alone,
  What once to me befel.

  When she I loved looked every day                         5
  Fresh as a rose in June, [2]
  I to her cottage bent my way,
  Beneath an [3] evening moon.

  Upon the moon I fixed my eye,
  All over the wide lea;                                   10
  With quickening pace my horse drew nigh [4]
  Those paths so dear to me.

  And now we reached the orchard-plot;
  And, as we climbed the hill,
  The sinking moon to Lucy's cot                           15
  Came near, and nearer still. [5]

  In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
  Kind Nature's gentlest boon!
  And all the while my eyes I kept
  On the descending moon.                                  20

  My horse moved on; hoof after hoof
  He raised, and never stopped:
  When down behind the cottage roof,
  At once, the bright moon dropped. [6]

  What fond and wayward thoughts will slide                25
  Into a Lover's head!
  "O mercy!" to myself I cried,
  "If Lucy should be dead!"



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1832.

  ... I have known,      1800.]


[Variant 2:

1836.

  When she I lov'd, was strong and gay
  And like a rose in June,      1800.]


[Variant 3:

1836.

  ... the ...      1800.]


[Variant 4:

1836.

  My horse trudg'd on, and we drew nigh      1800.]


[Variant 5:

1836.

  Towards the roof of Lucy's cot
  The moon descended still. [a]       1800.]


[Variant 6:

1815.

  ... the planet dropp'd.       1800.]



       *       *       *       *       *


SUB-FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Sub-Footnote a: Compare the lines in Arthur Hugh Clough's poem, 'The
Stream of Life':

  And houses stand on either hand
  And thou descendest still.

Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





"SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS"


Composed 1799.--Published 1800


One of the "Poems founded on the Affections." In the edition of 1800 it
is entitled 'Song'.--Ed.




  She dwelt among the untrodden ways
  Beside the springs of Dove,
  A Maid whom there were none to praise
    And very few to love: [1]

  A violet by a mossy stone                         5
    Half hidden from the eye!
--Fair as a star, when only one
    Is shining in the sky.

  She lived [2] unknown, and few could know
    When Lucy ceased to be;                        10
  But she is in her grave, and, oh,
    The difference to me!



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1800.

  A very few ...      1802.

The text of the edition of 1805 returns to that of 1800.]


[Variant 2: The word "lived" was italicised in the edition of 1800
only.]





       *       *       *       *       *





"I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN"


Composed 1799.-Published 1807


One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed.




  I travelled among unknown men,
    In lands beyond the sea;
  Nor, England! did I know till then
    What love I bore to thee.

  'Tis past, that melancholy dream!                 5
    Nor will I quit thy shore
  A second time; for still I seem
    To love thee more and more.

  Among thy mountains did I feel
    The joy of my desire; [1]                      10
  And she I cherished turned her wheel
    Beside an English fire.

  Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed
    The bowers where Lucy played;
  And thine too is the last green field            15
    That Lucy's eyes surveyed. [2] [A]



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

  The gladness of desire;       MS.]


[Variant 2:

1836.

  And thine is, too, the last green field
  Which ...         1807.

  That ...          1815.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare Sara Coleridge's comment on this poem in the
'Biographia Literaria' (1847), vol. ii. chap. ix. p. 173. Also Mrs.
Oliphant's remarks in her 'Literary History of the Nineteenth Century',
vol. i. pp. 306-9.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





"THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN AND SHOWER"


Composed 1799.--Published 1800


[1799. Composed in the Hartz Forest.--I.F.]

One of the "Poems of the Imagination." It has no title in any edition,
but from 1820 to 1836 the second page occupied by the poem is headed
"Lucy." In the editions of 1836 to 1843 it is called "Lucy" in the list
of contents.--Ed.




  Three years she grew in sun and shower,
  Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower
  On earth was never sown;
  This Child I to myself will take;
  She shall be mine, and I will make                     5
  A Lady of my own.

  "Myself will to my darling be
  Both law and impulse: [1] and with me
  The Girl, in rock and plain,
  In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,              10
  Shall feel an overseeing power
  To kindle or restrain.

  "She shall be sportive as the fawn
  That wild with glee across the lawn
  Or up the mountain springs;                           15
  And her's shall be the breathing balm,
  And her's the silence and the calm
  Of mute insensate things.

  "The floating clouds their state shall lend
  To her; for her the willow bend;                      20
  Nor shall she fail to see
  Even in the motions of the Storm
  Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form [2]
  By silent sympathy.

  "The stars of midnight shall be dear                  25
  To her; and she shall lean her ear
  In many a secret place
  Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
  And beauty born of murmuring sound [A]
  Shall pass into her face.                             30

  "And vital feelings of delight
  Shall rear her form to stately height,
  Her virgin bosom swell;
  Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
  While she and I together live                         35
  Here in this happy dell."

  Thus Nature spake--The work was done--
  How soon my Lucy's race was run!
  She died, and left to me
  This heath, this calm, and quiet scene;               40
  The memory of what has been,
  And never more will be. [B]



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1800.

  Her Teacher I myself will be,
  She is my darling;--...

MS. 1801, and the edition of 1802.
The edition of 1805 returns to the text of 1800.]


[Variant 2:

1800.

A reading--printed in the edition of 1800, but replaced in its list of
'errata' by that given in the text--may be quoted here,

  A beauty that shall mould her form ...      1800.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare Dryden's 'Indian Emperor', iv. 3.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: On Oct 9, 1800, S. T. Coleridge, in writing to Sir Humphry
Davy of his own 'Christabel', said,

  "I would rather have written 'Ruth', and 'Nature's Lady,' than a
  million such poems."

This poem was printed in 'The Morning Post', March 2nd, 1801.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





"A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL"


Composed 1799.--Published 1800


[Written in Germany.--I.F.]

Included among the "Poems of the Imagination." [A]--Ed.




  A slumber did my spirit seal;
    I had no human fears:
  She seemed a thing that could not feel
    The touch of earthly years.

  No motion has she now, no force;                    5
    She neither hears nor sees;
  Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,
    With rocks, and stones, and trees. [B]



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: It was one of the "Lucy" Poems. In his instructions to the
printer in 1807, Wordsworth told him to insert "I travelled among
unknown men" after "A slumber did my spirit seal."--Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare Suckling's 'Fragmenta Aurea' (The Tragedy of
Brennoralt), p. 170, edition 1658.

  Heavens! shall this fresh ornament of the world,
  These precious love-lines, pass with other common things,
  Amongst the wastes of time? What pity 'twere.

Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





ADDRESS TO THE SCHOLARS OF THE VILLAGE SCHOOL OF--


Composed 1798 or 1799.--Published 1842


[Composed at Goslar, in Germany.--I.F.]

First published in "Poems, chiefly of Early and Late Years," and
included, in 1845, among the "Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces."--Ed.




  I come, ye little noisy Crew,
  Not long your pastime to prevent;
  I heard the blessing which to you
  Our common Friend and Father sent.
  I kissed his cheek before he died;                     5
  And when his breath was fled,
  I raised, while kneeling by his side,
  His hand:--it dropped like lead.
  Your hands, dear Little-ones, do all
  That can be done, will never fall                     10
  Like his till they are dead.
  By night or day blow foul or fair,
  Ne'er will the best of all your train
  Play with the locks of his white hair,
  Or stand between his knees again.                     15

    Here did he sit confined for hours;
  But he could see the woods and plains,
  Could hear the wind and mark the showers
  Come streaming down the streaming panes.
  Now stretched beneath his grass-green mound           20
  He rests a prisoner of the ground.
  He loved the breathing air,
  He loved the sun, but if it rise
  Or set, to him where now he lies,
  Brings not a moment's care.                           25

  Alas! what idle words; but take
  The Dirge which for our Master's sake
  And yours, love prompted me to make.
  The rhymes so homely in attire
  With learned ears may ill agree,                      30
  But chanted by your Orphan Quire
  Will make a touching melody.


  DIRGE

  Mourn, Shepherd, near thy old grey stone;
  Thou Angler, by the silent flood;
  And mourn when thou art all alone,                    35
  Thou Woodman, in the distant wood!

  Thou one blind Sailor, rich in joy
  Though blind, thy tunes in sadness hum;
  And mourn, thou poor half-witted Boy!
  Born deaf, and living deaf and dumb.                  40

  Thou drooping sick Man, bless the Guide
  Who checked or turned thy headstrong youth,
  As he before had sanctified
  Thy infancy with heavenly truth.

  Ye Striplings, light of heart and gay,                45
  Bold settlers on some foreign shore,
  Give, when your thoughts are turned this way,
  A sigh to him whom we deplore.

  For us who here in funeral strain
  With one accord our voices raise,                     50
  Let sorrow overcharged with pain
  Be lost in thankfulness and praise.

  And when our hearts shall feel a sting
  From ill we meet or good we miss,
  May touches of his memory bring                       55
  Fond healing, like a mother's kiss.


  BY THE SIDE OF THE GRAVE SOME YEARS AFTER

  Long time his pulse hath ceased to beat;
  But benefits, his gift, we trace--
  Expressed in every eye we meet
  Round this dear Vale, his native place.               60

  To stately Hall and Cottage rude
  Flowed from his life what still they hold,
  Light pleasures, every day, renewed;
  And blessings half a century old.

  Oh true of heart, of spirit gay,                      65
  Thy faults, where not already gone
  From memory, prolong their stay
  For charity's sweet sake alone.

  Such solace find we for our loss;
  And what beyond this thought we crave                 70
  Comes in the promise from the Cross,
  Shining upon thy happy grave.



To this poem, when first published in the "Poems of Early and Late
Years" (1842), Wordsworth appended the note, "See, upon the subject of
the three foregoing pieces, 'The Fountain' [p. 91], etc. etc. in the
fifth volume of the Author's Poems." He thus connects it with the poems
referring to Matthew in such a way that it may be said to belong to that
series; and, while he assigned it to the year 1798, both in the edition
of 1845, and in that of 1849-50, it is quite possible that it was
written in 1799. "The village school" was the Grammar School of
Hawkshead, where Wordsworth spent his boyhood; and the schoolmaster was
the Rev. William Taylor, M. A., Emmanuel College, Cambridge, who was the
third of the four masters who taught in it during Wordsworth's residence
there. He was master from 1782 to 1786. Just before his death he sent
for the upper boys of the school (amongst whom was Wordsworth), and
calling them into his room, took leave of them with a solemn blessing.
This farewell doubtless suggested the lines:

         'the blessing which to you
  Our common Friend and Father sent.'

Mr. Taylor was buried in Cartmell Churchyard. In 'The Prelude',
Wordsworth writes of him as "an honoured teacher of my youth;" and there
describes, with some minuteness, a visit to his grave. (See book x. l.
532.) It will be seen, however, from the Fenwick note to 'Matthew', that
the Hawkshead Schoolmaster, like the Wanderer in 'The Excursion', was
"made up of several both of his class and men of other occupations;" but
of the four masters who taught Wordsworth at Hawkshead--Peake,
Christian, Taylor, and Bowman--Taylor was far the ablest, the most
interesting, and the most beloved by the boys, and it was doubtless the
memory of this man that gave rise to the above poem, and the four which
follow it. He was but thirty-two years old when he died, 12th June,
1786. This fact, taken in connection with line 14 of the 'Address', may
illustrate the composite character of 'Matthew'.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





MATTHEW


Composed 1799.--Published 1800


In the School of--is a tablet on which are inscribed, in gilt letters,
the names of the several persons who have been Schoolmasters there since
the foundation of the School, with the time at which they entered upon
and quitted their office. Opposite one of those names the Author wrote
the following lines.--W. W. 1800.

[Such a tablet as is here spoken of continued to be preserved in
Hawkshead School, though the inscriptions were not brought down to our
time. This, and other poems connected with Matthew, would not gain by a
literal detail of facts. Like the Wanderer in 'The Excursion' this
Schoolmaster was made up of several, both of his class and men of other
occupations. I do not ask pardon for what there is of untruth in such
verses, considered strictly as matters of fact. It is enough, if, being
true and consistent in spirit, they move and teach in a manner not
unworthy of a Poet's calling.--I.F.] [A]

In the editions of 1800 to 1820 this poem had no title except the note
prefixed to it above, although in the Table of Contents it was called
'Lines written on a Tablet in a School'. From 1820-32 "Matthew" is the
page heading, though there is no title. In the editions of 1827 and 1832
it was named, in the Table of Contents, by its first line, "If Nature,
for a favourite child." In 1837 it was entitled 'Matthew'. It was
included among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection." The Tablet, with
the names of the Masters inscribed on it, still exists in Hawkshead
School.--Ed.




  If Nature, for a favourite child,
  In thee hath tempered so her clay,
  That every hour thy heart runs wild,
  Yet never once doth go astray,

  Read o'er these lines; and then review                  5
  This tablet, that thus humbly rears
  In such diversity of hue
  Its history of two hundred years.

--When through this little wreck of fame,
  Cipher and syllable! thine eye                         10
  Has travelled down to Matthew's name,
  Pause with no common sympathy.

  And; if a sleeping tear should wake,
  Then be it neither checked nor stayed:
  For Matthew a request I make                           15
  Which for himself he had not made.

  Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er,
  Is silent as a standing pool;
  Far from the chimney's merry roar,
  And murmur of the village school.                      20

  The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs
  Of one tired out with fun and madness;
  The tears which came to Matthew's eyes
  Were tears of light, the dew [1] of gladness.

  Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup                    25
  Of still and serious thought went round,
  It seemed as if he drank it up--
  He felt with spirit so profound.

--Thou soul of God's best earthly mould!
  Thou happy Soul! and can it be                         30
  That these two words of glittering gold
  Are all that must remain of thee? [2]



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1815.

  ... the oil ...      1800.]


[Variant 2:

1800.

  ... to thee?       1805, and MS.

The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: On the 27th March 1843, Wordsworth wrote to Professor Henry
Reed of Philadelphia:

  "The character of the schoolmaster, had like the Wanderer in 'The
  Excursion' a solid foundation in fact and reality, but like him it was
  also in some degree a composition: I will not, and need not, call it
  an invention--it was no such thing."

Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS


Composed 1799.--Published 1800


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




  We walked along, while bright and red
  Uprose the morning sun;
  And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said,
  "The will of God be done!"

  A village schoolmaster was he,                           5
  With hair of glittering grey;
  As blithe a man as you could see
  On a spring holiday.

  And on that morning, through the grass,
  And by the steaming rills,                              10
  We travelled merrily, to pass
  A day among the hills.

  "Our work," said I, "was well begun,
  Then, from thy breast what thought,
  Beneath so beautiful a sun,                             15
  So sad a sigh has brought?"

  A second time did Matthew stop;
  And fixing still his eye
  Upon the eastern mountain-top,
  To me he made reply:                                    20

  "Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
  Brings fresh into my mind
  A day like this which I have left
  Full thirty years behind.

  "And just above yon <DW72> of corn                       25
  Such colours, and no other,
  Were in the sky, that April morn,
  Of this the very brother. [1]

  "With rod and line I sued the sport
  Which that sweet season gave, [2]                       30
  And, to the church-yard come, [3] stopped short
  Beside my daughter's grave.

  "Nine summers had she scarcely seen,
  The pride of all the vale;
  And then she sang [4];--she would have been             35
  A very nightingale.

  "Six feet in earth my Emma lay;
  And yet I loved her more,
  For so it seemed, than till that day
  I e'er had loved before.                                40

  "And, turning from her grave, I met,
  Beside the church-yard yew,
  A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet
  With points of morning dew.

  "A basket on her head she bare;                         45
  Her brow was smooth and white:
  To see a child so very fair,
  It was a pure delight!

  "No fountain from its rocky cave
  E'er tripped with foot so free;                         50
  She seemed as happy as a wave
  That dances on the sea. [A]

  "There came from me a sigh of pain
  Which I could ill confine;
  I looked at her, and looked again:                      55
  And did not wish her mine!"

  Matthew is in his grave, yet now,
  Methinks, I see him stand,
  As at that moment, with a bough [5]
  Of wilding in his hand.                                 60



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1802.

  And on that <DW72> of springing corn
  The self-same crimson hue
  Fell from the sky that April morn,
  The same which now I view!          1800.]


[Variant 2:

1815.

  With rod and line my silent sport
  I plied by Derwent's wave,      1800.]


[Variant 3:

1837.

  And, coming to the church, ...      1800.]


[Variant 4:

1800.

  ... sung;--...      1802.

The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.]


[Variant 5:

1820.

  ... his bough       1800.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare the 'Winters Tale', act IV. scene iii. ll. 140-2:

        'when you do dance, I wish you
  A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do
  Nothing but that, etc.'

Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





THE FOUNTAIN

A CONVERSATION


Composed 1799.--Published 1800


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




  We talked with open heart, and tongue
  Affectionate and true,
  A pair of friends, though I was young,
  And Matthew seventy-two.

  We lay beneath a spreading oak,                        5
  Beside a mossy seat;
  And from the turf a fountain broke,
  And gurgled at our feet.

  "Now, Matthew!" said I, "let us match [1]
  This water's pleasant tune                            10
  With some old border-song, or catch
  That suits a summer's noon;

  "Or of the church-clock and the chimes
  Sing here beneath the shade,
  That half-mad thing of witty rhymes                   15
  Which you last April made!"

  In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
  The spring beneath the tree;
  And thus the dear old Man replied,
  The grey-haired man of glee:                          20

  "No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears; [2]
  How merrily it goes!
  'Twill murmur on a thousand years,
  And flow as now it flows.

  "And here, on this delightful day,                    25
  I cannot choose but think
  How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
  Beside this fountain's brink.

  "My eyes are dim with childish tears,
  My heart is idly stirred,                             30
  For the same sound is in my ears
  Which in those days I heard.

  "Thus fares it still in our decay:
  And yet the wiser mind
  Mourns less for what age takes away                   35
  Than what it leaves behind. [A]

  "The blackbird amid leafy trees,
  The lark above the hill, [3]
  Let loose their carols when they please,
  Are quiet when they will.                             40

  "With Nature never do _they_ wage
  A foolish strife; they see
  A happy youth, and their old age
  Is beautiful and free:

  "But we are pressed by heavy laws;                    45
  And often, glad no more,
  We wear a face of joy, because
  We have been glad of yore.

  "If there be [4] one who need bemoan
  His kindred laid in earth,                            50
  The household hearts that were his own;
  It is the man of mirth.

  "My days, my Friend, are almost gone,
  My life has been approved,
  And many love me; but by none                         55
  Am I enough beloved."

  "Now both himself and me he wrongs,
  The man who thus complains!
  I live and sing my idle songs
  Upon these happy plains;                              60

  "And, Matthew, for thy children dead
  I'll be a son to thee!"
  At this he grasped my hand, [5] and said,
  "Alas! that cannot be."

  We rose up from the fountain-side;                    65
  And down the smooth descent
  Of the green sheep-track did we glide;
  And through the wood we went;

  And, ere we came to Leonard's rock,
  He sang those witty rhymes                            70
  About the crazy old church-clock,
  And the bewildered chimes.



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1820.

  Now, Matthew, let us try to match       1800.]


[Variant 2:

1837.

  Down to the vale this water steers,      1800.

  Down to the vale with eager speed
  Behold this streamlet run,
  From subterranean bondage freed,
  And glittering in the sun.               C.

  From subterranean darkness freed,
  A pleasant course to run.                C.

  Down to the vale this streamlet hies,
  Look, how it seems to run,
  As if 't were pleased with summer skies,
  And glad to meet the sun.                C.

  And glad to greet the sun.               MS.

  No guide it needs, no check it fears,
  How merrily it goes!
  'Twill murmur on a thousand years,
  And flow as now it flows.                C.

  Down towards the vale with eager speed,
  Behold this streamlet run
  As if 'twere pleased with summer skies
  And glad to meet the sun.                C.]


[Variant 3:

1837.

  The blackbird in the summer trees,
  The lark upon the hill,      1800.]


[Variant 4:

1832.

  ... is ....      1800 and MS.]


[Variant 5:

1815.

  ... his hands, ...      1800.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A:

  "Pour me plaindre a moy, regarde noti tant ce qu'on moste, que ce qui
  me reste de sauvre, et dedans et dehors."

Montaigne, 'Essais', iii. 12.

Compare also:

  "Themistocles quidem, cum ei Simonides, an quis alius artem memoriae
  polliceretur, _Oblivionis_, inquit, _mallem_; _nam memini etiam quae
  nolo, oblivisci non possum quae volo_."

Cicero, 'De Finibus', II. 32.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





TO A SEXTON


Composed 1799.--Published 1800


[Written in Germany, 1799.--I.F.]

One of the "Poems of the Fancy."--Ed.




  Let thy wheel-barrow alone--
  Wherefore, Sexton, piling still
  In thy bone-house bone on bone?
  'Tis already like a hill
  In a field of battle made,                              5
  Where three thousand skulls are laid;
  These died in peace each with the other,--
  Father, sister, friend, and brother.

  Mark the spot to which I point!
  From this platform, eight feet square,                 10
  Take not even a finger-joint:
  Andrew's whole fire-side is there.
  Here, alone, before thine eyes,
  Simon's sickly daughter lies,
  From weakness now, and pain defended,                  15
  Whom he twenty winters tended.

  Look but at the gardener's pride--
  How he glories, when he sees
  Roses, lilies, side by side,
  Violets in families!                                   20
  By the heart of Man, his tears,
  By his hopes and by his fears,
  Thou, too heedless, [1] art the Warden
  Of a far superior garden.

  Thus then, each to other dear,                         25
  Let them all in quiet lie,
  Andrew there, and Susan here,
  Neighbours in mortality.
  And, should I live through sun and rain
  Seven widowed years without my Jane,                   30
  O Sexton, do not then remove her,
  Let one grave hold the Loved and Lover!



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

  Thou, old Grey-beard! ...    1800.]





       *       *       *       *       *





THE DANISH BOY

A FRAGMENT


Composed 1799.--Published 1800


[Written in Germany, 1799. It was entirely a fancy; but intended as a
prelude to a ballad-poem never written.--I.F.]

In the editions of 1800-1832 this poem was called 'A Fragment'. From
1836 onwards it was named 'The Danish Boy. A Fragment'. It was one of
the "Poems of the Fancy."--Ed.




  I       Between two sister moorland rills
          There is a spot that seems to lie
          Sacred to flowerets of the hills,
          And sacred to the sky.
          And in this smooth and open dell                    5
          There is a tempest-stricken tree;
          A corner-stone by lightning cut,
          The last stone of a lonely hut; [1]
          And in this dell you see
          A thing no storm can e'er destroy,                 10
          The shadow of a Danish Boy. [A]


  II      In clouds above, the lark is heard,
          But drops not here to earth for rest; [2]
          Within [3] this lonesome nook the bird
          Did never build her [4] nest.                      15
          No beast, no bird hath here his home;
          Bees, wafted on [5] the breezy air,
          Pass high above those fragrant bells
          To other flowers:--to other dells
          Their burthens do they bear; [6]                   20
          The Danish Boy walks here alone:
          The lovely dell is all his own.

  III     A Spirit of noon-day is he;
          Yet seems [7] a form of flesh and blood;
          Nor piping shepherd shall he be,                   25
          Nor herd-boy of the wood. [8]
          A regal vest of fur he wears,
          In colour like a raven's wing;
          It fears not [9] rain, nor wind, nor dew;
          But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue               30
          As budding pines in spring;
          His helmet has a vernal grace,
          Fresh as the bloom upon his face.

  IV      A harp is from his shoulder slung;
          Resting the harp upon his knee;                    35
          To words of a forgotten tongue,
          He suits its melody. [10]
          Of flocks upon the neighbouring hill [11]
          He is the darling and the joy;
          And often, when no cause appears,                  40
          The mountain-ponies prick their ears,
--They hear the Danish Boy,
          While in the dell he sings [12] alone
          Beside the tree and corner-stone.
          [13]

  V       There sits he; in his face you spy                 45
          No trace of a ferocious air,
          Nor ever was a cloudless sky
          So steady or so fair.
          The lovely Danish Boy is blest
          And happy in his flowery cove:                     50
          From bloody deeds his thoughts are far;
          And yet he warbles songs of war,
          That seem [14] like songs of love,
          For calm and gentle is his mien;
          Like a dead Boy he is serene.                      55



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1836.

  ... a cottage hut;      1800.]


[Variant 2:

1827.

  He sings his blithest and his best;      1800.

  She sings, regardless of her rest,       1820.]


[Variant 3:

1827.

  But in ...      1800.]


[Variant 4:

1820.

  ... his ...     1800.]


[Variant 5:

1827.

  The bees borne on ...     1800.]


[Variant 6:

1827.

  Nor ever linger there.      1800.]


[Variant 7:

1836.

  He seems ...      1800.]


[Variant 8:

1802.

  A piping Shepherd he might be,
  A Herd-boy of the wood.      1800.]


[Variant 9:

1802.

  ... nor ...       1800.]


[Variant 10:

1836.

  He rests the harp upon his knee,
  And there in a forgotten tongue
  He warbles melody.      1800.]


[Variant 11:

1827.

  Of flocks and herds both far and near      1800.

  Of flocks upon the neighbouring hills      1802.]


[Variant 12:

1845.

  ... sits ...     1800.]


[Variant 13:

  When near this blasted tree you pass,
  Two sods are plainly to be seen
  Close at its root, and each with grass
  Is cover'd fresh and green.
  Like turf upon a new-made grave
  These two green sods together lie,
  Nor heat, nor cold, nor rain, nor wind
  Can these two sods together bind,
  Nor sun, nor earth, nor sky,
  But side by side the two are laid,
  As if just sever'd by the spade.

This stanza occurs only in the edition of 1800.]


[Variant 14:

1815.

  They seem ...    1800.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: These Stanzas were designed to introduce a Ballad upon the
Story of a Danish Prince who had fled from Battle, and, for the sake of
the valuables about him, was murdered by the Inhabitant of a Cottage in
which he had taken refuge. The House fell under a curse, and the Spirit
of the Youth, it was believed, haunted the Valley where the crime had
been committed.--W. W. 1827.]





       *       *       *       *       *





LUCY GRAY; OR, SOLITUDE


Composed 1799.--Published 1800


[Written at Goslar, in Germany, in 1799. It was founded on a
circumstance told me by my sister, of a little girl, who, not far from
Halifax in Yorkshire, was bewildered in a snow storm. Her footsteps were
tracked by her parents to the middle of a lock of a canal, and no other
vestige of her, backward or forward, could be traced. The body, however,
was found in the canal. The way in which the incident was treated, and
the spiritualizing of the character, might furnish hints for contrasting
the imaginative influences, which I have endeavoured to throw over
common life, with Crabbe's matter-of-fact style of handling subjects of
the same kind. This is not spoken to his disparagement, far from it; but
to direct the attention of thoughtful readers into whose hands these
notes may fall, to a comparison that may enlarge the circle of their
sensibilities, and tend to produce in them a catholic judgment.--I.F.]

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




  Oft I had heard [1] of Lucy Gray:
  And, when I crossed the wild,
  I chanced to see at break of day
  The solitary child.

  No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;                       5
  She dwelt on a wide moor, [2]
--The sweetest thing that ever grew
  Beside a human door!

  You yet may spy the fawn at play,
  The hare upon the green;                            10
  But the sweet [3] face of Lucy Gray
  Will never more be seen.

  "To-night will be a stormy night--
  You to the town must go;
  And take a lantern, Child, to light                 15
  Your mother through the snow."

  "That, Father! will I gladly do:
  'Tis scarcely afternoon--
  The minster-clock has just struck two,
  And yonder is the moon!"                            20

  At this the Father raised his hook,
  And snapped [4] a <DW19>-band;
  He plied his work;--and Lucy took
  The lantern in her hand.

  Not blither is the mountain roe:                    25
  With many a wanton stroke
  Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
  That rises up like smoke.

  The storm came on before its time:
  She wandered up and down;                           30
  And many a hill did Lucy climb
  But never reached the town.

  The wretched parents all that night
  Went shouting far and wide;
  But there was neither sound nor sight               35
  To serve them for a guide.

  At day-break on a hill they stood
  That overlooked the moor;
  And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
  A furlong from their door.                          40

  They wept--and, turning homeward, cried, [5]
  "In heaven we all shall meet;"
--When in the snow the mother spied [6]
  The print of Lucy's feet.

  Then downwards [7] from the steep hill's edge       45
  They tracked the footmarks small;
  And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
  And by the long stone-wall;

  And then an open field they crossed:
  The marks were still the same;                      50
  They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
  And [8] to the bridge they came.

  They followed from the snowy bank
  Those [9] footmarks, one by one,
  Into the middle of the plank;                       55
  And further there were [10] none!

--Yet some maintain that to this day
  She is a living child;
  That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
  Upon the lonesome wild.                             60

  O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
  And never looks behind;
  And sings a solitary song
  That whistles in the wind. [A]




This poem was illustrated by Sir George Beaumont, in a picture of some
merit, which was engraved by J. C. Bromley, and published in the
collected editions of 1815 and 1820. Henry Crabb Robinson wrote in his
'Diary', September 11, 1816 (referring to Wordsworth):

  "He mentioned the origin of some poems. 'Lucy Gray', that tender and
  pathetic narrative of a child lost on a common, was occasioned by the
  death of a child who fell into the lock of a canal. His object was to
  exhibit poetically entire 'solitude', and he represents the child as
  observing the day-moon, which no town or village girl would ever
  notice."

A contributor to 'Notes and Queries', May 12, 1883, whose signature is
F., writes:

  "THE SCENE OF 'LUCY GRAY'.--In one of the editions of Wordsworth's
  works the scene of this ballad is said to have been near Halifax, in
  Yorkshire. I do not think the poet was acquainted with the locality
  beyond a sight of the country in travelling through on some journey. I
  know of no spot where all the little incidents mentioned in the poem
  would exactly fit in, and a few of the local allusions are evidently
  by a stranger. There is no 'minster'; the church at Halifax from time
  immemorial has always been known as the 'parish church,' and sometimes
  as the 'old church,' but has never been styled 'the minster.' The
  'mountain roe,' which of course may be brought in as poetically
  illustrative, has not been seen on these hills for generations, and I
  scarcely think even the 'fawn at play' for more than a hundred years.
  These misapplications, it is almost unnecessary to say, do not detract
  from the beauty of the poetry. Some of the touches are graphically
  true to the neighbourhood, as, for instance, 'the wide moor,' the
  'many a hill,' the 'steep hill's edge,' the 'long stone wall,' and the
  hint of the general loneliness of the region where Lucy 'no mate, no
  comrade, knew.' I think I can point out the exact spot--no longer a
  'plank,' but a broad, safe bridge--where Lucy fell into the water.
  Taking a common-sense view, that she would not be sent many miles at
  two o'clock on a winter afternoon to the town (Halifax, of course),
  over so lonely a mountain moor--bearing in mind also that this moor
  overlooked the river, and that the river was deep and strong enough to
  carry the child down the current--I know only one place where such an
  accident could have occurred. The clue is in this verse:

    'At day-break on a hill they stood
    That overlooked the moor;
    And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
    A furlong from their door.'

  The hill I take to be the high ridge of Greetland and Norland Moor,
  and the plank she had to cross Sterne Mill Bridge, which there spans
  the Calder, broad and rapid enough at any season to drown either a
  young girl or a grown-up person. The mountain burns, romantic and wild
  though they be, are not dangerous to cross, especially for a child old
  enough to go and seek her mother. To sum up the matter, the hill
  overlooking the moor, the path to and distance from the town, the
  bridge, the current, all indicate one point, and one point only, where
  this accident could have happened, and that is the bridge near Sterne
  Mill. This bridge is so designated from the Sterne family, a branch of
  whom in the last century resided close by. The author of 'Tristram
  Shandy' spent his boyhood here; and Lucy Gray, had she safely crossed
  the plank, would immediately have passed Wood Hall, where the boy
  Laurence had lived, and, pursuing her way to Halifax, would have gone
  through the meadows in which stood Heath School, where young Sterne
  had been educated. The mill-weir at Sterne Mill Bridge was, I believe,
  the scene of Lucy Gray's death."

Sterne Mill Bridge, however, crosses the river Calder, while Wordsworth
tells us that the girl lost her life by falling "into the lock of a
canal." The Calder runs parallel with the canal near Sterne Mill Bridge.
See J.R. Tutin's 'Wordsworth in Yorkshire'.--Ed.



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1800.

  Oft had I heard ...

Only in the second issue of 1800.]


[Variant 2:

1800 (2nd issue).

  She dwelt on a wild Moor     1800.

  She lived on a wide Moor      MS.]


[Variant 3:

1800.

  ... bright ...      C.]


[Variant 4:

1800.

  He snapped ...      MS.]


[Variant 5:

1827.

  And now they homeward turn'd, and cry'd    1800.

  And, turning homeward, now they cried      1815.]


[Variant 6:

1800.

  The Mother turning homeward cried,
  "We never more shall meet,"
  When in the driven snow she spied    MS.]


[Variant 7:

1840.

  Then downward ...      1800.

  Half breathless ...    1827.]


[Variant 8:

1800.

  ... and never lost
  Till ...    MS.]


[Variant 9:

1827.

  The ...      1800.]


[Variant 10:

1800.

  ... was ...      1802.

The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare Gray's ode, 'On a Distant Prospect of Eton
College', II. 38-9:

  'Still as they run they look behind,
  They hear a voice in every wind.'

Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





RUTH


Composed 1799.--Published 1800


[Written in Germany, 1799. Suggested by an account I had of a wanderer
in Somersetshire.--I.F.]

Classed among the "Poems founded on the Affections" in the editions of
1815 and 1820. In 1827 it was transferred to the "Poems of the
Imagination."--Ed.




  When Ruth was left half desolate,
  Her Father took another Mate;
  And Ruth, not seven years old,
  A slighted child, at her own will [1]
  Went wandering over dale and hill,                     5
  In thoughtless freedom, bold.

  And she had made a pipe of straw,
  And music from that pipe could draw
  Like sounds of winds and floods; [2]
  Had built a bower upon the green,                     10
  As if she from her birth had been
  An infant of the woods.

  Beneath her father's roof, alone [3]
  She seemed to live; her thoughts her own;
  Herself her own delight;                              15
  Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay;
  And, passing thus the live-long day,
  She grew to woman's height. [4]

  There came a Youth from Georgia's shore--
  A military casque he wore,                            20
  With splendid feathers drest; [A]
  He brought them from the Cherokees;
  The feathers nodded in the breeze,
  And made a gallant crest.

  From Indian blood you deem him sprung:                25
  But no! [5] he spake the English tongue,
  And bore [6] a soldier's name;
  And, when America was free
  From battle and from jeopardy,
  He 'cross the ocean came.                             30

  With hues of genius on his cheek
  In finest tones the Youth could speak:
--While he was yet a boy,
  The moon, the glory of the sun,
  And streams that murmur as they run,                  35
  Had been his dearest joy.

  He was a lovely Youth! I guess
  The panther in the wilderness
  Was not so fair as he;
  And, when he chose to sport and play,                 40
  No dolphin ever was so gay
  Upon the tropic sea.

  Among the Indians he had fought,
  And with him many tales he brought
  Of pleasure and of fear;                              45
  Such tales as told to any maid
  By such a Youth, in the green shade,
  Were perilous to hear.

  He told of girls--a happy rout!
  Who quit their fold with dance and shout,             50
  Their pleasant Indian town,
  To gather strawberries all day long;
  Returning with a choral song
  When daylight is gone down.

  He spake of plants that hourly change                 55
  Their blossoms, through a boundless range
  Of intermingling hues; [7] [B]
  With budding, fading, faded flowers
  They stand the wonder of the bowers
  From morn to evening dews, [C]                        60
  [8]
  He told of the magnolia, [D] spread
  High as a cloud, high over head!
  The cypress and her spire; [E]
--Of flowers [F] that with one scarlet gleam
  Cover a hundred leagues, and seem                     65
  To set the hills on fire. [G]

  The Youth of green savannahs spake,
  And many an endless, endless lake,
  With all its fairy crowds
  Of islands, that together lie                         70
  As quietly as spots of sky
  Among the evening clouds. [H]

  "How pleasant," then he said, "it were [9]
  A fisher or a hunter there,
  In sunshine or in shade                               75
  To wander with an easy mind;
  And build a household fire, and find [10]
  A home in every glade!

  "What days and what bright [11] years! Ah me!
  Our life were life indeed, with thee                  80
  So passed in quiet bliss,
  And all the while," said he, "to know
  That we were in a world of woe,
  On such an earth as this!"

  And then he sometimes interwove                       85
  Fond [12] thoughts about a father's love:
  "For there," said he, "are spun
  Around the heart such tender ties,
  That our own children to our eyes
  Are dearer than the sun.                              90

  "Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me
  My helpmate in the woods to be,
  Our shed at night to rear;
  Or run, my own adopted bride,
  A sylvan huntress at my side,                         95
  And drive the flying deer!

  "Beloved Ruth!"--No more he said.
  The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed [13]
  A solitary tear:
  She thought again--and did agree                     100
  With him to sail across the sea,
  And drive the flying deer.

  "And now, as fitting is and right,
  We in the church our faith will plight,
  A husband and a wife."                               105
  Even so they did; and I may say
  That to sweet Ruth that happy day
  Was more than human life.

  Through dream and vision did she sink,
  Delighted all the while to think                     110
  That on those lonesome floods,
  And green savannahs, she should share
  His board with lawful joy, and bear
  His name in the wild woods.

  But, as you have before been told,                   115
  This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold,
  And, with his dancing crest,
  So beautiful, through savage lands
  Had roamed about, with vagrant bands
  Of Indians in the West.                              120

  The wind, the tempest roaring high,
  The tumult of a tropic sky,
  Might well be dangerous food
  For him, a Youth to whom was given
  So much of earth--so much of heaven,                 125
  And such impetuous blood.

  Whatever in those climes he found
  Irregular in sight or sound
  Did to his mind impart
  A kindred impulse, seemed allied                     130
  To his own powers, and justified
  The workings of his heart.

  Nor less, to feed voluptuous [14] thought,
  The beauteous forms of nature wrought,
  Fair trees and gorgeous [15] flowers;                135
  The breezes their own languor lent;
  The stars had feelings, which they sent
  Into those favored [16] bowers.

  Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween
  That sometimes [17] there did intervene              140
  Pure hopes of high intent:
  For passions linked to forms so fair
  And stately, needs must have their share [18]
  Of noble sentiment.

  But ill he lived, [19] much evil saw,                145
  With men to whom no better law
  Nor better life was known;
  Deliberately, and undeceived,
  Those wild men's vices he received,
  And gave them back his own.                          150

  His genius and his moral frame
  Were thus impaired, and he became
  The slave of low desires:
  A Man who without self-control
  Would seek what the degraded soul                    155
  Unworthily admires.

  And yet he with no feigned delight
  Had wooed the Maiden, day and night
  Had loved her, night and morn:
  What could he less than love a Maid                  160
  Whose heart with so much nature played
  So kind and so forlorn!

  Sometimes, most earnestly, he said,
  "O Ruth! I have been worse than dead;
  False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain,              165
  Encompassed me on every side
  When I, in confidence and pride,
  Had crossed the Atlantic main. [20]

  "Before me shone a glorious world--
  Fresh as a banner bright, unfurled                   170
  To music suddenly: [21]
  I looked upon those hills and plains,
  And seemed as if let loose from chains,
  To live at liberty.
  [22]
  "No more of this; for now, by thee,                  175
  Dear Ruth! more happily set free
  With nobler zeal I burn; [23]
  My soul from darkness is released,
  Like the whole sky when to the east [24]
  The morning doth return."                            180
  [25]
  Full soon that better mind was gone; [26]
  No hope, no wish remained, not one,--
  They stirred him now no more;
  New objects did new pleasure give,
  And once again he wished to live                     185
  As lawless as before.

  Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared,
  They for the voyage were prepared,
  And went to the sea-shore,
  But, when they thither came, the Youth               190
  Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth
  Could never find him more.

  God help thee, Ruth!-Such pains she had,
  That she in half a year was mad,
  And in a prison housed;                              195
  And there, with many a doleful song
  Made of wild words, her cup of wrong
  She fearfully caroused. [27]

  Yet sometimes milder hours she knew,
  Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,                   200
  Nor pastimes of the May;
--They all were with her in her cell;
  And a clear brook  [28] with cheerful knell
  Did o'er the pebbles play.

  When Ruth three seasons thus had lain,               205
  There came a respite to her pain;
  She from her prison fled;
  But of the Vagrant none took thought;
  And where it liked her best she sought
  Her shelter and her bread.                           210

  Among the fields she breathed again:
  The master-current of her brain
  Ran permanent and free;
  And, coming to the Banks of Tone, [I]
  There did she rest; and dwell alone [29]             215
  Under the greenwood tree.

  The engines of her pain, [30] the tools
  That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools,
  And airs that gently stir
  The vernal leaves--she loved them still;             220
  Nor ever taxed them with the ill
  Which had been done to her.

  A Barn her _winter_ bed supplies;
  But, till the warmth of summer skies
  And summer days is gone,                             225
  (And all do in this tale agree) [31]
  She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree,
  And other home hath none.

  An innocent life, yet far astray!
  And Ruth will, long before her day, [32]             230
  Be broken down and old:
  Sore aches she needs must have! but less
  Of mind, than body's wretchedness,
  From damp, and rain, and cold. [33]

  If she is prest by want of food,                     235
  She from her dwelling in the wood
  Repairs to a road-side;
  And there she begs at one steep place
  Where up and down with easy pace
  The horsemen-travellers ride.                        240

  That oaten pipe of hers is mute,
  Or thrown away; but with a flute
  Her loneliness she cheers:
  This flute, made of a hemlock stalk,
  At evening in his homeward walk                      245
  The Quantock woodman hears.

  I, too, have passed her on the hills
  Setting her little water-mills
  By spouts and fountains wild--
  Such small machinery as she turned                   250
  Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned,
  A young and happy Child!

  Farewell! and when thy days are told,
  Ill-fated Ruth, in hallowed mould
  Thy corpse shall buried be,                          255
  For thee a funeral bell shall ring,
  And all the congregation sing
  A Christian psalm for thee.




The following extract from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal gives the date
of the stanzas added to 'Ruth' in subsequent editions:

  "Sunday, March 8th, 1802.--I stitched up 'The Pedlar,' wrote out
  'Ruth', read it with the alterations.... William brought two new
  stanzas of 'Ruth'."

The transpositions of stanzas, and their omission from certain editions
and their subsequent re-introduction, in altered form, in later ones,
make it extremely difficult to give the textual history of 'Ruth' in
footnotes. They are even more bewildering than the changes introduced
into 'Simon Lee'.--Ed.



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1802.

  And so, not seven years old,
  The slighted Child ...      1800.]


[Variant 2:

1836.

  And from that oaten pipe could draw
  All sounds ...      1800.]


[Variant 3: This stanza was added in the edition of 1802.]


[Variant 4:

1827.

  She pass'd her time; and in this way
  Grew up to Woman's height.       1802.]


[Variant 5:

1836.

  Ah no! ...        1800.]


[Variant 6:

1805.

  ... bare ...        1800.]


[Variant 7:

1836.

  He spake of plants divine and strange
  That ev'ry day their blossoms change,
  Ten thousand lovely hues!       1800.

  ... every hour ...              1802.]


[Variant 8:

  Of march and ambush, siege and fight,
  Then did he tell; and with delight
  The heart of Ruth would ache;
  Wild histories they were, and dear:
  But 'twas a thing of heaven to hear
  When of himself he spake!

Only in the editions of 1802 and 1805.

The following is the order of the stanzas in the edition of 1802.
The first, fifth, and last had not appeared before.

  Sometimes most earnestly he said;
  "O Ruth! I have been worse than dead:
  False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain
  Encompass'd me on every side
  When I, in thoughtlessness and pride,
  Had cross'd the Atlantic Main.

  Whatever in those Climes I found
  Irregular in sight or sound
  Did to my mind impart
  A kindred impulse, seem'd allied
  To my own powers, and justified
  The workings of my heart.

  Nor less to feed unhallow'd thought
  The beauteous forms of nature wrought,
  Fair trees and lovely flowers;
  The breezes their own languor lent;
  The stars had feelings which they sent
  Into those magic bowers.

  Yet, in my worst pursuits, I ween,
  That often there did intervene
  Pure hopes of high intent;
  My passions, amid forms so fair
  And stately, wanted not their share
  Of noble sentiment.

  So was it then, and so is now:
  For, Ruth! with thee I know not how
  I feel my spirit burn
  Even as the east when day comes forth;
  And to the west, and south, and north,
  The morning doth return.

  It is a purer better mind:
  O Maiden innocent and kind
  What sights I might have seen!
  Even now upon my eyes they break!"
--And he again began to speak
  Of Lands where he had been.

The last stanza is only in the editions of 1802-1805. [a]]


[Variant 9:

1836.

  And then he said "How sweet it were       1800.]


[Variant 10:

1845.

  A gardener in the shade,
  Still wandering with an easy mind
  To build ...    1800.

  In sunshine or through shade
  To wander with an easy mind;
  And build ...    1836.]


[Variant 11:

1836.

  ... sweet ...    1800.]


[Variant 12:

1832.

  Dear ...    1800.]


[Variant 13:

1820.

  Sweet Ruth alone at midnight shed    1800.]


[Variant 14:

1800.

  ... unhallow'd ...    1802 and MS.

The edition of 1805 returns to the reading of 1800.]


[Variant 15:

1845.

  ... lovely ...    1800.]


[Variant 16:

1845.

  ... magic ...    1800.

  ... gorgeous ...    1815.]


[Variant 17:

1800.

  That often ...    1802.

The text of 1805 returns to that of 1800.]


[Variant 18:

1800.

  For passions, amid forms so fair
  And stately, wanted not their share     1802.

The text of 1805 returns to that of 1800.]


[Variant 19:

1800.

  Ill did he live ...    1802.

The text of 1805 returns to that of 1800.]


[Variant 20:

1805.

  When I, in thoughtlessness and pride,
  Had crossed ...    1802.

  When first, in confidence and pride,
  I crossed ...      1820.

C., and the edition of 1840, revert to the reading of 1805.]


[Variant 21:

1840 and C.

  "It was a fresh and glorious world,
  A banner bright that was unfurled
  Before me suddenly:                    1805.

  A banner bright that shone unfurled    1836.]


[Variant 22: Lines 163-168, and 175-180, were added in 1802. Lines
169-174 were added in 1805. All these were omitted in 1815, but were
restored in 1820.]


[Variant 23:

1845

  So was it then, and so is now:
  For, Ruth! with thee I know not how
  I feel my spirit burn         1802.

  "But wherefore speak of this? for now,
  Sweet Ruth! with thee, ...    1805.

  Dear Ruth! with thee ...      1836.]


[Variant 24:

1836.

  Even as the east when day comes forth;
  And to the west, and south, and north,    1802.]


[Variant 25:

  It is my purer better mind
  O maiden innocently kind
  What sights I might have seen!
  Even now upon my eyes they break!
  And then the youth began to speak
  Of lands where he had been.    MS.]


[Variant 26:

1845.

  But now the pleasant dream was gone,    1800.

  Full soon that purer mind ...    1820.]


[Variant 27:

1836.

  And there, exulting in her wrongs,
  Among the music of her songs
  She fearfully carouz'd. [b]    1800.

  And there she sang tumultuous songs,
  By recollection of her wrongs,
  To fearful passion rouzed.      1820.]


[Variant 28:

1836.

  wild brook ...    1800.]


[Variant 29:

1802.

  And to the pleasant Banks of Tone
  She took her way, to dwell alone    1800.]


[Variant 30:

1802.

  ... grief, ...    1800.]


[Variant 31:

1805.

  (And in this tale we all agree)    1800.]


[Variant 32:

1805.

  The neighbours grieve for her, and say
  That she will ...    1802.]


[Variant 33: This stanza first appeared in the edition of 1802.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Taken from the portrait of the chief in Bartram's
frontispiece.--Ed.]


[Footnote B:

  "The tall aspiring Gordonia lacianthus ... gradually changing colour,
  from green to golden yellow, from that to a scarlet, from scarlet to
  crimson, and lastly to a brownish purple, ... so that it may be said
  to change and renew its garments every morning throughout the year."

See 'Travels through North and South Carolina, Georgia, East Florida,
the Cherokee Country', etc., by William Bartram (1791), pp. 159,
160.--Ed.]


[Footnote C:

  "Its thick foliage of a dark green colour is flowered over with large
  milk-white, fragrant blossoms, ... renewed every morning, and that in
  such incredible profusion that the tree appears silvered over with
  them, and the ground beneath covered with the fallen flowers. It, at
  the same time, continually pushes forth new twigs, with young buds on
  them."

(Bartram's 'Travels', etc., p. 159.)--Ed.]


[Footnote D: Magnolia grandiflora.--W. W. 1800; and Bartram's 'Travels',
p. 8.--Ed.]


[Footnote E:

  "The Cypressus distichia stands in the first order of North American
  trees. Its majestic stature, lifting its cumbrous top towards the
  skies, and casting a wide shade upon the ground, as a dark intervening
  cloud," etc.

(Bartram's 'Travels', p. 88).--Ed.]


[Footnote F: The splendid appearance of these scarlet flowers, which are
scattered with such profusion over the Hills in the Southern parts of
North America is frequently mentioned by Bartram in his 'Travels'.--W.
W. 1800.]


[Footnote G: Mr. Ernest Coleridge tells me he

  "has traced, to a note-book of Coleridge's in the British Museum, the
  source from which Wordsworth derived his description of Georgian
  scenery in 'Ruth'.  He does, I know, refer to Bartram, but the whole
  passage is a poetical rendering, and a pretty close one, of Bartram's
  poetical narrative.  I have a portrait--the frontispiece of Bartram's
  'Travels'--of Mico Chlucco, king of the Seminoles, whose feathers nod
  in the breeze just as did the military casque of the 'youth from
  Georgia's shore.'"

Ed.]


[Footnote H:

  "North and south almost endless green plains and meadows, embellished
  with islets and projecting promontories of high dark forests, where
  the pyramidal Magnolia grandiflora ... conspicuously towers."

(Bartram's 'Travels', p. 145).--Ed.]


[Footnote I: The Tone is a River of Somersetshire, at no great distance
from the Quantock Hills. These Hills, which are alluded to a few stanzas
below, are extremely beautiful, and in most places richly covered with
Coppice woods. W. W. 1800.]



       *       *       *       *       *


SUB-FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Sub-Footnote a: The edition of 1805 substitutes the stanzas beginning,

  'It was a fresh and glorious world'

for stanzas 2, 3, and 4 of the above six in this note, but it inserts
these omitted stanzas later on as Nos. 27, 28, 29.--Ed.]


[Sub-Footnote b: Wordsworth wrote to Barren Field in 1828 that this stanza

  "was altered, Lamb having observed that it was not English. I like it
  better myself;'

(i.e. the version of 1800)

  "but certainly to carouse cups--that is to empty them--is the genuine
  English."

Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





1800


Towards the close of December 1799, Wordsworth came to live at Dove
Cottage, Town-end, Grasmere. The poems written during the following year
(1800), are more particularly associated with that district of the
Lakes. Two of them were fragments of a canto of 'The Recluse', entitled
"Home at Grasmere," referring to his settlement at Dove Cottage. Others,
such as 'Michael', and 'The Brothers'--classed by him afterwards among
the "Poems founded on the Affections,"--deal with incidents in the rural
life of the dalesmen of Westmoreland and Cumberland. Most of the "Poems
on the Naming of Places" were written during this year; and the "Places"
are all in the neighbourhood of Grasmere. To these were added several
"Pastoral Poems"--such as 'The Idle Shepherd Boys; or, Dungeon-Ghyll
Force'--sundry "Poems of the Fancy," and one or two "Inscriptions." In
all, twenty-five poems were written in the year 1800; and, with the
exception of the two fragments of 'The Recluse', they were published
during the same year in the second volume of the second edition of
"Lyrical Ballads." It is impossible to fix the precise date of the
composition of the fragments of 'The Recluse'; but, as they refer to the
settlement at Dove Cottage--where Wordsworth went to reside with his
sister, on the 21st of December 1799--they may fitly introduce the poems
belonging to the year 1800. They were first published in 1851 in the
'Memoirs of Wordsworth' (vol. i. pp. 157 and 155 respectively), by the
poet's nephew, the late Bishop of Lincoln. The entire canto of 'The
Recluse', entitled "Home at Grasmere," will be included in this edition.

The first two poems which follow, as belonging to the year 1800, are
parts of 'The Recluse', viz. "On Nature's invitation do I come," (which
is ll. 71-97, and 110-125), and "Bleak season was it, turbulent and
bleak," (which is ll. 152-167). They are not reprinted from the
'Memoirs' of 1851, because the text there given was, in several
instances, inaccurately reproduced from the original MS., which has been
re-examined. They were printed here, in 'The Recluse '(1888), and in my
'Life of Wordsworth' (vol. i. 1889).--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





"ON NATURE'S INVITATION DO I COME"


Composed (probably) in 1800.--Published 1851




  On Nature's invitation do I come,
  By Reason sanctioned. Can the choice mislead,
  That made the calmest, fairest spot of earth,
  With all its unappropriated good,
  My own, and not mine only, for with me                          5
  Entrenched--say rather peacefully embowered--
  Under yon orchard, in yon humble cot,
  A younger orphan of a home extinct,
  The only daughter of my parents dwells:
  Aye, think on that, my heart, and cease to stir;               10
  Pause upon that, and let the breathing frame
  No longer breathe, but all be satisfied.
  Oh, if such silence be not thanks to God
  For what hath been bestowed, then where, where then
  Shall gratitude find rest? Mine eyes did ne'er                 15
  Fix on a lovely object, nor my mind
  Take pleasure in the midst of happy thoughts,
  But either she, whom now I have, who now
  Divides with me this loved abode, was there,
  Or not far off. Where'er my footsteps turned,                  20
  Her voice was like a hidden bird that sang;
  The thought of her was like a flash of light
  Or an unseen companionship, a breath
  Or fragrance independent of the wind.
  In all my goings, in the new and old                           25
  Of all my meditations, and in this
  Favourite of all, in this the most of all....
  Embrace me then, ye hills, and close me in.
  Now in the clear and open day I feel
  Your guardianship: I take it to my heart;                      30
  'Tis like the solemn shelter of the night.
  But I would call thee beautiful; for mild,
  And soft, and gay, and beautiful thou art,
  Dear valley, having in thy face a smile,
  Though peaceful, full of gladness. Thou art pleased,           35
  Pleased with thy crags, and woody steeps, thy lake,
  Its one green island, and its winding shores,
  The multitude of little rocky hills,
  Thy church, and cottages of mountain-stone
  Clustered like stars some few, but single most,                40
  And lurking dimly in their shy retreats,
  Or glancing at each other cheerful looks,
  Like separated stars with clouds between.




This Grasmere cottage is identified, much more than Rydal Mount, with
Wordsworth's "poetic prime." It had once been a public-house, bearing
the sign of the Dove and Olive Bough--and as such is referred to in 'The
Waggoner'--from which circumstance it was for a long time, and is now
usually, called "Dove Cottage." A small two storied house, it is
described somewhat minutely--as it was in Wordsworth's time--by De
Quincey, in his 'Recollections of the Lakes', and by the late Bishop of
Lincoln, in the 'Memoirs' of his uncle.

  "The front of it faces the lake; behind is a small plot of orchard and
  garden ground, in which there is a spring and rocks; the enclosure
  shelves upwards towards the woody sides of the mountains above it."
  [A]

The following is De Quincey's description of it, as he saw it in the
summer of 1807.

  "A white cottage, with two yew trees breaking the glare of its white
  walls" (these yews still stand on the eastern side of the cottage). "A
  little semi-vestibule between two doors prefaced the entrance into
  what might be considered the principal room of the cottage. It was an
  oblong square, not above eight and a half feet high, sixteen feet
  long, and twelve broad; wainscoted from floor to ceiling with dark
  polished oak, slightly embellished with carving. One window there
  was--a perfect and unpretending cottage window, with little diamond
  panes, embowered at almost every season of the year with roses; and,
  in the summer and autumn, with a profusion of jasmine, and other
  fragrant shrubs.... I was ushered up a little flight of stairs,
  fourteen in all, to a little drawing-room, or whatever the reader
  chooses to call it. Wordsworth himself has described the fireplace of
  this room as his

    'Half-kitchen and half-parlour fire.'

  It was not fully seven feet six inches high, and in other respects
  pretty nearly of the same dimensions as the rustic hall below. There
  was, however, in a small recess, a library of perhaps three hundred
  volumes, which seemed to consecrate the room as the poet's study and
  composing room, and such occasionally it was. But far oftener he both
  studied, as I found, and composed on the high road." [B]

Other poems of later years refer, much more fully than the above, to
this cottage, and its orchard ground, where so many of Wordsworth's
lyrics were composed.

The "orchard ground," which was for the most part in grass, sloped
upwards; but a considerable portion of the natural rock was exposed; and
on its face, some rough stone steps were cut by Wordsworth, helped by a
near neighbour of his--John Fisher--so as more conveniently to reach the
upper terrace, where the poet built for himself a small arbour. All this
garden and orchard ground is not much altered since 1800. The short
terrace walk is curved, with a sloping bank of grass above, shaded by
apple trees, hazel, holly, laburnum, laurel, and mountain ash. Below the
terrace is the well, which supplied the cottage in Wordsworth's time;
and there large leaved primroses still grow, doubtless the successors of
those planted by his own and his sister's hands. Above, and amongst the
rocks, are the daffodils, which they also brought to their
"garden-ground;" the Christmas roses, which they planted near the well,
were removed to the eastern side of the garden, where they flourished
luxuriantly in 1882; but have now, alas! disappeared. The box-wood
planted by the poet grows close to the cottage. The arbour is now gone;
but, in the place where it stood, a seat is erected. The hidden brook
still sings its under-song, as it used to do, "its quiet soul on all
bestowing," and the green linnet may doubtless be seen now, as it used
to be in 1803. The allusions to the garden ground at Dove Cottage, in
the poems which follow, will be noted as they occur.--Ed.


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote A: See the 'Memoirs of Wordsworth', vol. i. p. 156.--Ed.]

[Footnote B: See 'Recollections of the Lakes', etc., pp. 130-137, Works,
vol. ii., edition of 1862.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





"BLEAK SEASON WAS IT, TURBULENT AND BLEAK" [A]


Composed (probably) in 1800.--Published 1851




  Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak,
  When hitherward we journeyed, side by side,
  Through burst of sunshine and through flying showers,
  Paced the long vales, how long they were, and yet
  How fast that length of way was left behind,                   5
  Wensley's rich vale and Sedbergh's naked heights.
  The frosty wind, as if to make amends
  For its keen breath, was aiding to our steps,
  And drove us onward like two ships at sea;
  Or, like two birds, companions in mid-air,                    10
  Parted and reunited by the blast.
  Stern was the face of nature; we rejoiced
  In that stern countenance; for our souls thence drew
  A feeling of their strength. The naked trees,
  The icy brooks, as on we passed, appeared                     15
  To question us, "Whence come ye? To what end?"




This poem refers to a winter journey on foot, which Wordsworth and his
sister took from Sockburn to Grasmere, by Wensleydale and Askrigg; and,
since he has left us an account of this journey, in a letter to
Coleridge, written a few days after their arrival at Grasmere--a letter
in which his characterisation of Nature is almost as happy as it is in
his best poems--some extracts from it may here be appended.

  "We left Sockburn last Tuesday morning. We crossed the Tees by
  moonlight in the Sockburn fields, and after ten good miles riding came
  in sight of the Swale. It is there a beautiful river, with its green
  banks and flat holms scattered over with trees. Four miles further
  brought us to Richmond, with its huge ivied castle, its friarage
  steeple, its castle tower resembling a huge steeple.... We were now in
  Wensleydale, and D. and I set off side by side to foot it as far as
  Kendal.... We reached Askrigg, twelve miles, before six in the
  evening, having been obliged to walk the last two miles over hard
  frozen roads.... Next morning the earth was thinly covered with snow,
  enough to make the road soft and prevent its being slippery. On
  leaving Askrigg we turned aside to see another waterfall. It was a
  beautiful morning, with driving snow showers, which disappeared by
  fits, and unveiled the east, which was all one delicious pale orange
  colour. After walking through two small fields we came to a mill,
  which we passed, and in a moment a sweet little valley opened before
  us, with an area of grassy ground, and a stream dashing over various
  laminae of black rocks close under a bank covered with firs; the bank
  and stream on our left, another woody bank on our right, and the flat
  meadow in front, from which, as at Buttermere, the stream had retired,
  as it were, to hide itself under the shade. As we walked up this
  delightful valley we were tempted to look back perpetually on the
  stream, which reflected the orange lights of the morning among the
  gloomy rocks, with a brightness varying with the agitation of the
  current. The steeple of Askrigg was between us and the east, at the
  bottom of the valley; it was not a quarter of a mile distant.... The
  two banks seemed to join before us with a facing of rock common to
  them both. When we reached this bottom the valley opened out again;
  two rocky banks on each side, which, hung with ivy and moss, and
  fringed luxuriantly with brushwood, ran directly parallel to each
  other, and then approaching with a gentle curve at their point of
  union, presented a lofty waterfall, the termination of the valley. It
  was a keen frosty morning, showers of snow threatening us, but the sun
  bright and active. We had a task of twenty-one miles to perform in a
  short winter's day.... On a nearer approach the waters seemed to fall
  down a tall arch or niche that had shaped itself by insensible
  moulderings in the wall of an old castle. We left this spot with
  reluctance, but highly exhilarated.... It was bitter cold, the wind
  driving the snow behind us in the best style of a mountain storm. We
  soon reached an inn at a place called Hardrane, and descending from
  our vehicles, after warming ourselves by the cottage fire, we walked
  up the brook-side to take a view of a third waterfall. We had not
  walked above a few hundred yards between two winding rocky banks
  before we came full upon the waterfall, which seemed to throw itself
  in a narrow line from a lofty wall of rock, the water, which shot
  manifestly to some distance from the rock, seeming to be dispersed
  into a thin shower scarcely visible before it reached the bason. We
  were disappointed in the cascade itself, though the introductory and
  accompanying banks were an exquisite mixture of grandeur and
  beauty.... After cautiously sounding our way over stones of all
  colours and sizes, encased in the clearest water formed by the spray
  of the fall, we found the rock, which before had appeared like a wall,
  extending itself over our heads, like the ceiling of a huge cave, from
  the summit of which the waters shot directly over our heads into a
  bason, and among fragments wrinkled over with masses of ice as white
  as snow, or rather, as Dorothy says, like congealed froth. The water
  fell at least ten yards from us, and we stood directly behind it, the
  excavation not so deep in the rock as to impress any feeling of
  darkness, but lofty and magnificent; but in connection with the
  adjoining banks excluding as much of the sky as could well be spared
  from a scene so exquisitely beautiful. The spot where we stood was as
  dry as the chamber in which I am now sitting, and the incumbent rock,
  of which the groundwork was limestone, veined and dappled with colours
  which melted into each other with every possible variety of colour. On
  the summit of the cave were three festoons, or rather wrinkles, in the
  rock, run up parallel like the folds of a curtain when it is drawn up.
  Each of these was hung with icicles of various length, and nearly in
  the middle of the festoon, in the deepest valley of the waves that ran
  parallel to each other, the stream shot from the rows of icicles in
  irregular fits of strength, and with a body of water that varied every
  moment. Sometimes the stream shot into the bason in one continued
  current; sometimes it was interrupted almost in the midst of its fall,
  and was blown towards part of the waterfall at no great distance from
  our feet like the heaviest thunder shower. In such a situation you
  have at every moment a feeling of the presence of the sky. Large
  fleecy clouds drove over our heads above the rush of the water, and
  the sky appeared of a blue more than usually brilliant. The rocks on
  each side, which, joining with the side of this cave, formed the vista
  of the brook, were chequered with three diminutive waterfalls, or
  rather courses of water. Each of these was a miniature of all that
  summer and winter can produce of delicate beauty. The rock in the
  centre of the falls, where the water was most abundant, a deep black,
  the adjoining parts yellow, white, purple, and dove colour, covered
  with water--plants of the most vivid green, and hung with streaming
  icicles, that in some places seem to conceal the verdure of the plants
  and the violet and yellow variegation of the rocks; and in some places
  render the colours more brilliant. I cannot express to you the
  enchanting effect produced by this Arabian scene of colour as the wind
  blew aside the great waterfall behind which we stood, and alternately
  hid and revealed each of these fairy cataracts in irregular
  succession, or displayed them with various gradations of distinctness
  as the intervening spray was thickened or dispersed. What a scene too
  in summer! In the luxury of our imagination we could not help feeding
  upon the pleasure which this cave, in the heat of a July noon, would
  spread through a frame exquisitely sensible. That huge rock on the
  right, the bank winding round on the left with all its living foliage,
  and the breeze stealing up the valley, and bedewing the cavern with
  the freshest imaginable spray. And then the murmur of the water, the
  quiet, the seclusion, and a long summer day."

Ed.


FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT:

[Footnote A: This is a fragment of 'The Recluse', ll. 152-167; but it
was originally published in the 'Memoirs of Wordsworth' by his nephew
(1851).--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





ELLEN IRWIN; OR, THE BRAES OF KIRTLE [A]


Composed 1800.--Published 1800


[It may be worth while to observe that as there are Scotch Poems on this
subject in simple ballad strain, I thought it would be both presumptuous
and superfluous to attempt treating it in the same way; and,
accordingly, I chose a construction of stanza quite new in our language;
in fact, the same as that of Buerger's 'Leonora', except that the first
and third lines do not, in my stanzas, rhyme. At the outset I threw out
a classical image to prepare the reader for the style in which I meant
to treat the story, and so to preclude all comparison.--I.F.]

In the editions of 1815 and 1820 this was included among the "Poems
founded on the Affections." In 1827 it was placed in the "Memorials of a
Tour in Scotland, 1803."--Ed.




  Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate
  Upon the braes of Kirtle,
  Was lovely as a Grecian maid
  Adorned with wreaths of myrtle;
  Young Adam Bruce beside her lay,                      5
  And there did they beguile the day
  With love and gentle speeches,
  Beneath the budding beeches.

  From many knights and many squires
  The Bruce had been selected;                         10
  And Gordon, fairest of them all,
  By Ellen was rejected.
  Sad tidings to that noble Youth!
  For it may be proclaimed with truth,
  If Bruce hath loved sincerely,                       15
  That Gordon [1] loves as dearly.

  But what are Gordon's form and face,
  His shattered hopes and crosses,
  To them, 'mid Kirtle's pleasant braes,
  Reclined on flowers and mosses? [2]                  20
  Alas that ever he was born!
  The Gordon, couched behind a thorn,
  Sees them and their caressing;
  Beholds them blest and blessing.

  Proud Gordon, maddened by the thoughts [3]           25
  That through his brain are travelling,
  Rushed forth, and at the heart of Bruce [4]
  He launched a deadly javelin!
  Fair Ellen saw it as it came,
  And, starting up to meet the same, [5]               30
  Did with her body cover
  The Youth, her chosen lover.

  And, falling into Bruce's arms,
  Thus died the beauteous Ellen,
  Thus, from the heart of her True-love,               35
  The mortal spear repelling.
  And Bruce, as soon as he had slain
  The Gordon, sailed away to Spain;
  And fought with rage incessant
  Against the Moorish crescent.                        40

  But many days, and many months,
  And many years ensuing,
  This wretched Knight did vainly seek
  The death that he was wooing.
  So, coming his last help to crave,                   45
  Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave [6]
  His body he extended,
  And there his sorrow ended.

  Now ye, who willingly have heard
  The tale I have been telling,                        50
  May in Kirkonnel churchyard view
  The grave of lovely Ellen:
  By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid;
  And, for the stone upon his head,
  May no rude hand deface it,                          55
  And its forlorn Hic jacet.



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1815.

  The Gordon ...     1800.]


[Variant 2:

1837.

  But what is Gordon's beauteous face?
  And what are Gordon's crosses
  To them who sit by Kirtle's Braes
  Upon the verdant mosses?      1800.]


[Variant 3:

1837.

  Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts      1800.]


[Variant 4:

1837.

  And, starting up, to Bruce's heart      1800.]


[Variant 5:

1837.

  Fair Ellen saw it when it came,
  And, stepping forth ...      1800.]


[Variant 6:

1827.

  So coming back across the wave,
  Without a groan on Ellen's grave      1800.

  And coming back ...                   1802.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote A: The Kirtle is a River in the Southern part of Scotland, on
whose banks the events here related took place.--W. W. 1800.]



No Scottish ballad is superior in pathos to 'Helen of Kirkconnell'. It
is based on a traditionary tale--the date of the event being lost--but
the locality, in the parish of Kirkpatrick-Fleming in Dumfriesshire, is
known; and there the graves of "Burd Helen" and her lover are still
pointed out.

The following is Sir Walter Scott's account of the story:

  "A lady of the name of Helen Irving, or Bell (for this is disputed by
  the two clans), daughter of the laird of Kirkconnell in Dumfriesshire,
  and celebrated for her beauty, was beloved by two gentlemen in the
  neighbourhood. The name of the favoured suitor was Adam Fleming of
  Kirkpatrick: that of the other has escaped tradition, although it has
  been alleged he was a Bell of Blackel-house. The addresses of the
  latter were, however, favoured by the friends of the lady, and the
  lovers were therefore obliged to meet in secret, and by night, in the
  Churchyard of Kirkconnell, a romantic spot, surrounded by the river
  Kirtle. During one of their private interviews, the jealous and
  despised lover suddenly appeared on the opposite bank of the stream,
  and levelled his carbine at the breast of his rival. Helen threw
  herself before her lover, received in her bosom the bullet, and died
  in his arms. A desperate and mortal combat ensued between Fleming and
  the murderer, in which the latter was cut to pieces."

See 'Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border', vol. ii. p. 317.

The original ballad--well known though it is--may be quoted as an
admirable illustration of the different types of poetic genius in
dealing with the same, or a kindred, theme.


  I wish I were where Helen lies!
  Night and day on me she cries;
  O that I were where Helen lies,
    On fair Kirkconnell lee!

  Cursed be the heart that thought the thought,
  And curst the hand that fired the shot,
  When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
    And died to succour me!

  Oh think ye na my heart was sair,
  When my love dropt down and spake nae mair!
  There did she swoon wi' meikle care,
    On fair Kirkconnell lee.

  As I went down the water side,
  None but my foe to be my guide,
  None but my foe to be my guide,
    On fair Kirkconnell lee--

  I lighted down, my sword did draw,
  I hacked him in pieces sma',
  I hacked him in pieces sma',
    For her sake that died for me.

  Oh, Helen fair, beyond compare!
  I'll weave a garland of thy hair
  Shall bind my heart for evermair,
    Until the day I dee!

  Oh that I were where Helen lies!
  Day and night on me she cries;
  Out of my bed she bids me rise,
    Says, "Haste, and come to me!"

  O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
  Were I with thee I would be blest,
  Where thou lies low and takes thy rest,
    On fair Kirkconnell lee.

  I wish my grave were growing green,
  A winding sheet drawn o'er my e'en,
  And I in Helen's arms lying
    On fair Kirkconnell lee.

  I wish I were where Helen lies!
  Night and day on me she cries,
  And I am weary of the skies,
    For her sake that died for me!


Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





HART-LEAP WELL


Composed 1800.--Published 1800


Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles from
Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road which leads from
Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a remarkable chace, the
memory of which is preserved by the monuments spoken of in the second
Part of the following Poem, which monuments do now exist as I have there
described them.--W. W. 1800.

[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The first eight stanzas were composed
extempore one winter evening in the cottage, when, after having tired
myself with labouring at an awkward passage in 'The Brothers', I started
with a sudden impulse to this to get rid of the other, and finished it
in a day or two. My sister and I had passed the place a few weeks before
in our wild winter journey from Sockburn on the banks of the Tees to
Grasmere. A peasant whom we met near the spot told us the story so far
as concerned the name of the Well, and the Hart, and pointed out the
Stones. Both the stones and the well are objects that may easily be
missed. The tradition by this time may be extinct in the neighbourhood.
The man who related it to us was very old.--I. F.]

Included among the "Poems of the Imagination,"--Ed.




  The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor
  With the slow motion of a summer's cloud
  And now, as he approached a vassal's door,
  "Bring forth another horse!" he cried aloud. [1]

  "Another horse!"--That shout the vassal heard                   5
  And saddled his best Steed, a comely grey;
  Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third
  Which he had mounted on that glorious day.

  Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes;
  The horse and horseman are a happy pair;                       10
  But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies,
  There is a doleful silence in the air.

  A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall,
  That as they galloped made the echoes roar;
  But horse and man are vanished, one and all;                   15
  Such race, I think, was never seen before.

  Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,
  Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain:
  Blanch, [2] Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind,
  Follow, and up the weary mountain strain.                      20

  The Knight hallooed, he cheered and chid them on [3]
  With suppliant gestures [4] and upbraidings stern;
  But breath and eyesight fail; and, one by one,
  The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern.

  Where is the throng, the tumult of the race? [5]               25
  The bugles that so joyfully were blown?
--This chase it looks not like an earthly chase; [6]
  Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.

  The poor Hart toils along the mountain-side;
  I will not stop to tell how far he fled,                       30
  Nor will I mention by what death he died;
  But now the Knight beholds him lying dead.

  Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn;
  He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy:
  He neither cracked [7] his whip, nor blew his horn,            35
  But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.

  Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned,
  Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat; [8]
  Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned;
  And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet. [9]             40

  Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched:
  His nostril touched [10] a spring beneath a hill,
  And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched
  The waters of the spring were trembling still.

  And now, too happy for repose or rest,                         45
  (Never had living man such joyful lot!) [11]
  Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west,
  And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot. [12]

  And climbing [13] up the hill--(it was at least
  Four [14] roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found              50
  Three several hoof-marks which the hunted Beast [15]
  Had left imprinted on the grassy [16] ground.

  Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, "Till now
  Such sight was never seen by human [17] eyes:
  Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow,               55
  Down to the very fountain where he lies.

  "I'll build a pleasure-house upon this spot,
  And a small arbour, made for rural joy;
  'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot,
  A place of love for damsels that are coy.                      60

  "A cunning artist will I have to frame
  A basin for that fountain in the dell!
  And they who do make mention of the same,
  From this day forth, shall call it HART-LEAP WELL.

  "And, gallant Stag! [18] to make thy praises known,            65
  Another monument shall here be raised;
  Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn stone,
  And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed.

  "And, in the summer-time when days are long,
  I will come hither with my Paramour;                           70
  And with the dancers and the minstrel's song
  We will make merry in that pleasant bower.

  "Till the foundations of the mountains fail
  My mansion with its arbour shall endure;--
  The joy of them who till the fields of Swale,                  75
  And them who dwell among the woods of Ure!"

  Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead,
  With breathless nostrils stretched above the spring.
--Soon did the Knight perform what he had said;
  And far and wide the fame thereof did ring. [19]               80

  Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steered,
  A cup of stone received the living well;
  Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared,
  And built a house of pleasure in the dell.

  And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall                 85
  With trailing plants and trees were intertwined,--
  Which soon composed a little sylvan hall,
  A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.

  And thither, when the summer days were long
  Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour; [20]                    90
  And with the dancers and the minstrel's song
  Made merriment within that pleasant bower.

  The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time,
  And his bones lie in his paternal vale.--
  But there is matter for a second rhyme,                        95
  And I to this would add another tale.


PART SECOND

  The moving accident [A] is not my trade;
  To freeze the blood I have no ready arts:
  'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade,
  To pipe a simple song for [21] thinking hearts.                 100

  As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair,
  It chanced that I saw standing in a dell
  Three aspens at three corners of a square;
  And one, not four yards distant, near a well.

  What this imported I could ill divine:                          105
  And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop,
  I saw three pillars standing in a line,--
  The last stone-pillar on a dark hill-top.

  The trees were grey, with neither arms nor head:
  Half wasted the square mound of tawny green;                    110
  So that you just might say, as then I said,
  "Here in old time the hand of man hath [22] been."

  I looked upon the hill [23] both far and near,
  More doleful place did never eye survey;
  It seemed as if the spring-time came not here,                  115
  And Nature here were willing to decay.

  I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, [B]
  When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired,
  Came up the hollow:--him did I accost,
  And what this place might be I then inquired.                   120

  The Shepherd stopped, and that same story told
  Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed.
  "A jolly place," said he, "in times of old!
  But something ails it now: the spot is curst.

  "You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood--125
  Some say that they are beeches, others elms--
  These were the bower; and here a mansion stood,
  The finest palace of a hundred realms!

  "The arbour does its own condition tell;
  You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream;               130
  But as to the great Lodge! you might as well
  Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.

  "There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep,
  Will wet his lips within that cup of stone;
  And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep,                       135
  This water doth send forth a dolorous groan.

  "Some say that here a murder has been done,
  And blood cries out for blood: but, for my part,
  I've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun,
  That it was all for that unhappy Hart.                          140

  "What thoughts must through the creature's brain have past!
  Even from the topmost stone, upon the steep, [24]
  Are but three bounds--and look, Sir, at this last--
  O Master! it has been a cruel leap.

  "For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race;                    145
  And in my simple mind we cannot tell
  What cause the Hart might have to love this place,
  And come and make his death-bed near the well.

  "Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank,
  Lulled by the [25] fountain in the summer tide;                 150
  This water was perhaps the first he drank
  When he had wandered from his mother's side.

  "In April here beneath the flowering [26] thorn
  He heard the birds their morning carols sing;
  And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born                    155
  Not half a furlong from that self-same spring.

  "Now, here is [27] neither grass nor pleasant shade;
  The sun on drearier hollow never shone;
  So will it be, as I have often said,
  Till trees, and stones, and fountain, all are gone."            160

  "Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well;
  Small difference lies between thy creed and mine:
  This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell;
  His death was mourned by sympathy divine.

  "The Being, that is in the clouds and air,                      165
  That is in the green leaves among the groves,
  Maintains a deep and reverential care
  For the unoffending creatures [28] whom he loves.

  "The pleasure-house is dust:--behind, before,
  This is no common waste, no common gloom;                       170
  But Nature, in due course of time, once more
  Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.

  "She leaves these objects to a slow decay,
  That what we are, and have been, may be known;
  But at the coming of the milder day,                            175
  These monuments shall all be overgrown.

  "One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,
  Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals; [C]
  Never to blend our pleasure or our pride
  With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels."                   180



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1836.

  He turn'd aside towards a Vassal's door,
  And, "Bring another Horse!" he cried aloud.     1800.]


[Variant 2:

1827.

  Brach, ...      1800.]


[Variant 3:

1827.

  ... he chid and cheer'd them on      1800.]


[Variant 4:

1800.

  With fawning kindness ...     MS.]


[Variant 5:

1802.

  ... of the chace?      1800.]


[Variant 6:

1802.

  This race it looks not like an earthly race;     1800.]


[Variant 7:

1820.

  ... smack'd ...       1800.]


[Variant 8:

1820.

  ... act;      1800.]


[Variant 9:

1820.

  And foaming like a mountain cataract.      1800.]


[Variant 10:

1820.

  His nose half-touch'd ...     1800.]


[Variant 11:

1820.

  Was never man in such a joyful case,      1800.]


[Variant 12:

1820.

  .... place.       1800.]


[Variant 13:

1802.

  ... turning ...       1800.]


[Variant 14:

1845.

  Nine ...      1800.]


[Variant 15:

1802.

  Three several marks which with his hoofs the beast     1800.]


[Variant 16:

1820.

  ... verdant ...      1800.]


[Variant 17:

1836.

  ... living ...       1800.]


[Variant 18:

1827.

  ... gallant brute! ...      1800.]


[Variant 19:

1815.

  And soon the Knight perform'd what he had said,
  The fame whereof through many a land did ring.       1800.]


[Variant 20:

1820.

  ... journey'd with his paramour;      1800.]


[Variant 21:

1815.

  ... to ...     1800.]


[Variant 22:

1815.

  ... has ...      1800.]


[Variant 23:

1815.

  ... hills ...       1800.]


[Variant 24:

1815.

  From the stone on the summit of the steep      1800.

  ... upon ...                                   1802.]


[Variant 25:

1832.

  ... this ...      1800.]


[Variant 26:

1836.

  ... scented ...      1800.]


[Variant 27:

1827.

  But now here's ...     1800.]


[Variant 28:

1815.

  For them the quiet creatures ...      1800.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare 'Othello', act I. scene iii. l. 135:

  'Of moving accidents by flood and field.'

Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare the sonnet (vol. iv.) beginning:

  "Beloved Vale!" I said. "when I shall con ...

Ed.]


[Footnote C: Compare Tennyson, 'In Memoriam', v. II. 3, 4.

  'For words, like Nature, half reveal
  And half conceal the Soul within.'

Ed.]



This poem was suggested to Wordsworth in December 1799 during the
journey with his sister from Sockburn in Yorkshire to Grasmere. I owe
the following local note on 'Hart-Leap Well' to Mr. John R. Tutin of
Hull.

  "June 20, 1881. Visited 'Hart-Leap Well,' the subject of Wordsworth's
  poem. It is situated on the road side leading from Richmond to
  Askrigg, at a distance of not more than three and a-half miles from
  Richmond, and not five miles as stated in the prefatory note to the
  poem. The 'three aspens at three corners of a square' are things of
  the past; also the 'three stone pillars standing in a line, on the
  hill above. In a straight line with the spring of water, and where the
  pillars would have been, a wall has been built; so that it is very
  probable the stone pillars were removed at the time of the building of
  this wall. The scenery around answers exactly to the description

    More doleful place did never eye survey;
    It seemed as if the spring time came not here,
    And Nature here were willing to decay.
    ...
    Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade.

  "It is barren moor for miles around. The water still falls into the
  'cup of stone,' which appeared to be of very long standing. Within ten
  yards of the well is a small tree, at the same side of the road as the
  well, on the right hand coming from Richmond."

The Rev. Thomas Hutchinson of Kimbolton wrote to me on June 18, 1883:

  "The tree is not a Thorn, but a Lime. It is evidently an old one, but
  is now in full and beautiful leaf. It stands on the western side of
  the road, and a few yards distant from it. The well is somewhat nearer
  the road. This side of the road is open to the fell. On the other side
  the road is bounded by a stone wall: another wall meeting this one at
  right angles, exactly opposite the well. I ascended the hill on the
  north side of this wall for some distance, but could find no trace of
  any rough-hewn stone. Descending on the other side, I found in the
  wall one, and only one, such stone. I should say the base was in the
  wall. The stone itself leans outwards; so that, at the top, three of
  its square faces can be seen; and two, if not three, of these faces
  bear marks of being hammer-dressed. The distance from the stone to the
  well is about 40 yards, and the height of the stone out of the ground
  about 3 or 4 feet.

  "The ascent from the well is a gentle one, not 'sheer'; nor does there
  appear to be any hollow by which the shepherd could ascend. On the
  western side of the road there is a wide plain, with a slight fall in
  that direction."


  "'Hart-Leap Well' is the tale for me; in matter as good as this
  ('Peter Bell'); in manner infinitely before it, in my poor judgment."

Charles Lamb to Wordsworth, May 1819. (See 'The Letters of Charles
Lamb', edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. ii. p. 20.)--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





THE IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS; OR, DUNGEON-GHYLL FORCE [A]

A PASTORAL


Composed 1800.--Published 1800


[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. I will only add a little monitory
anecdote concerning this subject. When Coleridge and Southey were
walking together upon the Fells, Southey observed that, if I wished to
be considered a faithful painter of rural manners, I ought not to have
said that my shepherd-boys trimmed their rustic hats as described in the
poem. Just as the words had passed his lips two boys appeared with the
very plant entwined round their hats. I have often wondered that
Southey, who rambled so much about the mountains, should have fallen
into this mistake, and I record it as a warning for others who, with far
less opportunity than my dear friend had of knowing what things are, and
far less sagacity, give way to presumptuous criticism, from which he was
free, though in this matter mistaken. In describing a tarn under
Helvellyn I say:

  "There sometimes doth a leaping fish
  Send through the tarn a lonely cheer."

This was branded by a critic of these days, in a review ascribed to Mrs.
Barbauld, as unnatural and absurd. I admire the genius of Mrs. Barbauld
and am certain that, had her education been favourable to imaginative
influences, no female of her day would have been more likely to
sympathise with that image, and to acknowledge the truth of the
sentiment.--I. F.]

Included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."--Ed.




  The valley rings with mirth and joy;
  Among the hills the echoes play
  A never never ending song,
  To welcome in the May. [1]
  The magpie chatters with delight;                       5
  The mountain raven's youngling brood
  Have left the mother and the nest;
  And they go rambling east and west
  In search of their own food;
  Or through the glittering vapours dart                 10
  In very wantonness of heart.

  Beneath a rock, upon the grass,
  Two boys are sitting in the sun;
  Their work, if any work they have,
  Is out of mind--or done. [2]                           15
  On pipes of sycamore they play
  The fragments of a Christmas hymn;
  Or with that plant which in our dale
  We call stag-horn, or fox's tail,
  Their rusty hats they trim:                            20
  And thus, as happy as the day,
  Those Shepherds wear the time away.

  Along the river's stony marge
  The sand-lark chants a joyous song;
  The thrush is busy in the wood,                        25
  And carols loud and strong.
  A thousand lambs are on the rocks,
  All newly born! both earth and sky
  Keep jubilee, [B] and more than all,
  Those boys with their green coronal;                   30
  They never hear the cry,
  That plaintive cry! which up the hill
  Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll.

  Said Walter, leaping from the ground,
  "Down to the stump of yon old yew                      35
  We'll for our whistles run a race." [3]
--Away the shepherds flew;
  They leapt--they ran--and when they came
  Right opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll,
  Seeing that he should lose the prize,                  40
  "Stop!" to his comrade Walter cries--
  James stopped with no good will:
  Said Walter then, exulting; "Here
  You'll find a task for half a year. [4]

  "Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross--45
  Come on, and tread where I shall tread." [5]
  The other took him at his word,
  And followed as he led. [6]
  It was a spot which you may see
  If ever you to Langdale go;                            50
  Into a chasm a mighty block
  Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock:
  The gulf is deep below;
  And, in a basin black and small,
  Receives a lofty waterfall.                            55

  With staff in hand across the cleft
  The challenger pursued [7] his march;
  And now, all eyes and feet, hath gained
  The middle of the arch.
  When list! he hears a piteous moan--60
  Again!--his heart within him dies--
  His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost,
  He totters, pallid as a ghost, [8]
  And, looking down, espies [9]
  A lamb, that in the pool is pent                       65
  Within that black and frightful rent.

  The lamb had slipped into the stream,
  And safe without a bruise or wound
  The cataract had borne him down
  Into the gulf profound.                                70
  His dam had seen him when he fell,
  She saw him down the torrent borne;
  And, while with all a mother's love
  She from the lofty rocks above
  Sent forth a cry forlorn,                              75
  The lamb, still swimming round and round,
  Made answer to that plaintive sound.

  When he had learnt what thing it was,
  That sent this rueful cry; I ween
  The Boy recovered heart, and told                      80
  The sight which he had seen.
  Both gladly now deferred their task;
  Nor was there wanting other aid--
  A Poet, one who loves the brooks
  Far better than the sages' books,                      85
  By chance had thither strayed;
  And there the helpless lamb he found
  By those huge rocks encompassed round.

  He drew it from the troubled pool, [10]
  And brought it forth into the light:                   90
  The Shepherds met him with his charge,
  An unexpected sight!
  Into their arms the lamb they took,
  Whose life and limbs the flood had spared; [11]
  Then up the steep ascent they hied,                    95
  And placed him at his mother's side;
  And gently did the Bard
  Those idle Shepherd-boys upbraid,
  And bade them better mind their trade.




The "bridge of rock" across Dungeon-Ghyll "chasm," and the "lofty
waterfall," with all its accessories of place as described in the poem,
remain as they were in 1800.--Ed.



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1800.

  The valley rings with mirth and joy;
  And, pleased to welcome in the May,
  From hill to hill the echoes fling
  Their liveliest roundelay.    1836.

The text of 1845 returns to that of 1800.]


[Variant 2:

1836.

  It seems they have no work to do
  Or that their work is done.    1800.

  Boys that have had no work to do,
  Or work that now is done.      1827.]


[Variant 3:

1805.

  I'll run with you a race."--No more--1800.

  We'll for this Whistle run a race." ...    1802.]


[Variant 4:

1836.

  Said Walter then, "Your task is here,
  'Twill keep you working half a year.    1800.

  'Twill baffle you for half a year.      1827.]


[Variant 5:

1836.

  Till you have cross'd where I shall cross,
  Say that you'll neither sleep nor eat."    1800.

  "Now cross where I shall cross,--come on
  And follow me where I shall lead--"        1802.

  "Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross--
  Come on, and in my footsteps tread!"       1827.]


[Variant 6:

1827.

  James proudly took him at his word,
  But did not like the feat.         1800.

  ... the deed.                      1802.

  The other took him at his word,    1805.]


[Variant 7:

1827.

  ... began ...    1800.]


[Variant 8:

1827.

  ... pale as any ghost,    1800.]


[Variant 9:

1827.

  ... he spies    1800.]


[Variant 10:

1836.

  He drew it gently from the pool,    1800.]


[Variant 11:

1836.

  Said they, "He's neither maim'd nor scarr'd"--1800.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: 'Ghyll', in the dialect of Cumberland and Westmoreland is a
short and for the most part a steep narrow valley, with a stream running
through it. 'Force' is the word universally employed in these dialects
for Waterfall.--W. W. 1800.

"Ghyll" was spelt "Gill" in the editions of 1800 to 1805.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare the 'Ode, Intimations of Immortality', iv. l. 3
(vol. viii.)--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





THE PET-LAMB

A PASTORAL


Composed 1800.--Published 1800


[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Barbara Lewthwaite, now living at
Ambleside (1843), though much changed as to beauty, was one of two most
lovely sisters. Almost the first words my poor brother John said, when
he visited us for the first time at Grasmere, were, "Were those two
Angels that I have just seen?" and from his description, I have no doubt
they were those two sisters. The mother died in childbed; and one of our
neighbours at Grasmere told me that the loveliest sight she had ever
seen was that mother as she lay in her coffin with her babe in her arm.
I mention this to notice what I cannot but think a salutary custom once
universal in these vales. Every attendant on a funeral made it a duty to
look at the corpse in the coffin before the lid was closed, which was
never done (nor I believe is now) till a minute or two before the corpse
was removed. Barbara Lewthwaite was not in fact the child whom I had
seen and overheard as described in the poem. I chose the name for
reasons implied in the above; and here will add a caution against the
use of names of living persons. Within a few months after the
publication of this poem, I was much surprised, and more hurt, to find
it in a child's school book, which, having been compiled by Lindley
Murray, had come into use at Grasmere School where Barbara was a pupil;
and, alas! I had the mortification of hearing that she was very vain of
being thus distinguished; and, in after life she used to say that she
remembered the incident, and what I said to her upon the occasion.--I.
F.]

Included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."--Ed.




  The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;
  I heard a voice; it said, "Drink, pretty creature, drink!"
  And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied
  A snow white mountain-lamb with a Maiden at its side.

  Nor sheep nor kine [1] were near; the lamb was all alone,            5
  And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;
  With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden kneel,
  While to that mountain-lamb she gave its evening meal.

  The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took,
  Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his tail with pleasure shook.
  "Drink, pretty creature, drink," she said in such a tone
  That I almost received her heart into my own.

  'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare!
  I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair.
  Now with her empty can the Maiden turned away:                      15
  But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.

  Right towards the lamb she looked; and from a shady place [2]
  I unobserved could see the workings of her face:
  If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring,
  Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little Maid might sing:           20

  "What ails thee, young One? what? Why pull so at thy cord?
  Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and board?
  Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be;
  Rest, little young One, rest; what is't that aileth thee?

  "What is it thou wouldst seek? What is wanting to thy heart?        25
  Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art:
  This grass is tender grass; these flowers they have no peers;
  And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears!

  "If the sun be [3] shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,
  This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain;              30
  For rain and mountain-storms! the like thou need'st not fear,
  The rain and storm are things that [4] scarcely can come here.

  "Rest, little young One, rest; thou hast forgot the day
  When my father found thee first in places far away;
  Many flocks were [5] on the hills, but thou wert owned by none,     35
  And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone.

  "He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home:
  A blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roam?
  A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yean
  Upon the mountain tops no kinder could have been.                   40

  "Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this can
  Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran;
  And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew
  I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new.

  "Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now,          45
  Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough;
  My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold
  Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.

  "It will not, will not rest!--Poor creature, can it be
  That 'tis thy mother's heart which is working so in thee? [6]       50
  Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,
  And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.

  "Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and fair!
  I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there;
  The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play,               55
  When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.

  "Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky;
  Night and day thou art safe,--our cottage is hard by.
  Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain?
  Sleep--and at break of day I will come to thee again!" [7]          60

--As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,
  This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat;
  And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line,
  That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was _mine_. [8]

  Again, and once again, did I repeat the song;                       65
  "Nay," said I, "more than half to the damsel [9] must belong,
  For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone,
  That I almost received her heart into my own."



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1836.

  No other sheep ...    1800.]


[Variant 2:

1836.

  Towards the Lamb she look'd, and from that shady place    1800]


[Variant 3:

1802.

  ... is ...    1800.]


[Variant 4:

1827.

  ... which ...    1800.]


[Variant 5:

1802.

  ... are ...    1800.]


[Variant 6:

1800.

  ... Poor creature, it must be
  That thou hast lost thy mother, and 'tis that which troubles thee.
MS.]


[Variant 7:

1802.

  ... the raven in the sky,
  He will not come to thee, our Cottage is hard by,
  Night and day thou art safe as living thing can be,
  Be happy then and rest, what is't that aileth thee?"    1800.]


[Variant 8: _Italics_ first used in 1815.]


[Variant 9: This word was _italicised_ from 1813 to 1832.]





       *       *       *       *       *





THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE


Composed 1800.--Published 1815 [A]


[The character of this man was described to me, and the incident upon
which the verses turn was told me, by Mr. Poole of Nether Stowey, with
whom I became acquainted through our common friend, S. T. Coleridge.
During my residence at Alfoxden, I used to see much of him, and had
frequent occasions to admire the course of his daily life, especially
his conduct to his labourers and poor neighbours; their virtues he
carefully encouraged, and weighed their faults in the scales of charity.
If I seem in these verses to have treated the weaknesses of the farmer
and his transgressions too tenderly, it may in part be ascribed to my
having received the story from one so averse to all harsh judgment.
After his death was found in his escritoir, a lock of grey hair
carefully preserved, with a notice that it had been cut from the head of
his faithful shepherd, who had served him for a length of years. I need
scarcely add that he felt for all men as his brothers. He was much
beloved by distinguished persons--Mr. Coleridge, Mr. Southey, Sir H.
Davy, and many others; and in his own neighbourhood was highly valued as
a magistrate, a man of business, and in every other social relation. The
latter part of the poem perhaps requires some apology, as being too much
of an echo to 'The Reverie of Poor Susan'.--I.F.]

Included in the "Poems referring to the Period of Old Age."--Ed.




  'Tis not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined,
  The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of mind,
  And the small critic wielding his delicate pen,
  That I sing of old Adam, the pride of old men.

  He dwells in the centre of London's wide Town;                       5
  His staff is a sceptre--his grey hairs a crown;
  And his bright eyes look brighter, set off by the streak
  Of the unfaded rose that still blooms on his cheek. [1]

  'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn,--'mid the joy
  Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when a boy;                 10
  That countenance there fashioned, which, spite of a stain [2]
  That his life hath received, to the last will remain. [3]

  A Farmer he was; and his house [4] far and near
  Was the boast of the country [5] for excellent cheer:
  How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury Vale                         15
  Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt his mild ale! [6]

  Yet Adam was far as the farthest from ruin,
  His fields seemed to know what their Master was doing;
  And turnips, and corn-land, [7] and meadow, and lea,
  All caught the infection--as generous as he.                        20

  Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl, [8]--
  The fields better suited the ease of his soul:
  He strayed through the fields like an indolent wight,
  The quiet of nature was Adam's delight.

  For Adam was simple in thought; and the poor,                       25
  Familiar with him, made an inn of his door:
  He gave them the best that he had; or, to say
  What less may mislead you, they took it away.
  [9]
  Thus thirty smooth years did he thrive on his farm:
  The Genius of plenty preserved him from harm:                       30
  At length, what to most is a season of sorrow,
  His means are [10] run out,--he must beg, or must borrow.

  To the neighbours he went,--all were free with their money;
  For his hive had so long been replenished with honey,
  That they dreamt not of dearth;--He continued his rounds, [11]      35
  Knocked here-and knocked there, pounds still adding to pounds.

  He paid what he could with his [12] ill-gotten pelf,
  And something, it might be, reserved for himself: [13]
  Then (what is too true) without hinting a word,
  Turned his back on the country--and off like a bird.                40

  You lift up your eyes!--but I guess that you frame
  A judgment too harsh of the sin and the shame; [14]
  In him it was scarcely [15] a business of art,
  For this he did all in the _ease_ [16] of his heart.

  To London--a sad emigration I ween--45
  With his grey hairs he went from the brook [17] and the green;
  And there, with small wealth but his legs and his hands,
  As lonely he stood as [18] a crow on the sands.

  All trades, as need [19] was, did old Adam assume,--
  Served as stable-boy, errand-boy, porter, and groom;                50
  But nature is gracious, necessity kind,
  And, in spite of the shame that may lurk in his mind, [20]
  [21]
  He seems ten birthdays younger, is green and is stout; [22]
  Twice as fast as before does his blood run about;
  You would [23] say that each hair of his beard was alive,           55
  And his fingers are busy as bees in a hive.

  For he's not like an Old Man that leisurely goes
  About work that he knows, [24] in a track that he knows;
  But often his mind is compelled to demur,
  And you guess that the more then his body must stir.                60

  In the throng of the town like a stranger is he,
  Like one whose own country's far over the sea;
  And Nature, while through the great city he hies,
  Full ten times a day takes his heart by surprise.

  This gives him the fancy of one that is young,                      65
  More of soul in his face than of words on [25] his tongue;
  Like a maiden of twenty he trembles and sighs,
  And tears of fifteen will come [26] into his eyes.

  What's a tempest to him, or the dry parching heats?
  Yet he watches the clouds that pass over the streets;               70
  With a look of such earnestness often will stand, [27]
  You might think he'd twelve reapers at work in the Strand.

  Where proud Covent-garden, in desolate hours
  Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruits and her flowers,
  Old Adam will smile at the pains that have made                     75
  Poor winter look fine in such strange masquerade. [28]
  [29]
  'Mid coaches and chariots, a waggon of straw,
  Like a magnet, the heart of old Adam can draw;
  With a thousand soft pictures his memory will teem,
  And his hearing is touched with the sounds of a dream.              80

  Up the Haymarket hill he oft whistles his way,
  Thrusts his hands in a waggon, and smells at the hay; [30]
  He thinks of the fields he so often hath mown,
  And is happy as if the rich freight were his own. [31]

  But chiefly to Smithfield he loves to repair,--85
  If you pass by at morning, you'll meet with him there.
  The breath of the cows you may see him inhale,
  And his heart all the while is in Tilsbury Vale.

  Now farewell, old Adam! when low [32] thou art laid,
  May one blade of grass spring over [33] thy head;                   90
  And I hope that thy grave, wheresoever it be,
  Will hear the wind sigh through the leaves of a tree.




With this picture, which was taken from real life, compare the
imaginative one of 'The Reverie of Poor Susan' [vol. i. p. 226]; and see
(to make up the deficiencies of this class) 'The Excursion, passim'.--W.
W. 1837.



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1837.

  Erect as a sunflower he stands, and the streak
  Of the unfaded rose is expressed on his cheek.    1815.

  ... still enlivens his cheek.                     1827.]


[Variant 2:

1840.

  There fashion'd that countenance, which, in spite of a stain     1815.]


[Variant 3:

    There's an old man in London, the prime of old men,
  You may hunt for his match through ten thousand and ten,
  Of prop or of staff, does he walk, does he run,
  No more need has he than a flow'r of the sun.    1800.

This stanza appeared only in 1800, occupying the place of the three
first stanzas in the final text.]


[Variant 4:

1815.

  ... name ...    1800.]


[Variant 5:

1815.

  Was the Top of the Country, ...    1800.]


[Variant 6:

1827.

  Not less than the skill of an Exchequer Teller
  Could count the shoes worn on the steps of his cellar.     1800.

  How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury Vale
  Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt his good ale.    1815.]


[Variant 7:

1815.

  ... plough'd land, ...    1800.]


[Variant 8:

1815.

  ... the noise of the bowl,     1800]


[Variant 9:


  On the works of the world, on the bustle and sound,
  Seated still in his boat, he look'd leisurely round;
  And if now and then he his hands did employ,
  'Twas with vanity, wonder, and infantine joy.

Only in the text of 1800.]


[Variant 10:

1815.

  ... were ...     1800.]


[Variant 11:

1815.

  For they all still imagin'd his hive full of honey;
  Like a Church-warden, Adam continu'd his rounds,     1800.]


[Variant 12:

1837.

  ... this ...     1800.]


[Variant 13:

1815.

  ... he kept to himself;     1800.]


[Variant 14:

1820.

  You lift up your eyes, "O the merciless Jew!"
  But in truth he was never more cruel than you;     1800.

  ...--and I guess that you frame
  A judgment too harsh of the sin and the shame;     1815.]


[Variant 15:

1815.

  ... scarce e'en ...     1800.]


[Variant 16: _Italics_ first used in 1815.]


[Variant 17:

1815.

  ... lawn ...     1800.]


[Variant 18:

1815.

  He stood all alone like ...     1800.]


[Variant 19:

1800.

  ... needs ...     1815.

The edition of 1827 returns to the text of 1800.]


[Variant 20:

1815.

  Both stable-boy, errand-boy, porter and groom;
  You'd think it the life of a Devil in H--l,
  But nature was kind, and with Adam 'twas well.     1800.]


[Variant 21:

    He's ten birth-days younger, he's green, and he's stout,
  Twice as fast as before does his blood run about,
  You'd think it the life of a Devil in H--l,
  But Nature is kind, and with Adam 'twas well.

This stanza appeared only in 1800. It was followed by that which now
forms lines 53-56 of the final text.]


[Variant 22:

1815.

  He's ten birth-days younger, he's green, and he's stout,    1800.]


[Variant 23:

1815.

  You'd ...     1800.]


[Variant 24:

1815.

  ... does ...     1800.]


[Variant 25:

1815.

  ... in ...     1800.]


[Variant 26:

1800.

  ... have come ...     1815.

The text of 1820 returns to that of 1800.]


[Variant 27:

1815.

  ...he'll stand     1800.]


[Variant 28:

1837.

   Where proud Covent-Garden, in frost and in snow,
  Spreads her fruits and her flow'rs, built up row after row;
  Old Adam will point with his finger and say,
  To them that stand by, "I've seen better than they."    1800.

  ... her fruit ...                                       1815.

(The text of 1815 is otherwise identical with that of 1837.)]


[Variant 29:

  Where the apples are heap'd on the barrows in piles,
  You see him stop short, he looks long, and he smiles;
  He looks, and he smiles, and a Poet might spy
  The image of fifty green fields in his eye.

Only in the text of 1800.]


[Variant 30:

1837.

  ... in the waggons, and smells to the hay;    1800.

  ... in the Waggon, and smells at ...          1815.]


[Variant 31:

1815.

  ... has mown,
  And sometimes he dreams that the hay is his own.    1800.]


[Variant 32:

1815.

  ... where'er ...    1800.]


[Variant 33:

1850.

  ... spring up o'er ...    1800.

  ... over ...    1815.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: i. e. first published in the 1815 edition of the Poems:
but, although dated by Wordsworth 1803, it had appeared in 'The Morning
Post' of July 21, 1800, under the title, 'The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale. A
Character'. It was then unsigned.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES


ADVERTISEMENT

By Persons resident in the country and attached to rural objects, many
places will be found unnamed or of unknown names, where little Incidents
will have occurred, or feelings been experienced, which will have given
to such places a private and peculiar interest. From a wish to give some
sort of record to such Incidents or renew the gratification of such
Feelings, Names have been given to Places by the Author and some of his
Friends, and the following Poems written in consequence. [A]--W. W. 1800.


[Footnote A: It should be explained that owing to the chronological plan
adopted in this edition (see the preface to vol. i.), two of the poems
which were placed by Wordsworth in his series of "Poems on the Naming of
Places," but which belong to later years, are printed in subsequent
volumes.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





"IT WAS AN APRIL MORNING: FRESH AND CLEAR"


Composed 1800.--Published 1800


[Written at Grasmere. This poem was suggested on the banks of the brook
that runs through Easdale, which is, in some parts of its course, as
wild and beautiful as brook can be. I have composed thousands of verses
by the side of it.--I. F.]




  It was an April morning: fresh and clear
  The Rivulet, delighting in its strength,
  Ran with a young man's speed; and yet the voice
  Of waters which the winter had supplied
  Was softened down into a vernal tone.                       5
  The spirit of enjoyment and desire,
  And hopes and wishes, from all living things
  Went circling, like a multitude of sounds.
  The budding groves seemed eager to urge on
  The steps of June; as if their various hues                10
  Were only hindrances that stood between
  Them and their object: but, meanwhile, prevailed
  Such an entire contentment in the air [1]
  That every naked ash, and tardy tree
  Yet leafless, showed as if [2] the countenance             15
  With which it looked on this delightful day
  Were native to the summer.--Up the brook
  I roamed in the confusion of my heart,
  Alive to all things and forgetting all.
  At length I to a sudden turning came                       20
  In this continuous glen, where down a rock
  The Stream, so ardent in its course before,
  Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all
  Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice
  Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb,              25
  The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush
  Vied with this waterfall, and made a song,
  Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth
  Or like some natural produce of the air,
  That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here;        30
  But 'twas the foliage of the rocks--the birch,
  The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn,
  With hanging islands of resplendent furze:
  And, on a summit, distant a short space,
  By any who should look beyond the dell,                    35
  A single mountain-cottage might be seen.
  I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said,
  "Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook,
  My EMMA, I will dedicate to thee."
--Soon did the spot become my other home,                  40
  My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.
  And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there,
  To whom I sometimes in our idle talk
  Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps,
  Years after we are gone and in our graves,                 45
  When they have cause to speak of this wild place,
  May call it by the name of EMMA'S DELL.



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

  The budding groves appear'd as if in haste
  To spur the steps of June; as if their shades
  Of _various_ green were hindrances that stood
  Between them and their object: yet, meanwhile,
  There was such deep contentment in the air     1800.]


[Variant 2:

1845.

  ... seem'd as though ...    1800.]



The text of the "Poems on the Naming of Places" underwent comparatively
little alteration in successive editions. Both the changes in the first
poem were made in 1845. From the Fenwick note, it is evident that "the
Rivulet" was Easdale beck. But where was "Emma's Dell"? In the autumn of
1877, Dr. Cradock, the Principal of Brasenose College, Oxford, took me
to a place, of which he afterwards wrote,

  "I have a fancy for a spot just beyond Goody Bridge to the left, where
  the brook makes a curve, and returns to the road two hundred yards
  farther on. But I have not discovered a trace of authority in favour
  of the idea farther than that the wooded bend of the brook with the
  stepping stones across it, connected with a field-path recently
  stopped, was a very favourite haunt of Wordsworth's. At the upper part
  of this bend, near to the place where the brook returns to the road,
  is a deep pool at the foot of a rush of water. In this pool, a man
  named Wilson was drowned many years ago. He lived at a house on the
  hill called Score Crag, which, if my conjecture as to Emma's Dell is
  right, is the 'single mountain cottage' on a 'summit, distant a short
  space.' Wordsworth, happening to be walking at no great distance,
  heard a loud shriek. It was that of Mr. Wilson, the father, who had
  just discovered his son's body in the beck."

In the "Reminiscences" of the poet, by the Hon. Mr. Justice Coleridge,
which were contributed to the 'Memoirs of Wordsworth', written by his
nephew (vol. ii. pp. 300-315), there is a record of a walk they took up
Easdale to this place, entering the field just at the spot which Dr.
Cradock supposes to be "Emma's Dell."

  "He turned aside at a little farm-house, and took us into a swelling
  field to look down on the tumbling stream which bounded it, and which
  we saw precipitated at a distance, in a broad white sheet, from the
  mountain." (This refers to Easdale Force.) "Then, as he mused for an
  instant, he said,

    'I have often thought what a solemn thing it would be could we have
    brought to our mind at once all the scenes of distress and misery
    which any spot, however beautiful and calm before us, has been
    witness to since the beginning. That water break, with the glassy
    quiet pool beneath it, that looks so lovely, and presents no images
    to the mind but of peace--there, I remember, the only son of his
    father, a poor man who lived yonder, was drowned.'"

This walk and conversation took place in October 1836. If any one is
surprised that Wordsworth, supposing him to have been then looking into
the very dell on which he wrote the above poem in 1800, did not name it
to Mr. Coleridge, he must remember that he was not in the habit of
speaking of the places he had memorialised in verse, and that in 1836
his "Sister Emmeline" had for a year been a confirmed invalid at Rydal.
I have repeatedly followed Easdale beck all the way up from its junction
with the Rothay to the Tarn, and found no spot corresponding so closely
to the realistic detail of this poem as the one suggested by Dr.
Cradock. There are two places further up the dale where the "sallies of
glad sound" such as are referred to in the poem, are even more
distinctly audible; but they are not at "a sudden turning," as is the
spot above Goody Bridge. If one leaves the Easdale road at this bridge,
and keeps to the side of the beck for a few hundred yards, till he
reaches the turning,--especially if it be a bright April morning, such
as that described in the poem,--and remembers that this path by the
brook was a favourite resort of Wordsworth and his sister, the
probability of Dr. Cradock's suggestion will be apparent. Lady
Richardson, who knew the place, and appreciated the poem as thoroughly
as any of Wordsworth's friends, told me that she concurred in this
identification of the "dell."--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





TO JOANNA


Composed 1800.--Published 1800


[Written at Grasmere. The effect of her laugh is an extravagance, though
the effect of the reverberation of voices in some parts of the mountains
is very striking. There is, in 'The Excursion', an allusion to the bleat
of a lamb thus re-echoed, and described without any exaggeration, as I
heard it, on the side of Stickle Tarn, from the precipice that stretches
on to Langdale Pikes.--I.F.]




  Amid the smoke of cities did you pass
  The time [1] of early youth; and there you learned,
  From years of quiet industry, to love
  The living Beings by your own fire-side,
  With such a strong devotion, that your heart                    5
  Is slow to meet [2] the sympathies of them
  Who look upon the hills with tenderness,
  And make dear friendships with the streams and groves.
  Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind,
  Dwelling retired in our simplicity                             10
  Among the woods and fields, we love you well,
  Joanna! and I guess, since you have been
  So distant from us now for two long years,
  That you will gladly listen to discourse,
  However trivial, if you thence be taught [3]                   15
  That they, with whom you once were happy, talk
  Familiarly of you and of old times.

    While I was seated, now some ten days past,
  Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop
  Their ancient neighbour, the old steeple-tower,                20
  The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by [A]
  Came forth to greet me; and when he had asked,
  "How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid!
  And when will she return to us?" he paused;
  And, after short exchange of village news,                     25
  He with grave looks demanded, for what cause,
  Reviving obsolete idolatry,
  I, like a Runic Priest, in characters
  Of formidable size had chiselled out
  Some uncouth name upon the native rock,                        30
  Above the Rotha, by the forest-side.
--Now, by those dear immunities of heart
  Engendered between [4] malice and true love,
  I was not loth to be so catechised,
  And this was my reply:--"As it befel,                          35
  One summer morning we had walked abroad
  At break of day, Joanna and myself.
--'Twas that delightful season when the broom,
  Full-flowered, and visible on every steep,
  Along the copses runs in veins of gold.                        40
  Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks;
  And when we came in front of that tall rock
  That eastward looks, I there stopped short--and stood [5]
  Tracing [6] the lofty barrier with my eye
  From base to summit; such delight I found                      45
  To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower
  That intermixture of delicious hues,
  Along so vast a surface, all at once,
  In one impression, by connecting force
  Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart.                      50
--When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space,
  Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld
  That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud.
  The Rock, like something starting from a sleep,
  Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again;                   55
  That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag
  Was ready with her cavern; Hammar-scar,
  And the tall Steep of Silver-how, sent forth
  A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard,
  And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone;                   60
  Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky
  Carried the Lady's voice,--old Skiddaw blew
  His speaking-trumpet;--back out of the clouds
  Of Glaramara southward came the voice;
  And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head.                   65
--Now whether (said I to our cordial Friend,
  Who in the hey-day of astonishment
  Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth
  A work accomplished by the brotherhood
  Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched                    70
  With dreams and visionary impulses
  To me alone imparted, sure I am [7]
  That there was a loud uproar in the hills.
  And, while we both were listening, to my side
  The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished                         75
  To shelter from some object of her fear.
--And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons
  Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone
  Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm
  And silent morning, I sat down, and there,                     80
  In memory of affections old and true,
  I chiselled out in those rude characters
  Joanna's name deep in the living stone:--[8]
  And I, and all who dwell by my fireside,
  Have called the lovely rock, JOANNA'S ROCK."                   85



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827.

  Your time ...     1800.]


[Variant 2:

1836.

  Is slow towards...     1800.

  ... toward....         1827.]


[Variant 3:

1836.
  ... are taught...     1800.]


[Variant 4:

1836.

  ... betwixt ...      1800.]


[Variant 5:

1836.

  Which looks towards the East, I there stopp'd short,       1800.

  ... toward ...                                             1827.]


[Variant 6:

1836.

  And trac'd ...      1800.]


[Variant 7:

1827.

  Is not for me to tell; but sure I am      1800]


[Variant 8:

1845.

  Joanna's name upon the living stone.      1800.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The Rectory at Grasmere, where Wordsworth lived from 1811
to 1813, and where two of his children died.--Ed.]


In Cumberland and Westmoreland are several Inscriptions upon the native
rock which from the wasting of Time and the rudeness of the Workmanship
had been mistaken for Runic. They are without doubt Roman.

The Rotha, mentioned in this poem, is the River which flowing through
the Lakes of Grasmere and Rydale falls into Wyndermere. On Helm-Crag,
that impressive single Mountain at the head of the Vale of Grasmere, is
a Rock which from most points of view bears a striking resemblance to an
Old Woman cowering. Close by this rock is one of those Fissures or
Caverns, which in the language of the Country are called Dungeons. The
other Mountains either immediately surround the Vale of Grasmere, or
belong to the same Cluster.--W. W. 1800.

Most of the Mountains here mentioned immediately surround the vale of
Grasmere; of the others, some are at a considerable distance, but they
belong to the same cluster.--W. W. 1802.

The majority of the changes introduced into the text of this poem were
made in the year 1836.

The place where the echo of the bleat of the lamb was heard--referred
to in the Fenwick note--may be easily found. The "precipice" is Pavy
Ark. "The 'lofty firs, that overtop their ancient neighbour, the old
steeple-tower,' stood by the roadside, scarcely twenty yards north-west
from the steeple of Grasmere church. Their site is now included in the
road, which has been widened at that point. They were Scotch firs of
unusual size, and might justly be said to 'overtop their neighbour' the
tower. Mr. Fleming Green, who well remembers the trees, gave me this
information, which is confirmed by other inhabitants.

  "When the road was enlarged, not many years ago, the roots of the
  trees were found by the workmen."

(Dr. Cradock to the editor.) The

          'tall rock
    That eastward looks'

by the banks of the Rotha, presenting a "lofty barrier" "from base to
summit," is manifestly a portion of Helmcrag. It is impossible to know
whether Wordsworth carved Joanna Hutchinson's name anywhere on Helmcrag,
and it is useless to enquire. If he did so, the discovery of the place
would not help any one to understand or appreciate the poem. It is
obvious that he did not intend to be literally exact in details, as the
poem was written in 1800, and addressed to Joanna Hutchinson,--who is
spoken of as having been absent from Grasmere "for two long years;" and
Wordsworth says that he carved the Runic characters 'in memoriam'
eighteen months after that summer morning when he heard the echo of her
laugh. But the family took up residence at Grasmere only in December
1799, and the "Poems on the Naming of Places" were published before the
close of 1800. The effect of these lines to Joanna, however, is
certainly not impaired--it may even be enhanced--by our inability to
localise them. Only one in the list of places referred to can occasion
any perplexity, viz., Hammar-scar, since it is a name now disused in the
district. It used to be applied to some rocks on the flank of
Silver-how, to the wood around them, and also to the gorge between
Silver-how and Loughrigg. Hammar, from the old Norse 'hamar', signifies
a steep broken rock.

The imaginative description of the echo of the lady's laugh suggests a
parallel passage from Michael Drayton's 'Polyolbion', which Wordsworth
must doubtless have read. (See his sister's reference to Drayton in her
'Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland', in 1803: in the note to the
poem, 'At the grave of Burns', p. 382 of this volume.)


  'Which _Copland_ scarce had spoke, but quickly every Hill
  Upon her verge that stands, the neighbouring valleys fill;
  _Helvillon_ from his height, it through the mountains threw,
  From whence as soon again, the sound _Dunbalrase_ drew,
  From whose stone-trophed head, it on the _Wendrosse_ went,
  Which tow'rds the sea again, resounded it to _Dent_,
  That _Brodwater_ therewith within her banks astound,
  In sailing to the sea, told it to _Egremound_,
  Whose buildings, walks, and streets, with echoes loud and long,
  Did mightily commend old _Copland_ for her song.'

'Polyolbion', The Thirtieth Song, ll. 155-164.


Any one who compares this passage with Wordsworth's 'Joanna' will see
the difference between the elaborate fancy of a topographical narrator,
and the vivid imagination of a poetical idealist. A somewhat similar
instance of indebtedness--in which the debt is repaid by additional
insight--is seen when we compare a passage from Sir John Davies's
'Orchestra, or a poem on Dancing' (stanza 49), with one from 'The
Ancient Mariner', Part VI. stanzas 2 and 3--although there was more of
the true imaginative light in Davies than in Drayton.


  'For lo, the sea that fleets about the land,
    And like a girdle clips her solid waist,
  Music and measure both doth understand;
    For his great crystal eye is always cast
    Up to the moon, and on her fixed fast:
      And as she danceth in her palid sphere
      So danceth he about his centre here.'

DAVIES


    'Still as a slave before his lord,
    The ocean hath no blast;
    His great bright eye most silently
    Up to the moon is cast--

    If he may know which way to go;
    For she guides him smooth or grim.
    See, brother, see! how graciously
    She looketh down on him.'

COLERIDGE.


These extracts show how both Wordsworth and Coleridge assimilated past
literary products, and how they glorified them by reproduction. There
was little, however, in the poetic imagery of previous centuries that
Wordsworth reproduced. His imagination worked in a sphere of its own,
free from the trammels of precedent; and he was more original than any
other nineteenth century poet in his use of symbol and metaphor. The
poem 'To Joanna' was probably composed on August 22, 1800, as the
following occurs in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal under that date:

  "William was composing all the morning ... W. read us the poem of
  Joanna, beside the Rothay, by the roadside."

Charles Lamb wrote to Wordsworth in January 1801, of

  "these continuous echoes in the story of 'Joanna's laugh,' when the
  mountains and all the scenery seem absolutely alive."

Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





"THERE IS AN EMINENCE,--OF THESE OUR HILLS"


Composed 1800.--Published 1800


[It is not accurate that the Eminence here alluded to could be seen from
our orchard-seat. It rises above the road by the side of Grasmere Lake
towards Keswick, and its name is Stone-Arthur.--I.F.]




  There is an Eminence,--of these our hills
  The last that parleys with the setting sun;
  We can behold it from our orchard-seat;
  And, when at evening we pursue our walk
  Along the public way, this Peak, [1] so high                 5
  Above us, and so distant in its height,
  Is visible; and often seems to send
  Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts.
  The meteors make of it a favourite haunt:
  The star of Jove, so beautiful and large                    10
  In the mid heavens, is never half so fair
  As when he shines above it. 'Tis in truth
  The loneliest place we have among the clouds.
  And She who dwells with me, whom I have loved
  With such communion, that no place on earth                 15
  Can ever be a solitude to me,
  Hath to this lonely Summit given my Name. [2]



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1840.

  ... this Cliff, ...    1800.]


[Variant 2:

1815.

  Hath said, this lonesome Peak shall bear my Name.    1800.]



Stone-Arthur is the name of the hill, on the east side of the Vale of
Grasmere, opposite Helm Crag, and between Green Head Ghyll and Tongue
Ghyll.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





"A NARROW GIRDLE OF ROUGH STONES AND CRAGS"


Composed 1800.--Published 1800


[The character of the eastern shore of Grasmere Lake is quite changed
since these verses were written, by the public road being carried along
its side. The friends spoken of were Coleridge and my Sister, and the
facts occurred strictly as recorded.--I.F.]




  A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags,
  A rude and natural causeway, interposed
  Between the water and a winding <DW72>
  Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore
  Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy: [A]                     5
  And there myself and two beloved Friends,
  One calm September morning, ere the mist
  Had altogether yielded to the sun,
  Sauntered on this retired and difficult way.
--Ill suits the road with one in haste; but we              10
  Played with our time; and, as we strolled along,
  It was our occupation to observe
  Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore--
  Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough,
  Each on the other heaped, along the line                    15
  Of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant mood,
  Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft
  Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard,
  That skimmed the surface of the dead calm lake,
  Suddenly halting now--a lifeless stand!                     20
  And starting off again with freak as sudden; [1]
  In all its sportive wanderings, all the while,
  Making report of an invisible breeze
  That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse,
  Its playmate, rather say, its moving soul. [2]              25
  --And often, trifling with a privilege
  Alike indulged to all, we paused, one now,
  And now the other, to point out, perchance
  To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair
  Either to be divided from the place                         30
  On which it grew, or to be left alone
  To its own beauty. Many such there are,
  Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall fern, [3]
  So stately, of the queen Osmunda named;
  Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode                    35
  On Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the side
  Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere,
  Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
--So fared we that bright [4] morning: from the fields,
  Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth                40
  Of reapers, men and women, boys and girls.
  Delighted much to listen [5] to those sounds,
  And feeding thus our fancies, we advanced [6]
  Along the indented shore; when suddenly,
  Through a thin veil of glittering haze was seen [7]         45
  Before us, on a point of jutting land,
  The tall and upright figure of a Man
  Attired in peasant's garb, who stood alone,
  Angling beside the margin of the lake. [8]
  "Improvident and reckless," we exclaimed,                   50
  "The Man must be, who thus can lose a day [9]
  Of the mid harvest, when the labourer's hire
  Is ample, and some little might be stored
  Wherewith to cheer him in the winter time."
  Thus talking of that Peasant, we approached                 55
  Close to the spot where with his rod and line
  He stood alone; whereat he turned his head
  To greet us--and we saw a Man worn down
  By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks
  And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean                 60
  That for my single self I looked at them,
  Forgetful of the body they sustained.--
  Too weak to labour in the harvest field,
  The Man was using his best skill to gain
  A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake                     65
  That knew not of his wants. I will not say
  What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how
  The happy idleness of that sweet morn,
  With all its lovely images, was changed
  To serious musing and to self-reproach.                     70
  Nor did we fail to see within ourselves
  What need there is to be reserved in speech,
  And temper all our thoughts with charity.
--Therefore, unwilling to forget that day,
  My Friend, Myself, and She who then received                75
  The same admonishment, have called the place
  By a memorial name, uncouth indeed
  As e'er by mariner was given to bay
  Or foreland, on a new-discovered coast;
  And POINT RASH-JUDGMENT is the name it bears.               80



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1815. (Compressing five lines into three.)

  ... thistle's beard,
  Which, seeming lifeless half, and half impell'd
  By some internal feeling, skimm'd along
  Close to the surface of the lake that lay
  Asleep in a dead calm, ran closely on
  Along the dead calm lake, now here, now there,    1800.]


[Variant 2:

1820.

  Its very playmate, and its moving soul.    1800.]


[Variant 3:

1802.

  ... tall plant ...   1800.]


[Variant 4:

1827.

  ... sweet ...   1800.]


[Variant 5:

1800.

  ... with listening ... C.]


[Variant 6:

1820.

  And in the fashion which I have describ'd,
  Feeding unthinking fancies, we advanc'd    1800.]


[Variant 7:

1827.

  ... we saw   1800.]


[Variant 8:

1800.

  ... a lake.   1802.

The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.]


[Variant 9:

1827.

  ... the margin of the lake.
  That way we turn'd our steps; nor was it long,
  Ere making ready comments on the sight
  Which then we saw, with one and the same voice
  We all cried out, that he must be indeed
  An idle man, who thus could lose a day      1800.

  Did all cry out, that he must be indeed
  An Idler, he who thus ...                   1815.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: A new road has destroyed this retirement. (MS. footnote in
Lord Coleridge's copy of the edition of 1836.)--Ed.]


The text of this poem reached its final state in the edition of 1827.
The same is true of the poem which follows, 'To M. H.', with the
exception of a single change.

In Wordsworth's early days at Grasmere, a wild woodland path of quiet
beauty led from Dove Cottage along the margin of the lake to the "Point"
referred to in this poem, leaving the eastern shore truly "safe in its
own privacy"--a "retired and difficult way"; the high-way road for
carriages being at that time over White Moss Common. The late Dr.
Arnold, of Rugby and Foxhowe, used to name the three roads from Rydal to
Grasmere thus: the highest, "Old Corruption"; the intermediate, "Bit by
bit Reform"; the lowest and most level, "Radical Reform." Wordsworth was
never quite reconciled to the radical reform effected on a road that
used to be so delightfully wild and picturesque. The spot which the
three friends rather infelicitously named "Point Rash-Judgment" is
easily identified; although, as Wordsworth remarks, the character of the
shore is changed by the public road being carried along its side. The
friends were quite aware that the "memorial name" they gave it was
"uncouth." In spite of its awkwardness, however, it will probably
survive; if not for Browning's reason

  'The better the uncouther;
  Do roses stick like burrs?'

at least because of the incident which gave rise to the poem.
The date of composition is fixed by Dorothy Wordsworth's
Journal,

  "10th Oct. 1800, Wm. sat up after me, writing 'Point
  Rash-Judgment.'"

Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





TO M. H.


Composed 1800.--Published 1800


[To Mary Hutchinson, two years before our marriage. The pool alluded to
is in Rydal Upper Park.--I.F.]




  Our walk was far among the ancient trees:
  There was no road, nor any woodman's path;
  But a [1] thick umbrage--checking the wild growth
  Of weed and sapling, along soft green turf [2]
  Beneath the branches--of itself had made                         5
  A track, that [3] brought us to a slip of lawn,
  And a small bed of water in the woods.
  All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink
  On its firm margin, even as from a well,
  Or some stone-basin which the herdsman's hand                   10
  Had shaped for their refreshment; nor did sun,
  Or wind from any quarter, ever come,
  But as a blessing to this calm recess,
  This glade of water and this one green field.
  The spot was made by Nature for herself;                        15
  The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain
  Unknown to them; but it is beautiful;
  And if a man should plant his cottage near,
  Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees,
  And blend its waters with his daily meal,                       20
  He would so love it, that in his death-hour
  Its image would survive among his thoughts:
  And therefore, my sweet MARY, this still Nook,
  With all its beeches, we have named from You! [4]



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1836.

  But the ...    1800.]


[Variant 2:

1827.

  ... on the soft green turf    1800.

  ... smooth dry ground         MS.]


[Variant 3:

1827.

  ... which ...       1800.]


[Variant 4:

1800.

  ... for You.       1802.

The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.]


To find the pool referred to in the Fenwick note, I have carefully
examined the course of Rydal beck, all the way up to the foot of the
Fell. There is a pool beyond the enclosures of the Hall property, about
five hundred feet above Rydal Mount, which partly corresponds to the
description in the poem, but there is no wood around it now; and the
trees which skirt its margin are birch, ash, oak, and hazel, but there
are no beeches. It is a short way below some fine specimens of ice-worn
rocks, which are to the right of the stream as you ascend it, and above
these rocks is a well-marked moraine. It is a deep crystal pool, and has
a "firm margin" of (artificially placed) stones. This may be the spot
described in the poem; or another, within the grounds of the Hall, may
be the place referred to. It is a sequestered nook, beside the third
waterfall as you ascend the beck--this third cascade being itself a
treble fall. Seen two or three days after rain, when the stream is full
enough to break over the whole face of the rock in showers of snowy
brightness, yet low enough to shew the rock behind its transparent veil,
it is specially beautiful. Trees change so much in eighty years that the
absence of "beeches" now would not make this site impossible. In a MS.
copy of the poem (of date Dec. 28, 1800), the last line is

  'With all its poplars, we have named from you.'

Of the circular pool beneath this fall it may be said, as Wordsworth
describes it, that

  '... both flocks and herds might drink
  On its firm margin, even as from a well;'

and a "small slip of lawn" might easily have existed there in his time.
We cannot, however, be confident as to the locality, and I add the
opinion of several, whose judgment may be deferred to. Dr. Cradock
writes:

  "As to Mary Hutchinson's pool, I think that it was not on the beck
  anywhere, but some detached little pool, far up the hill, to the
  eastwards of the Hall, in 'the woods.' The description does not well
  suit any part of Rydal beck; and no spot thereon could long 'remain
  unknown,' as the brook was until lately much haunted by anglers."

My difficulty as to a site "far up the hill" is, that it must have been
a pool of some size, if "both flocks and herds might drink" all round
it; and there is no stream, scarce even a rill that joins Rydal beck on
the right, all the way up from its junction with the Rothay. The late
Mr. Hull of Rydal Cottage, wrote:

  "Although closely acquainted with every nook about Rydal Park, I have
  never been able to discover any spot corresponding to that described
  in Wordsworth's lines to M. H. It is possible, however, that the
  'small bed of water' may have been a temporary rain pool, such as
  sometimes lodges in the hollows on the mountain-<DW72> after heavy
  rain."

Mr. F. M. Jones, the agent of the Rydal property, writes:

  "I do not know of any pool of water in the Upper Rydal Park. There are
  some pools up the river, 'Mirror Pool' among them; but I hardly think
  there can ever have been 'beech-trees' growing near them."

There are many difficulties, and the place cannot now be identified.
Wordsworth's own wish will doubtless be realised,

  'The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain
  Unknown to them.'

Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE


Composed 1800.--Published 1800


[Suggested nearer to Grasmere, in the same mountain track as that
referred to in the following note. The Eglantine remained many years
afterwards, but is now gone.--I.F.]

Included among the "Poems of the Fancy."--Ed.




  I      "Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,"
          Exclaimed an angry Voice, [1]
          "Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self
          Between me and my choice!"
          A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows                5
          Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose, [2]
          That, all bespattered with his foam,
          And dancing high and dancing low,
          Was living, as a child might know,
          In an unhappy home.                                  10

  II      "Dost thou presume my course to block?
          Off, off! or, puny Thing!
          I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock
          To which thy fibres cling."
          The Flood was tyrannous and strong; [A]              15
          The patient Briar suffered long,
          Nor did he utter groan or sigh,
          Hoping the danger would be past;
          But, seeing no relief, at last,
          He ventured to reply.                                20

  III     "Ah!" said the Briar, "blame me not;
          Why should we dwell in strife?
          We who in this sequestered spot [3]
          Once lived a happy life!
          You stirred me on my rocky bed--25
          What pleasure through my veins you spread
          The summer long, from day to day,
          My leaves you freshened and bedewed;
          Nor was it common gratitude
          That did your cares repay.                           30

  IV      "When spring came on with bud and bell, [B]
          Among these rocks did I
          Before you hang my wreaths [4] to tell
          That gentle days were nigh!
          And in the sultry summer hours,                      35
          I sheltered you with leaves and flowers;
          And in my leaves--now shed and gone,
          The linnet lodged, and for us two
          Chanted his pretty songs, when you
          Had little voice or none.                            40

  V       "But now proud thoughts are in your breast--
          What grief is mine you see,
          Ah! would you think, even yet how blest
          Together we might be!
          Though of both leaf and flower bereft,               45
          Some ornaments to me are left--
          Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,
          With which I, in my humble way,
          Would deck you many a winter day, [5]
          A happy Eglantine!"                                  50

  VI      What more he said I cannot tell,
          The Torrent down the rocky dell
          Came thundering loud and fast; [6]
          I listened, nor aught else could hear;
          The Briar quaked--and much I fear                    55
          Those accents were his last.



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1836.

  ... a thundering Voice,        1800.]


[Variant 2:

1820.

  A falling Water swoln with snows
  Thus spake to a poor Briar-rose,      1800.]


[Variant 3:

1820.

  ... in this, our natal spot,      1800.]


[Variant 4:

1815.

  ... wreath ...      1800.]


[Variant 5:

1836.

  ... Winter's day,      1800.]


[Variant 6:

1840.

  The stream came thundering down the dell
  And gallop'd loud and fast;      1800.

  The Torrent thundered down the dell
  With unabating haste;            1815.

  With aggravated haste;           1827.

  The Stream came thundering down the dell       1836.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare 'The Ancient Mariner' (part I. stanza II.):

  And now the Storm-blast came, and he
  Was tyrannous and strong.

Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare 'A Farewell', p. 325, l. 17.--Ed.]



The spot referred to in this poem can be identified with perfect
accuracy. The Eglantine grew on the little brook that runs past two
cottages (close to the path under Nab Scar), which have been built since
the poet's time, and are marked Brockstone on the Ordnance Map.

  "The plant itself of course has long disappeared: but in following up
  the rill through the copse, above the cottages, I found an unusually
  large Eglantine, growing by the side of the stream."

(Dr Cradock to the editor, in 1877.) It still grows luxuriantly there.

The following extract from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal illustrates both
this and the next poem:

  "Friday, 23rd April 1802.--It being a beautiful morning, we set off at
  eleven o'clock, intending to stay out of doors all the morning. We
  went towards Rydal, under Nab Scar. The sun shone and we were lazy.
  Coleridge pitched upon several places to sit down upon; but we could
  not be all of one mind respecting sun and shade, so we pushed on to
  the foot of the Scar. It was very grand when we looked up, very stony;
  here and there a budding tree. William observed that the umbrella
  Yew-tree that breasts the wind had lost its character as a tree, and
  had become like solid wood. Coleridge and I pushed on before. We left
  William sitting on the stones, feasting with silence, and I sat down
  upon a rocky seat, a couch it might be, under the Bower of William's
  'Eglantine,' 'Andrew's Broom.' He was below us, and we could see him.
  He came to us, and repeated his Poems, while we sat beside him. We
  lingered long, looking into the vales; Ambleside Vale, with the
  copses, the village under the hill, and the green fields; Rydale, with
  a lake all alive and glittering, yet but little stirred by breezes;
  and our own dear Grasmere, making a little round lake of Nature's own,
  with never a house, never a green field, but the copses and the bare
  hills enclosing it, and the river flowing out of it. Above rose the
  Coniston Fells, in their own shape and colour, ... the sky, and the
  clouds, and a few wild creatures. Coleridge went to search for
  something new. We saw him climbing up towards a rock. He called us,
  and we found him in a bower,--the sweetest that was ever seen. The
  rock on one side is very high, and all covered with ivy, which hung
  loosely about, and bore bunches of brown berries. On the other side,
  it was higher than my head. We looked down on the Ambleside vale, that
  seemed to wind away from us, the village lying under the hill. The fir
  tree island was reflected beautifully.... About this bower there is
  mountain-ash, common ash, yew tree, ivy, holly, hawthorn, roses,
  flowers, and a carpet of moss. Above at the top of the rock there is
  another spot. It is scarce a bower, a little parlour, not enclosed by
  walls, but shaped out for a resting-place by the rocks, and the ground
  rising about it. It had a sweet moss carpet. We resolved to go and
  plant flowers, in both these places to-morrow."

This extract is taken from the "Journal" as originally transcribed by me
in 1889. When it appears in this edition it will be greatly
enlarged.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





THE OAK AND THE BROOM


A PASTORAL


Composed 1800.--Published 1800

[Suggested upon the mountain pathway that leads from Upper Rydal to
Grasmere. The ponderous block of stone, which is mentioned in the poem,
remains, I believe, to this day, a good way up Nab-Scar. Broom grows
under it, and in many places on the side of the precipice.--I.F.]

One of the "Poems of the Fancy."--Ed.




  I       His simple truths did Andrew glean
          Beside the babbling rills;
          A careful student he had been
          Among the woods and hills.
          One winter's night, when through the trees                5
          The wind was roaring, [1] on his knees
          His youngest born did Andrew hold:
          And while the rest, a ruddy quire,
          Were seated round their blazing fire,
          This Tale the Shepherd told.                             10

  II      "I saw a crag, a lofty stone
          As ever tempest beat!
          Out of its head an Oak had grown,
          A Broom out of its feet.
          The time was March, a cheerful noon--15
          The thaw wind, with the breath of June,
          Breathed gently from the warm south-west:
          When, in a voice sedate with age,
          This Oak, a giant and a sage, [2]
          His neighbour thus addressed:--20

  III     "'Eight weary weeks, through rock and clay,
          Along this mountain's edge,
          The Frost hath wrought both night and day,
          Wedge driving after wedge.
          Look up! and think, above your head                      25
          What trouble, surely, will be bred;
          Last night I heard a crash--'tis true,
          The splinters took another road--
          I see them yonder--what a load
          For such a Thing as you!                                 30

  IV      "'You are preparing as before
          To deck your slender shape;
          And yet, just three years back--no more--
          You had a strange escape:
          Down from yon cliff a fragment broke;                    35
          It thundered down, with fire and smoke,
          And hitherward pursued its way; [3]
          This ponderous block was caught by me,
          And o'er your head, as you may see,
          'Tis hanging to this day!                                40

  V       "'If breeze or bird to this rough steep
          Your kind's first seed did bear;
          The breeze had better been asleep,
          The bird caught in a snare: [4]
          For you and your green twigs decoy                       45
          The little witless shepherd-boy
          To come and slumber in your bower;
          And, trust me, on some sultry noon,
          Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon!
          Will perish in one hour.                                 50

  VI      "'From me this friendly warning take'--
          The Broom began to doze,
          And thus, to keep herself awake,
          Did gently interpose:
          'My thanks for your discourse are due;                   55
          That more than what you say is true, [5]
          I know, and I have known it long;
          Frail is the bond by which we hold
          Our being, whether young or old, [6]
          Wise, foolish, weak, or strong.                          60

  VII     "'Disasters, do the best we can,
          Will reach both great and small;
          And he is oft the wisest man,
          Who is not wise at all.
          For me, why should I wish to roam?                       65
          This spot is my paternal home,
          It is my pleasant heritage;
          My father many a happy year,
          Spread here [7] his careless blossoms, here
          Attained a good old age.                                 70

  VIII    "'Even such as his may be my lot.
          What cause have I to haunt
          My heart with terrors? Am I not
          In truth a favoured plant!
          On me such bounty Summer pours,                          75
          That I am covered o'er with flowers; [8]
          And, when the Frost is in the sky,
          My branches are so fresh and gay
          That you might look at me [9] and say,
          This Plant can never die.                                80

  IX      "'The butterfly, all green and gold,
          To me hath often flown,
          Here in my blossoms to behold
          Wings lovely as his own.
          When grass is chill with rain or dew,                    85
          Beneath my shade, the mother-ewe
          Lies with her infant lamb; I see
          The love they to each other make,
          And the sweet joy which they partake,
          It is a joy to me.'                                      90

  X       "Her voice was blithe, her heart was light;
          The Broom might have pursued
          Her speech, until the stars of night
          Their journey had renewed;
          But in the branches of the oak                           95
          Two ravens now began to croak
          Their nuptial song, a gladsome air;
          And to her own green bower the breeze
          That instant brought two stripling bees
          To rest, or [10] murmur there.                          100


  XI      "One night, my Children! from the north
          There came a furious blast; [11]
          At break of day I ventured forth,
          And near the cliff I passed.
          The storm had fallen upon the Oak,                      105
          And struck him with a mighty stroke,
          And whirled, and whirled him far away;
          And, in one hospitable cleft,
          The little careless Broom was left
          To live for many a day."                                110



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1820.

  ... thundering, ...      1800.]


[Variant 2:

1815.

  ... half giant and half sage,      1800.]


[Variant 3:

1820.

  It came, you know, with fire and smoke
  And hither did it bend its way.       1800.

  And hitherward it bent its way.       1802.]


[Variant 4:

1836.

  The Thing had better been asleep,
  Whatever thing it were,
  Or Breeze, or Bird, or fleece of Sheep,
  That first did plant you there.            1800.

  Or Breeze, or Bird, or Dog, or Sheep,      1802.]


[Variant 5:

1820.

  That it is true, and more than true,      1800.]


[Variant 6:

1827.

  ... be we young or old,      1800.]


[Variant 7:

1836.

  Here spread ...      1800.]


[Variant 8:

1815.

  The Spring for me a garland weaves
  Of yellow flowers and verdant leaves,      1800.]


[Variant 9:

1802.

  ... on me ...      1800.]


[Variant 10:

1827.

  To feed and ...    1800.

  To rest and ...    1815.]


[Variant 11:

1815.

  One night the Wind came from the North
  And blew a furious blast,    1800.]



The spot is fixed within narrow limits by the Fenwick note. It is,
beyond doubt, on the wooded part of Nab-Scar, through which the upper
path from Grasmere to Rydal passes. There is one huge block of stone
high above the path, which answers well to the description in the second
stanza. Crabb Robinson wrote in his 'Diary' (Sept. 11, 1816):

  "The poem of 'The Oak and the Broom' proceeded from his" (Wordsworth)
  "beholding a tree in just such a situation as he described the broom
  to be in."

Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





"'TIS SAID, THAT SOME HAVE DIED FOR LOVE"


Composed 1800.--Published 1800


One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed.




  'Tis said, that some have died for love:
  And here and there a church-yard grave is found
  In the cold north's unhallowed ground,
  Because the wretched man himself had slain,
  His love was such a grievous pain.                            5
  And there is one whom I five years have known;
  He dwells alone
  Upon Helvellyn's side:
  He loved--the pretty Barbara died;
  And thus he makes his moan:                                  10
  Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid
  When thus his moan he made:

  "Oh, move, thou Cottage, from behind that oak!
  Or let the aged tree uprooted lie,
  That in some other way yon smoke                             15
  May mount into the sky!
  The clouds pass on; they from the heavens depart:
  I look--the sky is empty space;
  I know not what I trace;
  But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart.            20

  "O! what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves,
  That murmur once so dear, when will it cease?
  Your sound my heart of rest bereaves,
  It robs my heart of peace. [1]
  Thou Thrush, that singest loud--and loud and free,           25
  Into yon row of willows flit,
  Upon that alder sit;
  Or sing another song, or choose another tree.

  "Roll back, sweet Rill! back to thy mountain-bounds,
  And there for ever be thy waters chained!                    30
  For thou dost haunt the air with sounds
  That cannot be sustained;
  If still beneath that [2] pine-tree's ragged bough
  Headlong yon waterfall must come,
  Oh let it then be dumb!                                      35
  Be anything, sweet Rill, but that which thou art now.

  "Thou Eglantine, so bright with sunny showers,
  Proud as a rainbow spanning half the vale, [3]
  Thou one fair shrub, oh! shed thy flowers,
  And stir not in the gale.                                    40
  For thus to see thee nodding in the air,
  To see thy arch thus stretch and bend,
  Thus rise and thus descend,--
  Disturbs me till the sight is more than I can bear."

  The Man who makes this feverish complaint                    45
  Is one of giant stature, who could dance
  Equipped from head to foot in iron mail.
  Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thine
  To store up kindred hours for me, thy face
  Turn from me, gentle Love! nor let me walk                   50
  Within the sound of Emma's voice, nor [4] know
  Such happiness as I have known to-day.



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1836.

  ... Ye leaves,
  When will that dying murmur be suppress'd?
  Your sound my heart of peace bereaves,
  It robs my heart of rest.      1800.]


[Variant 2:

1800.

  ... yon ...      MS.]


[Variant 3:

1836.

  Thou Eglantine whose arch so proudly towers
  (Even like a rainbow ...      1800.

  ... the rainbow ...           1802.

The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.]


[Variant 4:

1836.

  ... or ...      1800.]



If the second, third, and fourth stanzas of this poem had been published
without the first, the fifth, and the last, it would have been deemed an
exquisite fragment by those who object to the explanatory preamble, and
to the moralising sequel. The intermediate stanzas suggest Burns's

  'Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
    How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair!
  How can ye chant, ye little birds,
    An' I sae weary, fu' o' care!'

and Browning's 'May and Death':

  'I wish that when you died last May,
    Charles, there had died along with you
  Three parts of spring's delightful things;
    Ay, and, for me, the fourth part too.'

This mood of mind Wordsworth appreciated as fully as the opposite, or
complementary one, which finds expression in the great 'Ode, Intimations
of Immortality' (vol. viii.), l. 26.

  'No more shall grief of mine the season wrong,'

and which Browning expresses in other verses of his lyric, and
repeatedly elsewhere. The allusion in the last stanza of this poem is to
Wordsworth's sister Dorothy.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





THE CHILDLESS FATHER


Composed 1800.-Published 1800 [A]


[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. When I was a child at Cockermouth, no
funeral took place without a basin filled with sprigs of boxwood being
placed upon a table covered with a white cloth in front of the house.
The huntings on foot, in which the old man is supposed to join as here
described, were of common, almost habitual, occurrence in our vales when
I was a boy, and the people took much delight in them. They are now less
frequent.--I.F.]

One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed.




  "Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away!
  Not a soul in the village this morning will stay;
  The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds,
  And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds."

--Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, and green,               5
  On the <DW72>s of the pastures all colours were seen;
  With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow,
  The girls on the hills made a holiday show.

  Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months before,
  Filled the funeral basin [B] at Timothy's door; [1]              10
  A coffin through Timothy's threshold had past;
  One Child [C] did it bear, and that Child was his last.

  Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,
  The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark away!
  Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut                       15
  With a leisurely motion the door of his hut.

  Perhaps to himself at that moment he said;
  "The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead."
  But of this in my ears not a word did he speak;
  And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.               20



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827.

  The basin of box-wood, just six months before,
  Had stood on the table at Timothy's door,            1800.

  The basin had offered, just six months before,
  Fresh sprigs of green box-wood at Timothy's door;    1820.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Also in 'The Morning Post', Jan. 30, 1801.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: In several parts of the North of England, when a funeral
takes place, a basin full of Sprigs of Box-wood is placed at the door of
the house from which the Coffin is taken up, and each person who attends
the funeral ordinarily takes a Sprig of this Box-wood, and throws it
into the grave of the deceased.--W. W. 1800.]


[Footnote C: In the list of _errata_, in the edition of 1820 "one child"
is corrected, and made "a child"; but the text remained "one child" in
all subsequent editions.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





SONG FOR THE WANDERING JEW


Composed 1800.--Published 1800


Included among the "Poems of the Fancy."--Ed.




  Though the torrents from their fountains
  Roar down many a craggy steep,
  Yet they find among the mountains
  Resting-places calm and deep.

  Clouds that love through air to hasten,                   5
  Ere the storm its fury stills,
  Helmet-like themselves will fasten
  On the heads of towering hills. [1]

  What, if through the frozen centre
  Of the Alps the Chamois bound,                           10
  Yet he has a home to enter
  In some nook of chosen ground: [2]

  And the Sea-horse, though the ocean
  Yield him no domestic cave,
  Slumbers without sense of motion,                        15
  Couched upon the rocking wave. [3]

  If on windy days the Raven
  Gambol like a dancing skiff,
  Not the less she loves her haven [4]
  In [5] the bosom of the cliff. [A]                       20

  The fleet Ostrich, till day closes,
  Vagrant over desert sands,
  Brooding on her eggs reposes
  When chill night that care demands. [6]

  Day and night my toils redouble,                         25
  Never nearer to the goal;
  Night and day, I feel the trouble
  Of the Wanderer in my soul. [7]



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1: This stanza was added in the edition of 1827.]


[Variant 2:

1827.

  Though almost with eagle pinion
  O'er the rocks the Chamois roam,
  Yet he has some small dominion
  Which no doubt he calls his home.    1800.

  Though, as if with eagle pinion
  O'er the rocks the Chamois roam,
  Yet he has some small dominion
  Where he feels himself at home.      1815.]


[Variant 3:

1836.

  Though the Sea-horse in the ocean
  Own no dear domestic cave;
  Yet he slumbers without motion
  On the calm and silent wave.     1800.

  Yet he slumbers--by the motion
  Rocked of many a gentle wave.    1827.]


[Variant 4:

1827.

  ... he loves his haven    1800.]


[Variant 5:

1815.

  On ...    1800.]


[Variant 6: This stanza was added in 1827.]


[Variant 7:

1800.

  Never--never does the trouble
  Of the Wanderer leave my soul.    1815.

The text of 1827 returns to that of 1800.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: In the editions of 1800 to 1832 stanzas 4 and 5 were
transposed. Their present order was adjusted in the edition of
1836.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





THE BROTHERS [A]


Composed 1800. [B]--Published 1800


[This poem was composed in a grove at the north-eastern end of Grasmere
lake, which grove was in a great measure destroyed by turning the high
road along the side of the water. The few trees that are left were
spared at my intercession. The poem arose out of the fact, mentioned to
me at Ennerdale, that a shepherd had fallen asleep upon the top of the
rock called the Pillar, and perished as here described, his staff being
left midway on the rock.--I. F.]

One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed.




  These Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live
  A profitable life: some glance along,
  Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,
  And they were butterflies to wheel about
  Long as the [1] summer lasted: some, as wise,                   5
  Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag,
  Pencil in hand and book upon the knee,
  Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, [2]
  Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,
  Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn.                       10
  But, for that moping Son of Idleness,
  Why can he tarry _yonder_?--In our church-yard
  Is neither epitaph nor monument,
  Tombstone nor name--only the turf we tread
  And a few natural graves."                                     15

                              To Jane, his wife,
  Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale.
  It was a July evening; and he sate
  Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves
  Of his old cottage,--as it chanced, that day,                  20
  Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone
  His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool,
  While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering wire,
  He fed the spindle of his youngest child,
  Who, in the open air, with due accord                          25
  Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps,
  Her large round wheel was turning. [3] Towards the field
  In which the Parish Chapel stood alone,
  Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall,
  While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent                30
  Many a long look of wonder: and at last,
  Risen from his seat, beside the snow white ridge
  Of carded wool which the old man had piled
  He laid his implements with gentle care,
  Each in the other locked; and, down the path                   35
  That [4] from his cottage to the church-yard led,
  He took his way, impatient to accost
  The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.

  'Twas one well known to him in former days,
  A Shepherd-lad; who ere his sixteenth year                     40
  Had left that calling, tempted to entrust
  His expectations to the fickle winds
  And perilous waters; with the mariners [5]
  A fellow-mariner;--and so had fared
  Through twenty seasons; but he had been reared                 45
  Among the mountains, and he in his heart
  Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas.
  Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard
  The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds
  Of caves and trees:--and, when the regular wind                50
  Between the tropics filled the steady sail,
  And blew with the same breath through days and weeks,
  Lengthening invisibly its weary line
  Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours
  Of tiresome indolence, would often hang                        55
  Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze;
  And, while the broad blue [6] wave and sparkling foam
  Flashed round him images and hues that wrought
  In union with the employment of his heart,
  He, thus by feverish passion overcome,                         60
  Even with the organs of his bodily eye,
  Below him, in the bosom of the deep,
  Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep that grazed
  On verdant hills--with dwellings among trees,
  And shepherds clad in the same country grey                    65
  Which he himself had worn. [C]

                             And now, at last, [7]
  From perils manifold, with some small wealth
  Acquired by traffic 'mid [8] the Indian Isles,
  To his paternal home he is returned,                           70
  With a determined purpose to resume
  The life he had lived there; [9] both for the sake
  Of many darling pleasures, and the love
  Which to an only brother he has borne
  In all his hardships, since that happy time                    75
  When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two
  Were brother-shepherds on their native hills.
--They were the last of all their race: and now,
  When Leonard had approached his home, his heart
  Failed in him; and, not venturing to enquire                   80
  Tidings of one so long and dearly loved, [10]
  He to the solitary church-yard turned; [11]
  That, as he knew in what particular spot
  His family were laid, he thence might learn
  If still his Brother lived, or to the file                     85
  Another grave was added.--He had found
  Another grave,--near which a full half-hour
  He had remained; but, as he gazed, there grew
  Such a confusion in his memory,
  That he began to doubt; and even to hope [12]                  90
  That he had seen this heap of turf before,--
  That it was not another grave; but one
  He had forgotten. He had lost his path,
  As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked [13]
  Through fields which once had been well known to him:          95
  And oh what joy this [14] recollection now
  Sent to his heart! he lifted up his eyes,
  And, looking round, imagined that he saw [15]
  Strange alteration wrought on every side
  Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks,               100
  And everlasting hills [16] themselves were changed.

  By this the Priest, who down the field had come,
  Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate
  Stopped short,--and thence, at leisure, limb by limb
  Perused him [17] with a gay complacency.                      105
  Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself,
  'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path
  Of the world's business to go wild alone:
  His arms have a perpetual holiday;
  The happy man will creep about the fields,                    110
  Following his fancies by the hour, to bring
  Tears down his cheek, [18] or solitary smiles
  Into his face, until the setting sun
  Write fool upon his forehead.--Planted thus
  Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate                      120
  Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared
  The good Man might have communed with himself,
  But that the Stranger, who had left the grave,
  Approached; he recognised the Priest at once,
  And, after greetings interchanged, and given                  120
  By Leonard to the Vicar as to one
  Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued.

  _Leonard_. You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life:
  Your years make up one peaceful family;
  And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come               125
  And welcome gone, they are so like each other,
  They cannot be remembered? Scarce a funeral
  Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen months;
  And yet, some changes must take place among you:
  And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks,              130
  Can trace the finger of mortality,
  And see, that with our threescore years and ten
  We are not all that perish.--I remember,
  (For many years ago I passed this road)
  There was a foot-way all along the fields                     135
  By the brook-side--'tis gone--and that dark cleft!
  To me it does not seem to wear the face
  Which then it had!

  _Priest_. Nay, Sir, [19] for aught I know,
  That chasm is much the same--140

  _Leonard_. But, surely, yonder--

  _Priest_. Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend
  That does not play you false.--On that tall pike
  (It is the loneliest place of all these hills)
  There were two springs which bubbled side by side, [D]        145
  As if they had been made that they might be
  Companions for each other: the huge crag
  Was rent with lightning--one hath disappeared; [20]
  The other, left behind, is flowing still,
  For accidents and changes such as these,                      150
  We want not store of them; [21]--a water-spout
  Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast
  For folks that wander up and down like you,
  To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff
  One roaring cataract! a sharp May-storm                       155
  Will come with loads of January snow,
  And in one night send twenty score of sheep
  To feed the ravens; or a shepherd dies
  By some untoward death among the rocks:
  The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge;                   160
  A wood is felled:--and then for our own homes!
  A child is born or christened, a field ploughed,
  A daughter sent to service, a web spun,
  The old house-clock is decked with a new face;
  And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates                 165
  To chronicle the time, we all have here
  A pair of diaries,--one serving, Sir,
  For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side--
  Yours was a stranger's judgment: for historians,
  Commend me to these valleys!                                  170

  _Leonard_.             Yet your Church-yard
  Seems, if such freedom may be used with you,
  To say that you are heedless of the past:
  An orphan could not find his mother's grave:
  Here's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass,           175
  Cross-bones nor skull,--type of our earthly state
  Nor emblem of our hopes: [22] the dead man's home
  Is but a fellow to that pasture-field.

  _Priest_. Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new to me!
  The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread           180
  If every English church-yard were like ours;
  Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth:
  We have no need of names and epitaphs;
  We talk about the dead by our fire-sides.
  And then, for our immortal part! _we_ want                    185
  No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale:
  The thought of death sits easy on the man
  Who has been born and dies among the mountains. [E]

  _Leonard_. Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts
  Possess a kind of second life: no doubt                       190
  You, Sir, could help me to the history
  Of half these graves?

  _Priest_.             For eight-score winters past,
  With what I've witnessed, and with what I've heard,
  Perhaps I might; and, on a winter-evening, [23]               195
  If you were seated at my chimney's nook,
  By turning o'er these hillocks one by one,
  We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round;
  Yet all in the broad highway of the world.
  Now there's a grave--your foot is half upon it,--200
  It looks just like the rest; and yet that man
  Died broken-hearted.

  _Leonard_.           'Tis a common case.
  We'll take another: who is he that lies
  Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves?            205
  It touches on that piece of native rock
  Left in the church-yard wall.

  _Priest_.                     That's Walter Ewbank. [F]
  He had as white a head and fresh a cheek
  As ever were produced by youth and age                        210
  Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore.
  Through five [24] long generations had the heart
  Of Walter's forefathers o'erflowed the bounds
  Of their inheritance, that single cottage--
  You see it yonder! and those few green fields.                215
  They toiled and wrought, and still, from sire to son,
  Each struggled, and each yielded as before
  A little--yet a little,--and old Walter,
  They left to him the family heart, and land
  With other burthens than the crop it bore.                    220
  Year after year the old man still kept up [25]
  A cheerful mind,--and buffeted with bond,
  Interest, and mortgages; at last he sank,
  And went into his grave before his time.
  Poor Walter! whether it was care that spurred him             225
  God only knows, but to the very last
  He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale:
  His pace was never that of an old man:
  I almost see him tripping down the path
  With his two grandsons after him:--but you,                   230
  Unless our Landlord be your host to-night,
  Have far to travel,--and on [26] these rough paths
  Even in the longest day of midsummer--

  _Leonard_. But those [27] two Orphans!

  _Priest_.                   Orphans!--Such they were--235
  Yet not while Walter lived:--for, though their parents
  Lay buried side by side as now they lie,
  The old man was a father to the boys,
  Two fathers in one father: and if tears,
  Shed when he talked of them where they were not,              240
  And hauntings from the infirmity of love,
  Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart,
  This old Man, in the day of his old age,
  Was half a mother to them.--If you weep, Sir,
  To hear a stranger talking about strangers,                   245
  Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred!
  Ay--you may turn that way--it is a grave
  Which will bear looking at.

  _Leonard_.                  These boys--I hope
  They loved this good old Man?--250

  _Priest_.                      They did--and truly:
  But that was what we almost overlooked,
  They were such darlings of each other. Yes,
  Though from the cradle they had lived with Walter,
  The only kinsman near them, and though he                     255
  Inclined to both by reason of his age,
  With a more fond, familiar, tenderness;
  They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare, [28]
  And it all went into each other's hearts.
  Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months,                   260
  Was two years taller: 'twas a joy to see,
  To hear, to meet them!--From their house the school
  Is [29] distant three short miles, and in the time
  Of storm and thaw, when every water-course
  And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed            265
  Crossing our roads at every hundred steps,
  Was swoln into a noisy rivulet
  Would Leonard then, when elder boys remained
  At home, go staggering through the slippery fords, [30]
  Bearing his brother on his back. I have [31] seen him,        270
  On windy days, in one of those stray brooks,
  Ay, more than once I have [31] seen him, mid-leg deep,
  Their two books lying both on a dry stone,
  Upon the hither side: and once I said,
  As I remember, looking round these rocks                      275
  And hills on which we all of us were born,
  That God who made the great book of the world
  Would bless such piety--

  _Leonard_.              It may be then--

  _Priest_. Never did worthier lads break English bread;        280
  The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw [32]
  With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts,
  Could never keep those [33] boys away from church,
  Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath breach.
  Leonard and James! I warrant, every corner                    285
  Among these rocks, and every hollow place
  That venturous foot could reach, to one or both [34]
  Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there.
  Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills;
  They played like two young ravens on the crags:               290
  Then they could write, ay and speak too, as well
  As many of their betters--and for Leonard!
  The very night before he went away,
  In my own house I put into his hand
  A bible, and I'd wager house and field                        295
  That, if he be alive, he has it yet. [35]

  _Leonard_. It seems, these Brothers have not lived to be
  A comfort to each other--

  _Priest_.           That they might
  Live to such end [36] is what both old and young              300
  In this our valley all of us have wished,
  And what, for my part, I have often prayed:
  But Leonard--

  _Leonard_.     Then James still is left among you!

  _Priest_. 'Tis of the elder brother I am speaking:            305
  They had an uncle;--he was at that time
  A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas:
  And, but for that [37] same uncle, to this hour
  Leonard had never handled rope or shroud:
  For the boy loved the life which we lead here;                310
  And though of unripe years, a stripling only, [38]
  His soul was knit to this his native soil.
  But, as I said, old Walter was too weak
  To strive with such a torrent; when he died,
  The estate and house were sold; and all their sheep,          315
  A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know,
  Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years:--
  Well--all was gone, and they were destitute,
  And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake,
  Resolved to try his fortune on the seas.                      320
  Twelve years are past [39] since we had tidings from him.
  If there were [40] one among us who had heard
  That Leonard Ewbank was come home again,
  From the Great Gavel, [G] down by Leeza's banks,
  And down the Enna, far as Egremont.                           325
  The day would be a joyous festival; [41]
  And those two bells of ours, which there you see--
  Hanging in the open air--but, O good Sir!
  This is sad talk--they'll never sound for him--
  Living or dead.--When last we heard of him,                   330
  He was in slavery among the Moors
  Upon the Barbary coast.--'Twas not a little
  That would bring down his spirit; and no doubt,
  Before it ended in his death, the Youth [42]
  Was sadly crossed.--Poor Leonard! when we parted,             335
  He took me by the hand, and said to me,
  If e'er he should grow rich, he would return,
  To live in peace upon his father's land,
  And lay his bones among us. [43]

  _Leonard_.             If that day                            340
  Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him;
  He would himself, no doubt, be happy then
  As any that should meet him--

  _Priest_.                Happy! Sir--

  _Leonard_. You said his kindred all were in their graves,     345
  And that he had one Brother--

  _Priest_.               That is but
  A fellow-tale of sorrow. From his youth
  James, though not sickly, yet was delicate;
  And Leonard being always by his side                          350
  Had done so many offices about him,
  That, though he was not of a timid nature,
  Yet still the spirit of a mountain-boy
  In him was somewhat checked; and, when his Brother
  Was gone to sea, and he was left alone,                       355
  The little colour that he had was soon
  Stolen from his cheek; he drooped, and pined, and pined--

  _Leonard_. But these are all the graves of full-grown men!

  _Priest_. Ay, Sir, that passed away: we took him to us;
  He was the child of all the dale--he lived                    360
  Three months with one, and six months with another;
  And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love:
  And many, many happy days were his.
  But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief
  His absent Brother still was at his heart.                    365
  And, when he dwelt [44] beneath our roof, we found
  (A practice till this time unknown to him)
  That often, rising from his bed at night,
  He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping
  He sought his brother Leonard.--You are moved!                370
  Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you,
  I judged you most unkindly.

  _Leonard_.             But this Youth,
  How did he die at last?

  _Priest_.          One sweet May-morning,                     375
  (It will be twelve years since when Spring returns)
  He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs,
  With two or three companions, whom their course
  Of occupation led from height to height
  Under a cloudless sun--till he, at length,                    380
  Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge
  The humour of the moment, lagged behind. [45]
  You see yon precipice;--it wears the shape
  Of a vast building made of many crags; [46]
  And in the midst is one particular rock                       385
  That rises like a column from the vale,
  Whence by our shepherds it is called, THE PILLAR.
  Upon its aery summit crowned with heath,
  The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades,
  Lay stretched at ease; but, passing by the place              390
  On their return, they found that he was gone.
  No ill was feared; till one of them by chance
  Entering, when evening was far spent, the house
  Which at that time was James's home, there learned [47]
  That nobody had seen him all that day: [H]                    395
  The morning came, and still he was unheard of:
  The neighbours were alarmed, and to the brook
  Some hastened; some ran to the lake: [48] ere noon
  They found him at the foot of that same rock
  Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after             400
  I buried him, poor Youth, [49] and there he lies!

  _Leonard_. And that then _is_ his grave!--Before his death
  You say [50] that he saw many happy years?

  _Priest_. Ay, that he did--

  _Leonard_.                 And all went well with him?--405

  _Priest_. If he had one, the Youth [51] had twenty homes.

  _Leonard_. And you believe, then, that his mind was easy?--

  _Priest_. Yes, long before he died, he found that time
  Is a true friend to sorrow; and unless
  His thoughts were turned on Leonard's luckless fortune,       410
  He talked about him with a cheerful love.

  _Leonard_. He could not come to an unhallowed end!

  _Priest_. Nay, God forbid!--You recollect I mentioned
  A habit which disquietude and grief
  Had brought upon him; and we all conjectured                  415
  That, as the day was warm, he had lain down
  On the soft heath, [52] and, waiting for his comrades,
  He there had fallen asleep; that in his sleep
  He to the margin of the precipice
  Had walked, and from the summit had fallen headlong:          420
  And so no doubt he perished. When the Youth
  Fell, in his hand he must have grasp'd, we think, [53]
  His shepherd's staff; for on that Pillar of rock
  It had been caught mid way; and there for years [54]
  It hung;--and mouldered there.                                425

                                 The Priest here ended--
  The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt
  A gushing from his heart, that took away
  The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence; [55]
  And Leonard, when they reached the church-yard gate,          430
  As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round,--
  And, looking at the grave, he said, "My Brother!"
  The Vicar did not hear the words: and now,
  He pointed towards his dwelling-place, entreating [56]
  That Leonard would partake his homely fare:                   435
  The other thanked him with an earnest [57] voice;
  But added, that, the evening being calm,
  He would pursue his journey. So they parted.

  It was not long ere Leonard reached a grove
  That overhung the road: he there stopped short,               440
  And, sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed
  All that the Priest had said: his early years
  Were with him:--his long absence, cherished hopes, [58]
  And thoughts which had been his an hour before,
  All pressed on him with such a weight, that now,              445
  This vale, where he had been so happy, seemed
  A place in which he could not bear to live:
  So he relinquished all his purposes.
  He travelled back [59] to Egremont: and thence,
  That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest, [60]             450
  Reminding him of what had passed between them;
  And adding, with a hope to be forgiven,
  That it was from the weakness of his heart
  He had not dared to tell him who he was.
  This done, he went on shipboard, and is now                   455
  A Seaman, a grey-headed Mariner.



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1815.

  ... their ...    1800.]


[Variant 2:

1827.

  Upon the forehead of a jutting crag
  Sit perch'd with book and pencil on their knee,
  And look and scribble, ...     1800.]


[Variant 3:

1836.

  ... youngest child,
  Who turn'd her large round wheel in the open air
  With back and forward steps....    1800.]


[Variant 4:

1827.

  Which ...    1800.]


[Variant 5:

1815.

  ... who ere his thirteenth year
  Had chang'd his calling, with the mariners    1800.]


[Variant 6:

1840.

  ... green ...    1800.]


[Variant 7:

1815.

  ... at length, ...    1800.]


[Variant 8:

1827.

  ... traffic in ...    1800.]


[Variant 9:

1827.

  ... which he liv'd there, ...    1800.]


[Variant 10:

1836.

  ... of one whom he so dearly lov'd,    1800.]


[Variant 11:

1836.

  Towards the church-yard he had turn'd aside,    1800.]


[Variant 12:

1836.

  ... and he had hopes    1800.

  ... and hope was his    1832.]


[Variant 13:

1815.

  As up the vale he came that afternoon,    1800.]


[Variant 14:

1836.

  ... the ...    1800.]


[Variant 15:

1815.

  ... he thought that he perceiv'd     1800.]


[Variant 16:

1827.

  And the eternal hills, ...        1800.

  And the everlasting hills, ...    1820.]


[Variant 17:

1815.

  He scann'd him ...     1800.]


[Variant 18:

1800.

  ... cheeks, ...     1802.

The text of 1827 returns to that of 1800.]


[Variant 19:

1815.

  Why, Sir, ...      1800.]


[Variant 20:

1827.

  Companions for each other: ten years back,
  Close to those brother fountains, the huge crag
  Was rent with lightning--one is dead and gone,      1800.]


[Variant 21:

1815.

  Why we have store of them! ...     1800.]


[Variant 22:

1815.

  Cross-bones or skull, type of our earthly state
  Or emblem of our hopes: ...     1800.]


[Variant 23:

1827.

  ... winter's evening,    1800.]


[Variant 24:

1815.

  For five ...    1800.]


[Variant 25:

1802.

  ... still preserv'd    1800.]


[Variant 26:

1815.

  ... in ...    1800.]


[Variant 27:

1815.

  ... these ...    1800.]


[Variant 28:

1836.

  ... For
  Though from their cradles they had liv'd with Walter,
  The only kinsman near them in the house,
  Yet he being old, they had much love to spare,    1800.

  The only Kinsman near them, and though he
  Inclined to them, by reason of his age,
  With a more fond, familiar tenderness,
  They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare,    1815.]


[Variant 29:

1820.

  Was ...    1800.]


[Variant 30:

1836.

  ... when elder boys perhaps
  Remain'd at home, go staggering through the fords    1800.]


[Variant 31:

1832.

  ... I've ...    1800.]


[Variant 32:

1836.

  The finest Sunday that the Autumn saw,      1800.]


[Variant 33:

1836.

  ... these ....      1800.]


[Variant 34:

1836.

  Where foot could come, to one or both of them      1800.]


[Variant 35:

1836.

  ... and I'd wager twenty pounds,
  That, if he is alive, ...              1800.

  ... and I'd wager house and field      1827.]


[Variant 36:

1815.

  ... that end, ...     1800.]


[Variant 37:

1815.

  ... this ...     1800.]


[Variant 38:

1815.

  And, though a very Stripling, twelve years old;      1800.]


[Variant 39:

1827.

  'Tis now twelve years ...      1800.]


[Variant 40:

1820.

  ... was ...     1800.]


[Variant 41:

1836.

  ... a very festival,     1800.]


[Variant 42:

1815.

  ... the Lad     1800.]


[Variant 43.

1832.

  If ever the day came when he was rich,
  He would return, and on his Father's Land
  He would grow old among us.     1800.]


[Variant 44:

1827.

  ... liv'd ...     1800.]


[Variant 45:

1820.

  With two or three companions whom it chanc'd
  Some further business summon'd to a house
  Which stands at the Dale-head. James, tir'd perhaps,
  Or from some other cause remain'd behind.     1800.]


[Variant 46:

  ... it almost looks
  Like some vast building ...     1800.]


[Variant 47:

1827.

  ... it is called, _The Pillar_.
  James pointed to its summit, over which
  They all had purpos'd to return together,
  And told them that he there would wait for them:
  They parted, and his comrades pass'd that way
  Some two hours after, but they did not find him
  At the appointed place, a circumstance
  Of which they took no heed: but one of them,
  Going by chance, at night, into the house
  Which at this time was James's home, ...         1800.

  ... but they did not find him
  Upon the Pillar--at the appointed place.
  Of this they took no heed: ...                   1802.

  Which at that time ...                           1802.

  Upon the Summit--at the appointed place.         1815.

  ... they found that he was gone.
  From this no ill was feared; but one of them,
  Entering by chance, at even-tide, the house      1820.

In all else the edition of 1820 is identical with the final text of
1827.]


[Variant 48:

1836.

  Some went, and some towards the Lake; ...      1800.

  Some hastened, some towards the Lake: ...      1820.]


[Variant 49:

1815.

  ... Lad ...       1800.]


[Variant 50:

1820.

  ... said ...       1800.]


[Variant 51:

1815.

  ... Lad ...        1800.]


[Variant 52:

1836.

  Upon the grass, ...       1800.]


[Variant 53:

1836.

  ... he perish'd: at the time,
  We guess, that in his hands he must have had     1800.

  must have held                                   1827.]


[Variant 54:

1836.

  ... for midway in the cliff
  It had been caught, and there for many years     1800.]


[Variant 55:

1815.

  ... but he felt
  Tears rushing in; both left the spot in silence,     1800.]


[Variant 56:

1836.

  Pointing towards the Cottage, he entreated      1800.]


[Variant 57:

1836.

  ... fervent    1800.]


[Variant 58:

1836.

  Were with him in his heart: his cherish'd hopes,     1800.]


[Variant 59:

1836.

  ... travell'd on ...    1800.]


[Variant 60:

1802.

  That night, address'd a letter to the Priest      1800.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: This Poem was intended to be the concluding poem of a
series of pastorals, the scene of which was laid among the mountains of
Cumberland and Westmoreland. I mention this to apologise for the
abruptness with which the poem begins.--W. W. 1800.]


[Footnote B: In Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal the following
entry occurs:

  "Friday, 6th August (1800).--In the morning I copied 'The Brothers'."

Ed.]


[Footnote C: This description of the Calenture is sketched from an
imperfect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert,
Author of 'The Hurricane'.--W. W. 1800.

Compare another reference to 'The Hurricane; a Theosophical and Western
Eclogue' etc., by William Gilbert, in one of the notes to 'The
Excursion', book iii. l. 931.--Ed.]


[Footnote D: The impressive circumstance here described, actually took
place some years ago in this country, upon an eminence called Kidstow
Pike, one of the highest of the mountains that surround Hawes-water. The
summit of the pike was stricken by lightning; and every trace of one of
the fountains disappeared, while the other continued to flow as
before.--W. W. 1800.]


[Footnote E: There is not any thing more worthy of remark in the manners
of the inhabitants of these mountains, than the tranquillity, I might
say indifference, with which they think and talk upon the subject of
death. Some of the country church-yards, as here described, do not
contain a single tomb-stone, and most of them have a very small
number.--W. W. 1800.]


[Footnote F: The name in the original MS. was "Wilfred Evans."--Ed.]


[Footnote G: The great Gavel, so called I imagine, from its resemblance
to the Gable end of a house, is one of the highest of the Cumberland
mountains. It stands at the head of the several vales of Ennerdale,
Wastdale, and Borrowdale.

The Leeza is a River which flows into the Lake of Ennerdale: on issuing
from the Lake, it changes its name, and is called the End, Eyne, or
Enna. It falls into the sea a little below Egremont--W. W. 1800.]


[Footnote H: See Coleridge's criticism of these lines in a note to
chapter xviii. of 'Biographia Literaria' (vol. ii. p. 83 of the edition
of 1817).--Ed.]



This poem illustrates the way in which Wordsworth's imagination worked
upon a minimum of fact, idealizing a simple story, and adding

                               'the gleam,
  The light that never was, on sea or land,
  The consecration, and the Poet's dream.'

It is the only poem of his referring to Ennerdale; but perhaps the chief
association with that dale, to those who visit it after becoming
acquainted with this poem, will be the fact that the brothers Ewbank
were supposed to have spent their youth under the shadow of the Pillar,
and Leonard to have had this conversation, on his return from sea, with
the venerable priest of Ennerdale. The district is described with all
that local accuracy which Wordsworth invariably showed in idealization.
The height whence James Ewbank is supposed to have fallen is not the
Pillar-Rock--a crag somewhat difficult to ascend, except by practised
climbers, and which has only been accessible since mountaineering became
an art and a passion to Englishmen. But, if we suppose the conversation
with the priest of Ennerdale to have taken place at the Bridge, below
the Lake--as that is the only place where there is both a hamlet and "a
churchyard"--the "precipice" will refer to the Pillar "Mountain." Both
are alluded to in the poem. The lines,

  'You see yon precipice;--it wears the shape
  Of a vast building made of many crags;
  And in the midst is one particular rock
  That rises like a column from the vale,
  Whence by our shepherds it is called, _The Pillar_,'

are definite enough. The great mass of the Pillar Mountain is first
referred to, and then the Rock which is a characteristic spur, halfway
up the mountain on its northern side. The "aery summit crowned with
heath," however, on which "the loiterer" "lay stretched at ease," could
neither be the top of this "rock" nor the summit of the "mountain": not
the former, because there is no heath on it, and it would be impossible
for a weary man, loitering behind his companions, to ascend it to rest;
not the latter, because no one resting on the summit of the mountain
could be "not unnoticed by his comrades," and they would not pass that
way over the top of the mountain "on their return" to Ennerdale. This is
an instance, therefore, in which precise localization is impossible.
Probably Wordsworth did not know either that the pillar "rock" was bare
on the summit, or that it had never been ascended in 1800; and he
idealised it to suit his imaginative purpose. In connection with this
poem, a remark he made to the Hon. Mr. Justice Coleridge may be
recalled.

  "He said there was some foundation in fact, however slight, for every
  poem he had written of a narrative kind; ... 'The Brothers' was
  founded on a young shepherd, in his sleep, having fallen down a crag,
  his staff remaining suspended mid-way."

(See the 'Memoirs of Wordsworth', by the late Bishop of Lincoln, vol.
ii. p. 305.) It should be added that the character of Leonard Ewbank was
drawn in large part from that of the poet's brother John--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





THE SEVEN SISTERS; OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE [A]


Composed 1800. [B]--Published 1807


The Story of this Poem is from the German of Frederica Brun. [C]--W. W.
1807.

One of the "Poems of the Fancy."--Ed.




  I       Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald,
          All children of one mother:
          You could [1] not say in one short day
          What love they bore each other.
          A garland, of seven lilies, wrought!                    5
          Seven Sisters that together dwell;
          But he, bold Knight as ever fought,
          Their Father, took of them no thought,
          He loved the wars so well.
          Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,                      10
          The solitude of Binnorie!

  II      Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,
          And from the shores of Erin,
          Across the wave, a Rover brave
          To Binnorie is steering:                               15
          Right onward to the Scottish strand
          The gallant ship is borne;
          The warriors leap upon the land,
          And hark! the Leader of the band
          Hath blown his bugle horn.                             20
          Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
          The solitude of Binnorie.

  III     Beside a grotto of their own,
          With boughs above them closing,
          The Seven are laid, and in the shade                   25
          They lie like fawns reposing.
          But now, upstarting with affright
          At noise of man and steed,
          Away they fly to left, to right--
          Of your fair household, Father-knight,                 30
          Methinks you take small heed!
          Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
          The solitude of Binnorie.

  IV      Away the seven fair Campbells fly,
          And, over hill and hollow,                             35
          With menace proud, and insult loud,
          The youthful Rovers [2] follow.
          Cried they, "Your Father loves to roam:
          Enough for him to find
          The empty house when he comes home;                    40
          For us your yellow ringlets comb,
          For us be fair and kind!"
          Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
          The solitude of Binnorie.

  V       Some close behind, some side by side,                  45
          Like clouds in stormy weather;
          They run, and cry, "Nay, let us die,
          And let us die together."
          A lake was near; the shore was steep;
          There never foot had been;                             50
          They ran, and with a desperate leap
          Together plunged into the deep, [3]
          Nor ever more were seen.
          Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
          The solitude of Binnorie.                              55

  VI      The stream that flows out of the lake,
          As through the glen it rambles,
          Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone,
          For those seven lovely Campbells.
          Seven little Islands, green and bare,                  60
          Have risen from out the deep:
          The fishers say, those sisters fair,
          By faeries all are buried there,
          And there together sleep.
          Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,                      65
          The solitude of Binnorie.



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1836.

  I could ...     1807.]


[Variant 2:

1807.

  The Irish Rovers ...     MS.]


[Variant 3:

1807.

  The sisters ran like mountain sheep    MS.

  And in together did they leap          MS.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: It is a well-known Scottish Ballad. In Jamieson's 'Popular
Ballads', vol. i. p. 50 (1806), its title is "The Twa Sisters." In
Walter Scott's 'Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border', vol. iii. p. 287, it
is called "The Cruel Sisters." In 'The Ballads of Scotland', collected
by W. Edmonstone Aytoun (1858), vol. i. p. 194, it is printed
"Binnorie." In 1807 Wordsworth printed the sub-title 'The Solitude of
Binnorie'.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: In Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal there is an entry,
under date August 16, 1800,

  "William read us 'The Seven Sisters'."

It is uncertain whether this refers to his own poem or not, but I
incline to think it does.--Ed.]


[Footnote C: In a MS. copy this note runs thus:

  "This poem, in the groundwork of the story, is from the German of
  Frederica Brun."

Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





RURAL ARCHITECTURE


Composed 1800.--Published 1800


[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. These structures, as every one knows,
are common amongst our hills, being built by shepherds, as conspicuous
marks, and occasionally by boys in sport.--I. F.]

Included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."--Ed.




  There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore, [1]
  Three rosy-cheeked school-boys, the highest not more
  Than the height of a counsellor's bag;
  To the top of GREAT HOW [A] did it please them to climb: [2]
  And there they built up, without mortar or lime,                     5
  A Man on the peak of the crag.

  They built him of stones gathered up as they lay:
  They built him and christened him all in one day,
  An urchin both vigorous and hale;
  And so without scruple they called him Ralph Jones.                 10
  Now Ralph is renowned for the length of his bones;
  The Magog of Legberthwaite dale.

  Just half a week after, the wind sallied forth,
  And, in anger or merriment, out of the north,
  Coming on with a terrible pother,                                   15
  From the peak of the crag blew the giant away.
  And what did these school-boys?--The very next day
  They went and they built up another.

--Some little I've seen of blind boisterous works
  By Christian disturbers more savage than Turks, [3]                 20
  Spirits busy to do and undo:
  At remembrance whereof my blood sometimes will flag;
  Then, light-hearted Boys, to the top of the crag;
  And I'll build up a giant with you. [4]



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1800.

  From the meadows of ARMATH, on THIRLMERE'S wild shore,     1827.

The text of 1832 reverts to that of 1800.]


[Variant 2:

1800.

  ... were once tempted to climb;     1827

The text of 1832 reverts to that of 1800.]


[Variant 3:

1820.

  In Paris and London, '<DW41> Christians or Turks,     1800]


[Variant 4: This last stanza was omitted from the editions of 1805 and
1815. It was restored in 1820.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Great How is a single and conspicuous hill, which rises
towards the foot of Thirl-mere, on the western side of the beautiful
dale of Legberthwaite, along the high road between Keswick and
Ambleside.--W. W. 1800.]







The editions of 1836, 1840, 1841, 1842, 1843, and 1845, and the Fenwick
note, assign this poem to the year 1801. It must, however, have been
composed during the previous year, because it was published in the
"Lyrical Ballads" of 1800. The locality referred to--which is also
associated with 'The Waggoner'--is easily identified.

In a letter to Wordsworth, written in the year 1815, Charles Lamb said:
"How I can be brought in, _felo de omittendo_, for that ending to the
Boy-builders is a mystery. I can't say positively now, I only know that
no line oftener or readier occurs than that 'Light-hearted boys, I will
build up a Giant with you.' It comes naturally, with a warm holiday, and
the freshness of the blood. It is a perfect summer amulet, that I tie
round my legs to quicken their motion when I go out a maying." (See
_Letters of Charles Lamb_, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i. p.
287.)--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





A CHARACTER


Composed 1800.--Published 1800


[The principal features are taken from my friend Robert Jones.--I. F.]

Included among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."--Ed.




  I marvel how Nature could ever find space
  For so many strange contrasts in one human face: [1]
  There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom
  And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.

  There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain;             5
  Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain
  Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease,
  Would be rational peace--a philosopher's ease.

  There's indifference, alike when he fails or [2] succeeds,
  And attention full ten times as much as there needs;               10
  Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy;
  And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy.

  There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare
  Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there,
  There's virtue, the title it surely may claim,                     15
  Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy the name.

  This picture from nature may seem to depart, [3]
  Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart;
  And I for five centuries right gladly would be
  Such an odd such a kind happy creature as he.                      20



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1837.

  For the weight and the levity seen in his face:    1800.]


[Variant 2:

1837.

  ... and ...    1800.]


[Variant 3:

1837.

  What a picture! 'tis drawn without nature or art,    1800.]


The full title of this poem, in "Lyrical Ballads," 1800, is 'A
Character, in the antithetical Manner'. It was omitted from all
subsequent editions till 1837. With this early friend, Robert Jones--a
fellow collegian at St. John's College, Cambridge--Wordsworth visited
the Continent (France and Switzerland), during the long vacation of
1790; and to him he dedicated the first edition of 'Descriptive
Sketches', in 1793. With him he also made a pedestrian tour in Wales in
1791. Jones afterwards became the incumbent of Soulderne, near
Deddington, in Oxfordshire; and Wordsworth described his parsonage there
in the sonnet, beginning "Where holy ground begins, unhallowed ends."
(See Wordsworth's note to the sonnet 'Composed near Calais', p.
333.)--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





INSCRIPTION FOR THE SPOT WHERE THE HERMITAGE STOOD ON ST. HERBERT'S
ISLAND, DERWENT-WATER


Composed 1800.--Published 1800


Included in 1815 among the "Poems referring to the Period of Old Age,"
and in all subsequent editions among the "Inscriptions."--Ed.




  If thou in the dear love of some one Friend
  Hast been so happy that thou know'st what thoughts
  Will sometimes in the happiness of love
  Make the heart sink, [A] then wilt thou reverence
  This quiet spot; and, Stranger! not unmoved                       5
  Wilt thou behold this shapeless heap of stones,
  The desolate ruins of St. Herbert's Cell.
  Here stood his threshold; here was spread the roof
  That sheltered him, a self-secluded Man,
  After long exercise in social cares                              10
  And offices humane, intent to adore
  The Deity, with undistracted mind,
  And meditate on everlasting things,
  In utter solitude.--But he had left
  A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man loved                       15
  As his own soul. And, when with eye upraised
  To heaven he knelt before the crucifix,
  While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore
  Pealed to his orisons, and when he paced
  Along the beach of this small isle and thought                   20
  Of his Companion, he would pray that both
  (Now that their earthly duties were fulfilled)
  Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain
  So prayed he:--as our chronicles report,
  Though here the Hermit numbered his last day                     25
  Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved Friend,
  Those holy Men both died in the same hour. [1]



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANT ON THE TEXT


[Variant 1:

1832.

The text of this poem underwent so many changes, which are not easily
shown by the plan adopted throughout this edition--portions of the
earliest version of 1800 being abandoned and again adopted, and the
whole arrangement of the passages being altered--that it seems desirable
to append the entire text of 1800, and extensive parts of that of
subsequent years. The final text of 1832 is printed above.


  If thou in the dear love of some one friend
  Hast been so happy, that thou know'st what thoughts
  Will, sometimes, in the happiness of love
  Make the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence
  This quiet spot.--St. Herbert hither came
  And here, for many seasons, from the world
  Remov'd, and the affections of the world
  He dwelt in solitude. He living here,
  This island's sole inhabitant! had left
  A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man lov'd
  As his own soul; and when within his cave
  Alone he knelt before the crucifix
  While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore
  Peal'd to his orisons, and when he pac'd
  Along the beach of this small isle and thought
  Of his Companion, he had pray'd that both
  Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain
  So pray'd he:--as our Chronicles report,
  Though here the Hermit number'd his last days,
  Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved friend,
  Those holy men both died in the same hour.    1800.

The text of the editions of 1802 and 1805 (which are identical), omits
one line of the text of 1800. The passage reads:

  He dwelt in solitude.--But he had left
  A Fellow-labourer, whom ...

And the following variants occur in 1802 and 1805:

  Make the heart sick, ....

  ... he would pray that both

The text of 1815, which is continued in 1820, begins thus:

  This Island, guarded from profane approach
  By mountains high and waters widely spread,
  Is that recess to which St. Herbert came
  In life's decline; a self-secluded Man,
  After long exercise in social cares
  And offices humane, intent to adore
  The Deity, with undistracted mind,
  And meditate on everlasting things.
--Stranger! this shapeless heap of stones and earth
  (Long be its mossy covering undisturbed!)
  Is reverenced as a vestige of the Abode
  In which, through many seasons, from the world
  Removed, and the affections of the world,
  He dwelt in solitude.--But he had left
  A Fellow-labourer, ...    1815 and 1820.

In 1827 the poem began thus:

  Stranger! this shapeless heap of stones and earth
  Is the last relic of St. Herbert's Cell.
  Here stood his threshold; here was spread the roof
  That sheltered him, a self-secluded Man,    1827.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare the last stanza of "Strange fits of passion have I
known," p. 79 of this volume.--Ed.]



The "shapeless heap of stones" in St. Herbert's Island, which were
"desolate ruins" in 1800, are even more "shapeless" and "desolate" now,
but they can easily be identified. The island is near the centre of the
lake, and is in area about four acres. The legend of St. Herbert dates
from the middle of the seventh century. The rector of Clifton,
Westmoreland, Dr. Robinson, writing in 1819, says:

  "The remains of his hermitage are still visible, being built of stone
  and mortar, and formed into two apartments, one of which, about twenty
  feet long and sixteen feet wide, seems to have been his chapel; the
  other, of less dimensions, his cell. Near these ruins the late Sir
  Wilfred Lawson (to whose representative the island at present belongs)
  erected some years ago a small octagonal cottage, which, being built
  of unhewn stone, and artificially mossed over, has a venerable
  appearance."

(See _Guide to the Lakes_, by John Robinson, D.D., 1819). This cottage
has now disappeared. The following version of this "Inscription" occurs
in a letter from Wordsworth to Lady Beaumont, dated 26th November 1811:

  This Island, guarded from profane approach
  By mountains high and waters widely spread,
  Gave to St. Herbert a benign retreat.
  Upon a staff supported, and his Brow
  White with the peaceful diadem of age.
  Hither he came--a self-secluded Man,
  ...
  Behold that shapeless Heap of stones and earth!
  "Tis reverenced as a Vestige of the Abode
  ...
  ...--And when within his Cell
  Alone he knelt before the crucifix,

In a previous letter to Sir George Beaumont, dated 16th November 1811:

  By mountains high and waters widely spread,
  Is that Seclusion which St. Herbert chose;
  ...
  Hither he came in life's austere decline:
  And, Stranger! this blank Heap of stones and earth
  Is reverenced ...

Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL UPON A STONE IN THE WALL OF THE HOUSE (AN
OUT-HOUSE), ON THE ISLAND AT GRASMERE [A]


Composed 1800.--Published 1800


Included among the "Inscriptions."--Ed.




  Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen
  Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained
  Proportions more harmonious, and approached
  To closer fellowship with ideal grace.
  But take it in good part:--alas! the poor [1]                   5
  Vitruvius of our village had no help
  From the great City; never, upon leaves [2]
  Of red Morocco folio saw displayed,
  In long succession, pre-existing ghosts [3]
  Of Beauties yet unborn--the rustic Lodge                       10
  Antique, and Cottage with verandah graced,
  Nor lacking, for fit company, alcove,
  Green-house, shell-grot, and moss-lined hermitage. [4]
  Thou see'st a homely Pile, [5] yet to these walls
  The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here                   15
  The new-dropped lamb finds shelter from the wind.
  And hither does one Poet sometimes row
  His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled
  With plenteous store of heath and withered fern,
  (A lading which he with his sickle cuts,                       20
  Among the mountains) and beneath this roof
  He makes his summer couch, and here at noon
  Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, the Sheep,
  Panting beneath the burthen of their wool,
  Lie round him, even as if they were a part                     25
  Of his own Household: nor, while from his bed
  He looks, through the open door-place, [6] toward the lake
  And to the stirring breezes, does he want
  Creations lovely as the work of sleep--
  Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy!                      30



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1837.

  ... and approach'd
  To somewhat of a closer fellowship
  With the ideal grace. Yet as it is
  Do take it in good part; for he, the poor    1800.

  ... alas! the poor                           1815.]


[Variant 2:

1837.

  ... on the leaves       1800.]


[Variant 3:

1837.

  The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts      1800.]


[Variant 4:

1837.

  ... yet unborn, the rustic Box,
  Snug Cot, with Coach-house, Shed and Hermitage.     1800.]


[Variant 5:

1815.

  It is a homely pile, ...       1800.]


[Variant 6:

1837.

  He through that door-place looks ...      1800.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT



[Footnote A: The title of this poem in the edition of 1800 was simply
'Inscription for the House (an Out-house) on the Island at
Grasmere'.--Ed.]


This "homely pile" on the island of Grasmere--very homely--still
remains.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





MICHAEL

A PASTORAL POEM [A]


Composed 1800.--Published 1800


[Written at the Town-end, Grasmere, about the same time as 'The
Brothers'. The sheepfold, on which so much of the poem turns, remains,
or rather the ruins of it. The character and circumstances of Luke were
taken from a family to whom had belonged, many years before, the house
we lived in at Town-end, along with some fields and woodlands on the
eastern shore of Grasmere. The name of the Evening Star was not in fact
given to this house, but to another on the same side of the valley, more
to the north.--I.F.]

Included among the "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed.




  If from the public way you turn your steps
  Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
  You will suppose that with an upright path
  Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
  The pastoral mountains front you, face to face.                     5
  But, courage! for around [1] that boisterous brook
  The mountains have all opened out themselves,
  And made a hidden valley of their own.
  No habitation can be seen; but they
  Who journey thither find themselves alone [2]                      10
  With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites
  That overhead are sailing in the sky.
  It is in truth an utter solitude;
  Nor should I have made mention of this Dell
  But for one object which you might pass by,                        15
  Might see and notice not. Beside the brook
  Appears [3] a straggling heap of unhewn stones!
  And to that simple object appertains
  A story--unenriched with strange events,
  Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, [4]                       20
  Or for the summer shade. It was the first
  Of those domestic tales that spake to me [5]
  Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men
  Whom I already loved;--not verily
  For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills                  25
  Where was their occupation and abode.
  And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy
  Careless of books, yet having felt the power
  Of Nature, by the gentle agency
  Of natural objects, led me on to feel                              30
  For passions that were not my own, and think
  (At random and imperfectly indeed)
  On man, the heart of man, and human life.
  Therefore, although it be a history
  Homely and rude, I will relate the same                            35
  For the delight of a few natural hearts;
  And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake
  Of youthful Poets, who among these hills
  Will be my second self when I am gone.

    Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale                            40
  There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name;
  An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb.
  His bodily frame had been from youth to age
  Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen,
  Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs,                          45
  And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt
  And watchful more than ordinary men.
  Hence had he learned [6] the meaning of all winds,
  Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes,
  When others heeded not, He heard the South                         50
  Make subterraneous music, like the noise
  Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills.
  The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock
  Bethought him, and he to himself would say,
  "The winds are now devising work for me!"                          55
  And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives
  The traveller to a shelter, summoned him
  Up to the mountains: he had been alone
  Amid the heart of many thousand mists,
  That came to him, and left him, on the heights.                    60
  So lived he till his eightieth year was past.
  And grossly that man errs, who should suppose
  That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks,
  Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts.
  Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed                65
  The common air; hills, which with vigorous step
  He had so often climbed; [7] which had impressed
  So many incidents upon his mind
  Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear;
  Which, like a book, preserved the memory                           70
  Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved,
  Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts
  The certainty of honourable gain;
  Those fields, those hills--what could they less? had laid [8]
  Strong hold on his affections, were to him                         75
  A pleasurable feeling of blind love,
  The pleasure which there is in life itself.

    His days had not been passed in singleness.
  His Helpmate was a comely matron, old--[9]
  Though younger than himself full twenty years.                     80
  She was a woman of a stirring life,
  Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had
  Of antique form; this large, for spinning wool;
  That small, for flax; and if one wheel had rest,
  It was because the other was at work.                              85
  The Pair had but one inmate in their house,
  An only Child, who had been born to them
  When Michael, telling o'er his years, began
  To deem that he was old,--in shepherd's phrase,
  With one foot in the grave. This only Son,                         90
  With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm,
  The one of an inestimable worth,
  Made all their household. I may truly say,
  That they were as a proverb in the vale
  For endless industry. When day was gone,                           95
  And from their occupations out of doors
  The Son and Father were come home, even then,
  Their labour did not cease; unless when all
  Turned to the [10] cleanly supper-board, and there,
  Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk,                     100
  Sat round the [11] basket piled with oaten cakes,
  And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the [12] meal
  Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named)
  And his old Father both betook themselves
  To such convenient work as might employ                           105
  Their hands by the fire-side; perhaps to card
  Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair
  Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe,
  Or other implement of house or field.

  Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge,                     110
  That [13] in our ancient uncouth country style
  With huge and black projection overbrowed [14]
  Large space beneath, as duly as the light
  Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp;
  An aged utensil, which had performed                              115
  Service beyond all others of its kind.
  Early at evening did it burn--and late,
  Surviving comrade of uncounted hours,
  Which, going by from year to year, had found,
  And left the couple neither gay perhaps                           120
  Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes,
  Living a life of eager industry.
  And now, when Luke had reached his [15] eighteenth year,
  There by the light of this old lamp they sate,
  Father and Son, while far [16] into the night                     125
  The Housewife plied her own peculiar work,
  Making the cottage through the silent hours
  Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. [B]
  [17] This [18] light was famous in its neighbourhood,
  And was a public symbol of the life                               130
  That [19] thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced,
  Their cottage on a plot of rising ground
  Stood single, with large prospect, north and south,
  High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise,
  And westward to the village near the lake;                        135
  And from this constant light, so regular
  And so far seen, the House itself, by all
  Who dwelt within the limits of the vale,
  Both old and young, was named THE EVENING STAR.

    Thus living on through such a length of years,                  140
  The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs
  Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michael's heart
  This son of his old age was yet more dear--
  Less from instinctive tenderness, [20] the same
  Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all--[21]          145
  Than [22] that a child, more than all other gifts
  That earth can offer to declining man, [23]
  Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,
  And stirrings of inquietude, when they
  By tendency of nature needs must fail.                            150
  [24] Exceeding was the love he bare to him,
  His heart and his heart's joy! For oftentimes
  Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms,
  Had done him female service, not alone
  For pastime [25] and delight, as is the use                       155
  Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced
  To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked
  His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand. [26]
  And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy
  Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love,                        160
  Albeit of a stern unbending mind,
  To have the Young-one in his sight, when he
  Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stool
  Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched
  Under the large old oak, that near his door                       165
  Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade, [27]
  Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun,
  Thence in our rustic dialect was called
  The CLIPPING TREE, [C] a name which yet it bears.
  There, while they two were sitting in the shade,                  170
  With others round them, earnest all and blithe,
  Would Michael exercise his heart with looks
  Of fond correction and reproof bestowed
  Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep
  By catching at their legs, or with his shouts                     175
  Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears.

  And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew up
  A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek
  Two steady roses that were five years old;
  Then Michael from a winter coppice cut                            180
  With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped
  With iron, making it throughout in all
  Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff,
  And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipt
  He as a watchman oftentimes was placed                            185
  At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock;
  And, to his office prematurely called,
  There stood the urchin, as you will divine,
  Something between a hindrance and a help;
  And for this cause not always, I believe,                         190
  Receiving from his Father hire of praise;
  Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice,
  Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform.

  But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand
  Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights,                  200
  Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways,
  He with his Father daily went, and they
  Were as companions, why should I relate
  That objects which the Shepherd loved before
  Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came                     205
  Feelings and emanations--things which were
  Light to the sun and music to the wind;
  And that the old Man's heart seemed born again?

  Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew up:
  And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year,                 210
  He was his comfort and his daily hope. [D]

  While in this sort the simple household lived [28]
  From day to day, to Michael's ear there came
  Distressful tidings. Long before the time
  Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound                     215
  In surety for his brother's son, a man
  Of an industrious life, and ample means;
  But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly
  Had prest upon him; and old Michael now
  Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture,                         220
  A grievous penalty, but little less
  Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim,
  At the first hearing, for a moment took
  More hope out of his life than he supposed
  That any old man ever could have lost.                            225
  As soon as he had armed himself with strength
  To look his trouble in the face, it seemed
  The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once [29]
  A portion of his patrimonial fields.
  Such was his first resolve; he thought again,                     230
  And his heart failed him. "Isabel," said he,
  Two evenings after he had heard the news,
  "I have been toiling more than seventy years,
  And in the open sunshine of God's love
  Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours                    235
  Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think
  That I could not lie quiet in my grave.
  Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself [30]
  Has scarcely been more diligent than I;
  And I have lived to be a fool at last                             240
  To my own family. An evil man
  That was, and made an evil choice, if he
  Were false to us; and if he were not false,
  There are ten thousand to whom loss like this
  Had been no sorrow. I forgive him;--but                           245
  'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus.

  "When I began, my purpose was to speak
  Of remedies and of a cheerful hope.
  Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land
  Shall not go from us, and it shall be free;                       250
  He shall possess it, free as is the wind
  That passes over it. We have, thou know'st,
  Another kinsman--he will be our friend
  In this distress. He is a prosperous man,
  Thriving in trade--and Luke to him shall go,                      255
  And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift
  He quickly will repair this loss, and then
  He may return to us. [31] If here he stay,
  What can be done? Where every one is poor,
  What can be gained?"                                              260
                       At this the old Man paused,
  And Isabel sat silent, for her mind
  Was busy, looking back into past times.
  There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself, [E]
  He was a parish-boy--at the church-door                           265
  They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence
  And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought
  A basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares;
  And, with this basket on his arm, the lad
  Went up to London, found a master there,                          270
  Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy
  To go and overlook his merchandise
  Beyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich,
  And left estates and monies to the poor,
  And, at his birth-place, built a chapel floored                   275
  With marble, which he sent from foreign lands.
  These thoughts, and many others of like sort,
  Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel,
  And her face brightened. The old Man was glad,
  And thus resumed:--"Well, Isabel! this scheme                     280
  These two days, has been meat and drink to me.
  Far more than we have lost is left us yet.
--We have enough--I wish indeed that I
  Were younger;--but this hope is a good hope.
  Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best                      285
  Buy for him more, and let us send him forth
  To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night:
--If he _could_ [32] go, the Boy should go to-night."

  Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth
  With a light heart. [F] The Housewife for five days               290
  Was restless morn and night, and all day long
  Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare
  Things needful for the journey of her son.
  But Isabel was glad when Sunday came
  To stop her in her work: for, when she lay                        295
  By Michael's side, she through the last two nights [33]
  Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep:
  And when they rose at morning she could see
  That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon
  She said to Luke, while they two by themselves                    300
  Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not go:
  We have no other Child but thee to lose,
  None to remember--do not go away,
  For if thou leave thy Father he will die."
  The Youth [34] made answer with a jocund voice;                   305
  And Isabel, when she had told her fears,
  Recovered heart. That evening her best fare
  Did she bring forth, and all together sat
  Like happy people round a Christmas fire.

  With daylight [35] Isabel resumed her work;                       310
  And all the ensuing week the house appeared
  As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length
  The expected letter from their kinsman came,
  With kind assurances that he would do
  His utmost for the welfare of the Boy;                            315
  To which, requests were added, that forthwith
  He might be sent to him. Ten times or more
  The letter was read over; Isabel
  Went forth to show it to the neighbours round;
  Nor was there at that time on English land                        320
  A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel
  Had to her house returned, the old Man said,
  "He shall depart to-morrow." To this word
  The Housewife answered, talking much of things
  Which, if at such short notice he should go,                      325
  Would surely be forgotten. But at length
  She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.

  Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
  In that deep valley, Michael had designed
  To build a Sheep-fold; [G] and, before he heard                   330
  The tidings of his melancholy loss,
  For this same purpose he had gathered up
  A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge [36]
  Lay thrown together, ready for the work.
  With Luke that evening thitherward he walked:                     335
  And soon as they had reached the place he stopped,
  And thus the old Man spake to him:--"My Son,
  To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full heart
  I look upon thee, for thou art the same
  That wert a promise to me ere thy birth,                          340
  And all thy life hast been my daily joy.
  I will relate to thee some little part
  Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good
  When thou art from me, even if I should touch
  On things [37] thou canst not know of.--After thou                345
  First cam'st into the world--as oft befals [38]
  To new-born infants--thou didst sleep away
  Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue
  Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on,
  And still I loved thee with increasing love.                      350
  Never to living ear came sweeter sounds
  Than when I heard thee by our own fire-side
  First uttering, without words, a natural tune;
  While [39] thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy
  Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month followed month,                355
  And in the open fields my life was passed
  And on [40] the mountains; else I think that thou
  Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees.
  But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills,
  As well thou knowest, in us the old and young                     360
  Have played together, nor with me didst thou
  Lack any pleasure which a boy can know."
  Luke had a manly heart; but at these words
  He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand,
  And said, "Nay, do not take it so--I see                          365
  That these are things of which I need not speak.
--Even to the utmost I have been to thee
  A kind and a good Father: and herein
  I but repay a gift which I myself
  Received at others' hands; for, though now old                    370
  Beyond the common life of man, I still
  Remember them who loved me in my youth.
  Both of them sleep together: here they lived,
  As all their Forefathers had done; and when
  At length their time was come, they were not loth                 375
  To give their bodies to the family mould.
  I wished that thou should'st live the life they lived:
  But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son,
  And see so little gain from threescore years. [41]
  These fields were burthened when they came to me;                 380
  Till I was forty years of age, not more
  Than half of my inheritance was mine.
  I toiled and toiled; God blessed me in my work,
  And till these three weeks past the land was free.
--It looks as if it never could endure                            385
  Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke,
  If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good
  That thou should'st go,"

  At this the old Man paused;
  Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood,               390
  Thus, after a short silence, he resumed:
  "This was a work for us; and now, my Son,
  It is a work for me. But, lay one stone--
  Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands.
  [42] Nay, Boy, be of good hope;--we both may live                 395
  To see a better day. At eighty-four
  I still am strong and hale [43];--do thou thy part;
  I will do mine.--I will begin again
  With many tasks that were resigned to thee:
  Up to the heights, and in among the storms,                       400
  Will I without thee go again, and do
  All works which I was wont to do alone,
  Before I knew thy face.--Heaven bless thee, Boy!
  Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast
  With many hopes; it should be so--yes--yes--405
  I knew that thou could'st never have a wish
  To leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to me
  Only by links of love: when thou art gone,
  What will be left to us!--But, I forget
  My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone,                            410
  As I requested; and hereafter, Luke,
  When thou art gone away, should evil men
  Be thy companions, think of me, my Son,
  And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts,
  And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear                       415
  And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou
  May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, [44]
  Who, being innocent, did for that cause
  Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well--
  When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see                  420
  A work which is not here: a covenant
  'Twill be between us; but, whatever fate
  Befal thee, I shall love thee to the last,
  And bear thy memory with me to the grave."

  The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stooped down,                   425
  And, as his Father had requested, laid
  The first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the sight
  The old Man's grief broke from him; to his heart
  He pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept;
  And to the house together they returned.                          430
--Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace, [45]
  Ere the night fell:--with morrow's dawn the Boy [46]
  Began his journey, and when he had reached
  The public way, he put on a bold face;
  And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors,                 435
  Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers,
  That followed him till he was out of sight.

  A good report did from their Kinsman come,
  Of Luke and his well doing: and the Boy
  Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news,                      440
  Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout
  "The prettiest letters that were ever seen."
  Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts.
  So, many months passed on: and once again
  The Shepherd went about his daily work                            445
  With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now
  Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour
  He to that valley took his way, and there
  Wrought at the Sheep-fold. Meantime Luke began
  To slacken in his duty; and, at length,                           450
  He in the dissolute city gave himself
  To evil courses: ignominy and shame
  Fell on him, so that he was driven at last
  To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas.

  There is a comfort in the strength of love;                       455
  'Twill make a thing endurable, which else
  Would overset the brain, or break the heart: [47]
  I have conversed with more than one who well
  Remember the old Man, and what he was
  Years after he had heard this heavy news.                         460
  His bodily frame had been from youth to age
  Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks
  He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud, [48]
  And listened to the wind; and, as before,
  Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep,                      465
  And for the land, his small inheritance.
  And to that hollow dell from time to time
  Did he repair, to build the Fold of which
  His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet
  The pity which was then in every heart                            470
  For the old Man--and 'tis believed by all
  That many and many a day he thither went,
  And never lifted up a single stone.

  There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen
  Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, [49]                     475
  Then old, beside him, lying at his feet.
  The length of full seven years, from time to time,
  He at the building of this Sheep-fold wrought,
  And left the work unfinished when he died.
  Three years, or little more, did Isabel                           480
  Survive her Husband: at her death the estate
  Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand.
  The Cottage which was named the EVENING STAR
  Is gone--the ploughshare has been through the ground
  On which it stood; great changes have been wrought                485
  In all the neighbourhood:--yet the oak is left
  That grew beside their door; and the remains
  Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen
  Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll.



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827.

  ... beside ...      1800.]


[Variant 2:

1827.

  No habitation there is seen; but such
  As journey thither ...      1800.]


[Variant 3:

1827.

  There is ...      1800.]


[Variant 4:

1836.

  And to that place a story appertains,
  Which, though it be ungarnish'd with events,
  Is not unfit, ...      1800.]


[Variant 5:

1827.

  ... It was the first,
  The earliest of those tales ...       1800.]


[Variant 6:

1827.

  ... he had learn'd ...      1800.]


[Variant 7:

1836.

  ... the hills, which he so oft
  Had climb'd with vigorous steps; ...      1800.]


[Variant 8:

1832.

  ... linking to such acts,
  So grateful in themselves, the certainty
  Of honourable gains; these fields, these hills
  Which were his living Being, even more
  Than his own Blood--what could they less? had laid        1800.

  ... gain ...                                              1805.]


[Variant 9:

1815.

  He had not passed his days in singleness.
  He had a Wife, a comely Matron, old       1800.]


[Variant 10:

1836.

  ... their ...    1800.]


[Variant 11:

1836.

  ... their ...    1800.]


[Variant 12:

1836.

  ... their ...    1800.]


[Variant 13:

1827.

  Which ...    1800.]


[Variant 14:

1836.

  Did with a huge projection overbrow    1800.]


[Variant 15:

1827.

  ... was in his ...    1800.]


[Variant 16:

1836.

  ... while late ...    1800.]


[Variant 17:

  Not with a waste of words, but for the sake
  Of pleasure, which I know that I shall give
  To many living now, I of this Lamp
  Speak thus minutely: for there are no few
  Whose memories will bear witness to my tale.

These lines appeared only in the editions of 1800 and 1802.]


[Variant 18:

1815.

  The ...    1800.]


[Variant 19:

1832.

  The ...    1800.]


[Variant 20:

1827.

  ... yet more dear--
  Effect which might perhaps have been produc'd
  By that instinctive tenderness, ...    1800.]


[Variant 21:

1836.

  Blind Spirit, which is in the blood of all,    1800.]


[Variant 22:

1827.

  Or ...    1800.]


[Variant 23: This line was first printed in the edition of 1836.]


[Variant 24:

  From such, and other causes, to the thoughts
  Of the old Man his only Son was now
  The dearest object that he knew on earth.

Only in the editions of 1800 to 1820.]


[Variant 25:

1827.

  For dalliance ...    1800.]


[Variant 26:

1836.

  His cradle with a woman's gentle hand.    1800.]


[Variant 27:

1836.

  ... when he
  Had work by his own door, or when he sate
  With sheep before him on his Shepherd's stool,
  Beneath that large old Oak, which near their door
  Stood, and from its enormous breadth of shade    1800.]


[Variant 28:

1815.

  While this good household thus were living on    1800.

  While in the fashion which I have described
  This simple Household thus were living on        1800 (2nd issue).]


[Variant 29:

1836.

  As soon as he had gather'd so much strength
  That he could look his trouble in the face,
  It seem'd that his sole refuge was to sell    1800.]


[Variant 30:

1827.

  ... itself    1800.]


[Variant 31:

1836.

  May come again to us ...    1800.]


[Variant 32: Italics were first used in 1827.]


[Variant 33:

1836.

  ... for the two last nights     1800.

  ... through the                 1815.]


[Variant 34:

1815.

  The Lad ...     1800.]


[Variant 35:

1820.

  Next morning ...     1800.]


[Variant 36:

1815.

  ... which close to the brook side   1800.]


[Variant 37:

1836.

  ... should speak
  Of things ...    1800.]


[Variant 38:

1827.

  ... as it befalls    1800.]


[Variant 39:

1836.

  When ...    1800.]


[Variant 40:

1815.

  ... in ...    1800.]


[Variant 41:

1827.

  ... from sixty years.    1800.]


[Variant 42:

  I for the purpose brought thee to this place.

This line appears only in the edition of 1800.]


[Variant 43:

1827.

  ... stout; ...    1800.]


[Variant 44:

1802.

  ... should evil men
  Be thy companions, let this Sheep-fold be
  Thy anchor and thy shield; amid all fear
  And all temptation, let it be to thee
  An emblem of the life thy Fathers liv'd,    1800.]


[Variant 45: This line was added in the edition of 1815.]


[Variant 46:

1815.

  Next morning, as had been resolv'd, the Boy    1800.]


[Variant 47:

1820.

  Would break the heart:--Old Michael found it so.    1800.]


[Variant 48:

1836.

  ... look'd up upon the sun,    1800.

  ... towards the sun,           1832.]


[Variant 49:

1836.

  Sitting alone, with that his faithful Dog,    1800.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The Rev. Thomas Hutchinson, Kimbolton, tells me that in his
copy of the edition of "Lyrical Ballads" of 1800 there is

  "on the blank page facing the announcement, written in Wordsworth's
  handwriting, the following lines:

    'Though it be in th' humblest rank of life,
    And in the lowest region of our speech,
    Yet is it in that kind as best accords
    With rural passion.'"

Ed.]


[Footnote B: The following lines were written before April 1801, and
were at one time meant to be inserted after "summer flies," and before
"Not with a waste of words." They are quoted in a letter of Wordsworth's
to Thomas Poole of Nether Stowey, dated April 9th, 1801.

    'Though in their occupations they would pass
    Whole hours with but small interchange of speech,
    Yet were there times in which they did not want
    Discourse both wise and prudent, shrewd remarks
    Of daily providence, clothed in images
    Lively and beautiful, in rural forms
    That made their conversation fresh and fair
    As is a landscape;--And the shepherd oft
    Would draw out of his heart the obscurities
    And admirations that were there, of God
    And of His works, or, yielding to the bent
    Of his peculiar humour, would let loose
    The tongue and give it the wind's freedom,--then
    Discoursing on remote imaginations, story,
    Conceits, devices, day-dreams, thoughts and schemes,
    The fancies of a solitary man.'

Ed.]


[Footnote C: Clipping is the word used in the North of England for
shearing.--W. W. 1800]


[Footnote D: The lines from "Though nought was left," to "daily hope"
(192-206) were, by a printer's blunder, omitted from the first issue of
1800. In the second issue of that year they are given in full.--Ed.]


[Footnote E: The story alluded to here is well known in the country. The
chapel is called Ings Chapel; and is on the right hand side of the road
leading from Kendal to Ambleside.--W. W. 1800.

Ings chapel is in the parish of Kendal, about two miles east of
Windermere. The following extract from Lewis's Topographical Dictionary
further explains the allusion in the poem:

  "_Hugil_, a chapelry six and a quarter miles from Kendal. The chapel,
  rebuilt in 1743 by Robert Bateman, stands in the village of Ings,
  which is in this chapelry. The free school was endowed with land in
  1650 by Roland Wilson, producing at present L12 per annum. The average
  number of boys is twenty-five. This endowment was augmented by L8 per
  annum by Robert Bateman, who gave L1000 for purchasing an estate, and
  erected eight alms-houses for as many poor families, besides a
  donation of L12 per annum to the curate. This worthy benefactor was
  born here, and from a state of indigence succeeded in amassing
  considerable wealth by mercantile pursuits. He is stated to have been
  poisoned, in the straits of Gibraltar, on his voyage from Leghorn,
  with a valuable cargo, by the captain of the vessel,"

(See 'The Topographical Dictionary of England', by Samuel Lewis, vol.
ii. p. 1831.)--Ed.]


[Footnote F: There is a slight inconsistency here. The conversation is
represented as taking place in the evening (see l. 227).--Ed.]


[Footnote G: It may be proper to inform some readers, that a sheep-fold
in these mountains is an unroofed building of stone walls, with
different divisions. It is generally placed by the side of a brook, for
the convenience of washing the sheep; but it is also useful as a shelter
for them, and as a place to drive them into, to enable the shepherds
conveniently to single out one or more for any particular purpose.--W.
W. 1800.]



From the Fenwick note it will be seen that Michael's sheep-fold, in
Green-head Ghyll, existed--at least the remains of it--in 1843. Its
site, however, is now very difficult to identify. There is a sheep-fold
above Boon Beck, which one passes immediately on entering the common,
going up Green-head Ghyll. It is now "finished," and used when required.
There are remains of walling, much higher up the ghyll; but these are
probably the work of miners, formerly engaged there. Michael's cottage
had been destroyed when the poem was written, in 1800. It stood where
the coach-house and stables of "the Hollins" now stand. But one who
visits Green-head Ghyll, and wishes to realize Michael in his old
age--as described in this poem--should ascend the ghyll till it almost
reaches the top of Fairfield; where the old man, during eighty years,

    'had learned the meaning of all winds,
  Of blasts of every tone,'

and where he

        'had been alone,
  Amid the heart of many thousand mists,
  That came to him, and left him, on the heights.'

By so doing he will be better able to realize the spirit of the poem,
than by trying to identify the site either of the "unfinished
sheep-fold," or of the house named the "Evening Star." What Wordsworth
said to the Hon. Mr. Justice Coleridge in reference to 'The Brothers'
has been quoted in the note to that poem, p. 203. On the same occasion
he remarked, in reference to 'Michael':

  "'Michael' was founded on the son of an old couple having become
  dissolute, and run away from his parents; and on an old shepherd
  having been seven years in building up a sheep-fold in a solitary
  valley."

('Memoirs of Wordsworth', by the late Bishop of Lincoln, vol. ii. p.
305.)

The following extracts from Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal, show
the carefulness with which the poem 'Michael' was composed, and the
frequent revisions which it underwent:

  'Oct. 11 [1800.] "We walked up Green-head ghyll in search of a
  sheepfold.... The sheepfold is falling away. It is built nearly in the
  form of a heart unequally divided."

  13. "William composing in the evening."

  15. "W. composed a little." ... "W. again composed at the sheepfold
  after dinner."

  18. "W. worked all the morning at the sheepfold, but in vain. He lay
  down till 7 o'clock, but did not sleep."

  19. "William got to work."

  20. "W. worked in the morning at the sheepfold."

  21. "W. had been unsuccessful in the morning at the sheepfold."

  22. "W. composed, without much success, at the sheepfold."

  23. "W. was not successful in composition in the evening."

  24. "W. was only partly successful in composition."

  26. "W. composed a good deal all the morning."

  28. "W. could not compose much; fatigued himself with altering."

  30. "W. worked at his poem all the morning."

  Nov. 10. "W. at the sheepfold."

  12. "W. has been working at the sheepfold."

  Dec. 9. "W. finished his poem to-day."'

It is impossible to say with certainty that the entry under Dec. 9
refers to 'Michael', but if it does, it is evident that Wordsworth
wrought continuously at this poem for nearly two months.

On April 9, 1801, Wordsworth wrote to Thomas Poole:

  "In writing it" ('Michael'), "I had your character often before my
  eyes; and sometimes thought that I was delineating such a man as you
  yourself would have been, under the same circumstances."

The following is part of a letter written by Wordsworth to Charles James
Fox in 1802, and sent with a copy of "Lyrical Ballads":

  "In the two poems, 'The Brothers' and 'Michael', I have attempted to
  draw a picture of the domestic affections, as I know they exist
  amongst a class of men who are now almost confined to the north of
  England. They are small independent 'proprietors' of land, here called
  'statesmen,' men of respectable education, who daily labour on their
  own little properties. The domestic affections will always be strong
  amongst men who live in a country not crowded with population; if
  these men are placed above poverty. But, if they are proprietors of
  small estates which have descended to them from their ancestors, the
  power which these affections will acquire amongst such men, is
  inconceivable by those who have only had an opportunity of observing
  hired labourers, farmers, and the manufacturing poor. Their little
  tract of land serves as a kind of permanent rallying point for their
  domestic feelings, as a tablet on which they are written, which makes
  them objects of memory in a thousand instances, when they would
  otherwise be forgotten. It is a fountain fitted to the nature of
  social man, from which supplies of affection as pure as his heart was
  intended for, are daily drawn. This class of men is rapidly
  disappearing.... The two poems that I have mentioned were written with
  a view to show that men who do not wear fine clothes can feel deeply.
  'Pectus enim est quod disertos facit, et vis mentis. Ideoque imperitis
  quoque, si modo sint aliquo affectu concitati, verba non desunt.' The
  poems are faithful copies from nature; and I hope whatever effect they
  may have upon you, you will at least be able to perceive that they may
  excite profitable sympathies in many kind and good hearts; and may in
  some small degree enlarge our feelings of reverence for our species,
  and our knowledge of human nature, by showing that our best qualities
  are possessed by men whom we are too apt to consider, not with
  reference to the points in which they resemble us, but to those in
  which they manifestly differ from us." (See 'Correspondence of Sir
  Thomas Hanmer', by Sir Henry Burnbury, p. 436.)

A number of fragments, originally meant to be parts of 'Michael',--or at
least written with such a possibility in view,--will be found in the
Appendix to the eighth volume of this edition.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





1801


'The Sparrow's Nest', and the sonnet on Skiddaw, along with some
translations from Chaucer, belong to the year 1801. During this year,
however, 'The Excursion' was in progress. In its earlier stages, and
before the plan of 'The Recluse' was matured, the introductory part was
familiarly known, and talked of in the Wordsworth household, by the name
of "The Pedlar." The following extracts from Dorothy Wordsworth's
Journal of 1801 will show the progress that was being made with it:

  "Dec. 21.--Wm. sate beside me, and wrote 'The Pedlar.' 22nd.--W.
  composed a few lines of 'The Pedlar.' 23rd.--William worked at 'The
  Ruined Cottage'" (this was the name of the first part of 'The
  Excursion', in which 'The Pedlar' was included), "and made himself
  very ill," etc.

Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





THE SPARROW'S NEST


Composed 1801.--Published 1807


[Written in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. At the end of the garden of
my father's house at Cockermouth was a high terrace that commanded a
fine view of the river Derwent and Cockermouth Castle. This was our
favourite play-ground. The terrace wall, a low one, was covered with
closely-clipt privet and roses, which gave an almost impervious shelter
to birds who built their nests there. The latter of these stanzas [A]
alludes to one of those nests.--I.F.]

This poem was first published in the series entitled "Moods of my own
Mind," in 1807. In 1815 it was included among the "Poems founded on the
Affections," and in 1845 was transferred to the "Poems referring to the
Period of Childhood."--Ed.




  Behold, within the leafy shade,
  Those bright blue eggs together laid!
  On me the chance-discovered sight
  Gleamed like a vision of delight. [1]
  I started--seeming to espy                            5
  The home and sheltered bed,
  The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by
  My Father's house, in wet or dry
  My sister Emmeline and I
      Together visited.                                10

  She looked at it and seemed to fear it;
  Dreading, tho' wishing, to be near it: [2]
  Such heart was in her, being then
  A little Prattler among men.
  The Blessing of my later years                       15
  Was with me when a boy:
  She gave me eyes, she gave me ears;
  And humble cares, and delicate fears;
  A heart, the fountain of sweet tears;
      And love, and thought, and joy.                  20



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1815.

  Look, five blue eggs are gleaming there!
  Few visions have I seen more fair,
  Nor many prospects of delight
  More pleasing than that simple sight!     1807.]


[Variant 2:

1845.

  She look'd at it as if she fear'd it;
  Still wishing, dreading to be near it:     1807.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTE

[Footnote A: So it stands in the Fenwick note; but it should evidently
read, "The following stanzas allude."--Ed.]


Wordsworth's "sister Emmeline" was his only sister, Dorothy; and in the
MS. sent originally to the printer the line was "My sister Dorothy and
I." This poem is referred to in a subsequent one, 'A Farewell', l. 56.
See page 326 of this volume.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





"PELION AND OSSA FLOURISH SIDE BY SIDE"


Composed 1801.--Published 1815


One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets." From 1836 onwards it bore the title
'1801'.--Ed.




  Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side,
  Together in immortal [1] books enrolled:
  His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold;
  And that inspiring Hill, which "did divide
  Into two ample horns his forehead wide," [A]                   5
  Shines with poetic radiance as of old;
  While not an English Mountain we behold
  By the celestial Muses glorified.
  Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in crowds:
  What was the great Parnassus' self to Thee,                   10
  Mount Skiddaw? In his natural sovereignty
  Our British Hill is nobler [2] far; he shrouds
  His double front among Atlantic clouds, [3]
  And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly.



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1815.

  illustrious ...     MS.]


[Variant 2:

1837.

  fairer ...      1815.]


[Variant 3:

1827.

  His double-fronted head in higher clouds,     1815.

  ... among Atlantic clouds,                      MS.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: See Spenser's translation of 'Virgil's Gnat', ll. 21-2:

  'Or where on Mount Parnasse, the Muses brood.
  Doth his broad forehead like two horns divide,
  And the sweet waves of sounding Castaly
  With liquid foot doth glide down easily.'

Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





SELECTIONS FROM CHAUCER

MODERNISED


Wordsworth's modernisations of Chaucer were all written in 1801. Two of
them were from the Canterbury Tales, but his version of one of
these--'The Manciple's Tale'--has never been printed. Of the three poems
which were published, the first--'The Prioress' Tale'--was included in
the edition of 1820. The 'Troilus and Cressida' and 'The Cuckoo and the
Nightingale' were included in the "Poems of Early and Late Years"
(1842); but they had been published the year before, in a small volume
entitled 'The Poems of Geoffrey Chaucer Modernised' (London, 1841), a
volume to which Elizabeth Barrett, Leigh Hunt, R. H. Home, Thomas
Powell, and others contributed. Wordsworth wrote thus of the project to
Mr. Powell, in an unpublished and undated letter, written probably in
1840:

  "I am glad that you enter so warmly into the Chaucerian project, and
  that Mr. L. Hunt is disposed to give his valuable aid to it. For
  myself, I cannot do more than I offered, to place at your disposal
  'The Prioress' Tale' already published, 'The Cuckoo and the
  Nightingale', 'The Manciple's Tale', and I rather think (but I cannot
  just now find it) a small portion of the 'Troilus and Cressida'. You
  ask my opinion about that poem. Speaking from a recollection only, of
  many years past, I should say it would be found too long and probably
  tedious. 'The Knight's Tale' is also very long; but, though Dryden has
  executed it, in his own way observe, with great spirit and harmony, he
  has suffered so much of the simplicity, and with that of the beauty
  and occasional pathos of the original to escape, that I should be
  pleased to hear that a new version was to be attempted upon my
  principle by some competent person. It would delight me to read every
  part of Chaucer over again--for I reverence and admire him above
  measure--with a view to your work; but my eyes will not permit me to
  do so. Who will undertake the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales? For
  your publication that is indispensable, and I fear it will prove very
  difficult. It is written, as you know, in the couplet measure; and
  therefore I have nothing to say upon its metre, but in respect to the
  poems in stanza, neither in 'The Prioress' Tale' nor in 'The Cuckoo
  and Nightingale' have I kept to the rule of the original as to the
  form, and number, and position of the rhymes; thinking it enough if I
  kept the same number of lines in each stanza; and this is, I think,
  all that is necessary, and all that can be done without sacrificing
  the substance of sense too often to the mere form of sound."

In a subsequent letter to Professor Henry Reed of Philadelphia, dated
"Rydal Mount, January 13th, 1841," Wordsworth said:

  "So great is my admiration of Chaucer's genius, and so profound my
  reverence for him as an instrument in the hands of Providence, for
  spreading the light of literature through his native land, that
  notwithstanding the defects and faults in this publication"
  (referring, I presume, to the volume, 'The Poems of Geoffrey Chaucer
  Modernised'), "I am glad of it, as a means of making many acquainted
  with the original, who would otherwise be ignorant of everything about
  him but his name."

Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





THE PRIORESS' TALE


Translated 1801. [A]--Published 1820


  "Call up him who left half told
  The story of Cambuscan bold." [B]

In the following Piece I have allowed myself no farther deviations from
the original than were necessary for the fluent reading, and instant
understanding, of the Author: so much however is the language altered
since Chaucer's time, especially in pronunciation, that much was to be
removed, and its place supplied with as little incongruity as possible.
The ancient accent has been retained in a few conjunctions, such as
_also_ and _alway_, from a conviction that such sprinklings of antiquity
would be admitted, by persons of taste, to have a graceful accordance
with the subject.--W. W. (1820).

The fierce bigotry of the Prioress forms a fine back ground for her
tender-hearted sympathies with the Mother and Child; and the mode in
which the story is told amply atones for the extravagance of the
miracle.--W. W. (added in 1827).

In the editions of 1820 and 1827 'The Prioress' Tale' followed 'The
White Doe of Rylstone'. In 1832 it followed the "Inscriptions"; and in
1836 it was included among the "Poems founded on the Affections." In
1845 it found its appropriate place in the "Selections from Chaucer
modernised."--Ed.




  I       "O Lord, our Lord! how wondrously," (quoth she)
          "Thy name in this large world is spread abroad!
          For not alone by men of dignity
          Thy worship is performed and precious laud;
          But by the mouths of children, gracious God!              5
          Thy goodness is set forth; they when they lie
          Upon the breast thy name do glorify.

  II      "Wherefore in praise, the worthiest that I may,
          Jesu! of thee, and the white Lily-flower
          Which did thee bear, and is a Maid for aye,              10
          To tell a story I will use my power;
          Not that I may increase her honour's dower,
          For she herself is honour, and the root
          Of goodness, next her Son, our soul's best boot.

  III     "O Mother Maid! O Maid and Mother free!                  15
          O bush unburnt! burning in Moses' sight!
          That down didst ravish from the Deity,
          Through humbleness, the spirit that did alight
          Upon thy heart, whence, through that glory's might,
          Conceived was the Father's sapience,                     20
          Help me to tell it in thy reverence!

  IV      "Lady! thy goodness, thy magnificence,
          Thy virtue, and thy great humility,
          Surpass all science and all utterance;
          For sometimes, Lady! ere men pray to thee                25
          Thou goest before in thy benignity,
          The light to us vouchsafing of thy prayer,
          To be our guide unto thy Son so dear.

  V       "My knowledge is so weak, O blissful Queen!
          To tell abroad thy mighty worthiness,                    30
          That I the weight of it may not sustain;
          But as a child of twelvemonths old or less,
          That laboureth his language to express,
          Even so fare I; and therefore, I thee pray,
          Guide thou my song which I of thee shall say.            35

  VI      "There was in Asia, in a mighty town,
          '<DW41> Christian folk, a street where Jews might be,
          Assigned to them and given them for their own
          By a great Lord, for gain and usury,
          Hateful to Christ and to his company;                    40
          And through this street who list might ride and wend;
          Free was it, and unbarred at either end.

  VII     "A little school of Christian people stood
          Down at the farther end, in which there were
          A nest of children come of Christian blood,              45
          That learned in that school from year to year
          Such sort of doctrine as men used there,
          That is to say, to sing and read also,
          As little children in their childhood do.

  VIII    "Among these children was a Widow's son,                 50
          A little scholar, scarcely seven years old, [C]
          Who day by day unto this school hath gone,
          And eke, when he the image did behold
          Of Jesu's Mother, as he had been told,
          This Child was wont to kneel adown and say               55
          _Ave Marie_, as he goeth by the way.

  IX      "This Widow thus her little Son hath taught
          Our blissful Lady, Jesu's Mother dear,
          To worship aye, and he forgat it not;
          For simple infant hath a ready ear.                      60
          Sweet is the holiness of youth: and hence,
          Calling to mind this matter when I may,
          Saint Nicholas in my presence standeth aye,
          For he so young to Christ did reverence. [D]

  X       "This little Child, while in the school he sate          65
          His Primer conning with an earnest cheer, [E]
          The whilst the rest their anthem-book repeat
          The _Alma Redemptoris_ did he hear;
          And as he durst he drew him near and near,
          And hearkened to the words and to the note,              70
          Till the first verse he learned it all by rote.

  XI      "This Latin knew he nothing what it said,
          For he too tender was of age to know;
          But to his comrade he repaired, and prayed
          That he the meaning of this song would show,             75
          And unto him declare why men sing so;
          This oftentimes, that he might be at ease,
          This child did him beseech on his bare knees.

  XII     "His Schoolfellow, who elder was than he,
          Answered him thus:--'This song, I have heard say,        80
          Was fashioned for our blissful Lady free;
          Her to salute, and also her to pray
          To be our help upon our dying day:
          If there is more in this, I know it not:
          Song do I learn,--small grammar I have got.'             85

  XIII    "'And is this song fashioned in reverence
          Of Jesu's Mother?' said this Innocent;
          'Now, certes, I will use my diligence
          To con it all ere Christmas-tide be spent;
          Although I for my Primer shall be shent,                 90
          And shall be beaten three times in an hour,
          Our Lady I will praise with all my power.'

  XIV     "His Schoolfellow, whom he had so besought,
          As they went homeward taught him privily
          And then he sang it well and fearlessly,                 95
          From word to word according to the note:
          Twice in a day it passed through his throat;
          Homeward and schoolward whensoe'er he went,
          On Jesu's Mother fixed was his intent.

  XV      "Through all the Jewry (this before said I)             100
          This little Child, as he came to and fro,
          Full merrily then would he sing and cry,
          O _Alma Redemptoris!_ high and low:
          The sweetness of Christ's Mother pierced so
          His heart, that her to praise, to her to pray,          105
          He cannot stop his singing by the way.

  XVI     "The Serpent, Satan, our first foe, that hath
          His wasp's nest in Jew's heart, upswelled--'O woe,
          O Hebrew people!' said he in his wrath,
          'Is it an honest thing? Shall this be so?               110
          That such a Boy where'er he lists [1] shall go
          In your despite, and sing his hymns and saws,
          Which is against the reverence of our laws!'

  XVII    "From that day forward have the Jews conspired
          Out of the world this Innocent to chase;                115
          And to this end a Homicide they hired,
          That in an alley had a privy place,
          And, as the Child 'gan to the school to pace,
          This cruel Jew him seized, and held him fast
          And cut his throat, and in a pit him cast.              120

  XVIII   "I say that him into a pit they threw,
          A loathsome pit, whence noisome scents exhale;
          O cursed folk! away, ye Herods new!
          What may your ill intentions you avail?
          Murder will out; certes it will not fail;               125
          Know, that the honour of high God may spread,
          The blood cries out on your accursed deed.

  XIX     "O Martyr 'stablished in virginity!
          Now may'st thou sing for aye before the throne,
          Following the Lamb celestial," quoth she,               130
          "Of which the great Evangelist, Saint John,
          In Patmos wrote, who saith of them that go
          Before the Lamb singing continually,
          That never fleshly woman they did know.

  XX      "Now this poor widow waiteth all that night             135
          After her little Child, and he came not;
          For which, by earliest glimpse of morning light,
          With face all pale with dread and busy thought,
          She at the School and elsewhere him hath sought,
          Until thus far she learned, that he had been            140
          In the Jews' street, and there he last was seen.

  XXI     "With Mother's pity in her breast enclosed
          She goeth, as she were half out of her mind,
          To every place wherein she hath supposed
          By likelihood her little Son to find;                   145
          And ever on Christ's Mother meek and kind
          She cried, till to the Jewry she was brought,
          And him among the accursed Jews she sought.

  XXII    "She asketh, and she piteously doth pray
          To every Jew that dwelleth in that place                150
          To tell her if her child had passed that way;
          They all said--Nay; but Jesu of his grace
          Gave to her thought, that in a little space
          She for her Son in that same spot did cry
          Where he was cast into a pit hard by.                   155

  XXIII   "O thou great God that dost perform thy laud
          By mouths of Innocents, lo! here thy might;
          This gem of chastity, this emerald,
          And eke of martyrdom this ruby bright,
          There, where with mangled throat he lay upright,        160
          The _Alma Redemptoris_ 'gan to sing
          So loud, that with his voice the place did ring.

  XXIV    "The Christian folk that through the Jewry went
          Come to the spot in wonder at the thing;
          And hastily they for the Provost sent;                  165
          Immediately he came, not tarrying,
          And praiseth Christ that is our heavenly King,
          And eke his Mother, honour of Mankind:
          Which done, he bade that they the Jews should bind.

  XXV     "This Child with piteous lamentation then               170
          Was taken up, singing his song alway;
          And with procession great and pomp of men
          To the next Abbey him they bare away;
          His Mother swooning by the body [2] lay:
          And scarcely could the people that were near            175
          Remove this second Rachel from the bier.

  XXVI    "Torment and shameful death to every one
          This Provost doth for those bad Jews prepare
          That of this murder wist, and that anon:
          Such wickedness his judgments cannot spare;             180
          Who will do evil, evil shall he bear;
          Them therefore with wild horses did he draw,
          And after that he hung them by the law.

  XXVII   "Upon his bier this Innocent doth lie
          Before the altar while the Mass doth last:              185
          The Abbot with his convent's company
          Then sped themselves to bury him full fast;
          And, when they holy water on him cast,
          Yet spake this Child when sprinkled was the water;
          And sang, O _Alma Redemptoris Mater!_                   190

  XXVIII  "This Abbot, for he was a holy man,
          As all Monks are, or surely ought to be, [3]
          In supplication to the Child began
          Thus saying, 'O dear Child! I summon thee
          In virtue of the holy Trinity                           195
          Tell me the cause why thou dost sing this hymn,
          Since that thy throat is cut, as it doth seem.'

  XXIX    "'My throat is cut unto the bone, I trow,'
          Said this young Child, 'and by the law of kind
          I should have died, yea many hours ago;                 200
          But Jesus Christ, as in the books ye find,
          Will that his glory last, and be in mind;
          And, for the worship of his Mother dear,
          Yet may I sing, _O Alma!_ loud and clear.

  XXX     "'This well of mercy, Jesu's Mother sweet,              205
          After my knowledge I have loved alway;
          And in the hour when I my death did meet
          To me she came, and thus to me did say,
          "Thou in thy dying sing this holy lay,"
          As ye have heard; and soon as I had sung                210
          Methought she laid a grain upon my tongue.

  XXXI    "'Wherefore I sing, nor can from song refrain,
          In honour of that blissful Maiden free,
          Till from my tongue off-taken is the grain;
          And after that thus said she unto me;                   215
          "My little Child, then will I come for thee
          Soon as the grain from off thy tongue they take:
          Be not dismayed, I will not thee forsake!"'

  XXXII   "This holy Monk, this Abbot--him mean I,
          Touched then his tongue, and took away the grain;       220
          And he gave up the ghost full peacefully;
          And, when the Abbot had this wonder seen,
          His salt tears trickled down like showers of rain;
          And on his face he dropped upon the ground,
          And still he lay as if he had been bound.               225

  XXXIII  "Eke the whole Convent on the pavement lay,
          Weeping and praising Jesu's Mother dear;
          And after that they rose, and took their way,
          And lifted up this Martyr from the bier,
          And in a tomb of precious marble clear                  230
          Enclosed his uncorrupted body sweet.--[F]
          Where'er he be, God grant us him to meet!

  XXXIV   "Young Hew of Lincoln! in like sort laid low
          By cursed Jews--thing well and widely known,
          For it was done a little while ago--[4]                 235
          Pray also thou for us, while here we tarry
          Weak sinful folk, that God, with pitying eye,
          In mercy would his mercy multiply
          On us, for reverence of his Mother Mary!"



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827.

  ... list ...     1820.]


[Variant 2:

1845.

  ... by the Bier ...     1820.]


[Variant 3:

1827.

  This Abbot who had been a holy man
  And was, as all Monks are, or ought to be, [a]     1820.]


[Variant 4:

1836.

  For not long since was dealt the cruel blow,     1820.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A:

  "Friday, 4th December 1801.... William translating 'The Prioress'
  Tale'."

  "Saturday, 5th. William finished 'The Prioress' Tale', and after tea,
  Mary and he wrote it out"

(Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal).--Ed.]


[Footnote B: See 'Il Penseroso', l. 110.--Ed.]


[Footnote C: Chaucer's phrase is "a litel clergeon," Wordsworth's, "a
little scholar;" but "clergeon" is a chorister, not a scholar.--Ed.]


[Footnote D:

  "Chaucer's text is:

    'Thus hath this widow her litel child i-taught
    Our blissful lady, Criste's moder deere,
    To worschip ay, and he forgat it nought;
    For sely child wil alway soone leere.'

  'For sely child wil alway soone leere,' i.e. for a happy child will
  always learn soon. Wordsworth renders:

    'For simple infant hath a ready ear,'

  and adds:

    'Sweet is the holiness of youth,'

  extending the stanza to receive this addition from seven to eight
  lines, with an altered rhyme-system."

(Professor Edward Dowden, in the 'Transactions of the Wordsworth
Society', No. III.)--Ed.]


[Footnote E: Chaucer's text is:

  'This litel child his litel book lernynge
  As he sat in the schole in his primere.'

Ed.]


[Footnote F: Chaucer's text is:

  'And in a tombe of marble stoones clere
  Enclosed they this litel body swete.'

Ed.]



       *       *       *       *       *


SUB-FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Sub-Footnote a: This was erased in the 'Errata' of 1820, but it
may be reproduced here.--Ed.]




       *       *       *       *       *





THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE


Translated 1801. [A]--Published 1841 [B]




  I        The God of Love--_ah, benedicite!_
           How mighty and how great a Lord is he!
           For he of low hearts can make high, of high
           He can make low, and unto death bring nigh;
           And hard hearts he can make them kind and free. [1]         5

  II       Within a little time, as hath been found,
           He can make sick folk whole and fresh and sound:
           Them who are whole in body and in mind,
           He can make sick,--bind can he and unbind
           All that he will have bound, or have unbound.              10

  III      To tell his might my wit may not suffice;
           Foolish men he can make them out of wise;--
           For he may do all that he will devise;
           Loose livers he can make abate their vice,
           And proud hearts can make tremble in a trice.              15

  IV       In brief, the whole of what he will, he may;
           Against him dare not any wight say nay;
           To humble or afflict whome'er he will,
           To gladden or to grieve, he hath like skill;
           But most his might he sheds on the eve of May.             20

  V        For every true heart, gentle heart and free,
           That with him is, or thinketh so to be,
           Now against May shall have some stirring--whether
           To joy, or be it to some mourning; never
           At other time, methinks, in like degree.                   25

  VI       For now when they may hear the small birds' song,
           And see the budding leaves the branches throng,
           This unto their remembrance doth bring
           All kinds of pleasure mix'd with sorrowing;
           And longing of sweet thoughts that ever long.              30

  VII      And of that longing heaviness doth come,
           Whence oft great sickness grows of heart and home;
           Sick are they all for lack of their desire;
           And thus in May their hearts are set on fire,
           So that they burn forth in great martyrdom.                35

  VIII     In sooth, I speak from feeling, what though now
           Old am I, and to genial pleasure slow;
           Yet have I felt of sickness through the May,
           Both hot and cold, and heart-aches every day,--
           How hard, alas! to bear, I only know.                      40

  IX       Such shaking doth the fever in me keep
           Through all this May that I have little sleep;
           And also 'tis not likely unto me,
           That any living heart should sleepy be
           In which Love's dart its fiery point doth steep.           45

  X        But tossing lately on a sleepless bed,
           I of a token thought which Lovers heed;
           How among them it was a common tale,
           That it was good to hear the Nightingale,
           Ere the vile Cuckoo's note be uttered.                     50

  XI       And then I thought anon as it was day,
           I gladly would go somewhere to essay
           If I perchance a Nightingale might hear,
           For yet had I heard none, of all that year,
           And it was then the third night of the May.                55

  XII      And soon as I a glimpse of day espied,
           No longer would I in my bed abide,
           But straightway to a wood that was hard by,
           Forth did I go, alone and fearlessly,
           And held the pathway down by a brook-side;                 60

  XIII     Till to a lawn I came all white and green,
           I in so fair a one had never been.
           The ground was green, with daisy powdered over;
           Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover,
           All green and white; and nothing else was seen. [C]        65

  XIV      There sate I down among the fair fresh flowers,
           And saw the birds come tripping from their bowers,
           Where they had rested them all night; and they,
           Who were so joyful at the light of day,
           Began to honour May with all their powers.                 70

  XV       Well did they know that service all by rote,
           And there was many and many a lovely note,
           Some, singing loud, as if they had complained;
           Some with their notes another manner feigned;
           And some did sing all out with the full throat.            75

  XVI      They pruned themselves, and made themselves right gay,
           Dancing and leaping light upon the spray;
           And ever two and two together were,
           The same as they had chosen for the year,
           Upon Saint Valentine's returning day.                      80

  XVII     Meanwhile the stream, whose bank I sate upon,
           Was making such a noise as it ran on
           Accordant to the sweet Birds' harmony;
           Methought that it was the best melody
           Which ever to man's ear a passage won.                     85

  XVIII    And for delight, but how I never wot,
           I in a slumber and a swoon was caught,
           Not all asleep and yet not waking wholly;
           And as I lay, the Cuckoo, bird unholy,
           Broke silence, or I heard him in my thought.               90

  XIX      And that was right upon a tree fast by,
           And who was then ill satisfied but I?
           Now, God, quoth I, that died upon the rood,
           From thee and thy base throat, keep all that's good,
           Full little joy have I now of thy cry.                     95

  XX       And, as I with the Cuckoo thus 'gan chide,
           In the next bush that was me fast beside,
           I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing,
           That her clear voice made a loud rioting,
           Echoing through all the green wood wide. [D]              100

  XXI      Ah! good sweet Nightingale! for my heart's cheer,
           Hence hast thou stayed a little while too long;
           For we have had [2] the sorry Cuckoo here,
           And she hath been before thee with her song;
           Evil light on her! she hath done me wrong.                105

  XXII     But hear you now a wondrous thing, I pray;
           As long as in that swooning-fit I lay,
           Methought I wist right well what these birds meant,
           And had good knowing both of their intent,
           And of their speech, and all that they would say.         110

  XXIII    The Nightingale thus in my hearing spake:--
           Good Cuckoo, seek some other bush or brake,
           And, prithee, let us that can sing dwell here;
           For every wight eschews thy song to hear,
           Such uncouth singing verily dost thou make.               115

  XXIV     What! quoth she then, what is't that ails thee now?
           It seems to me I sing as well as thou;
           For mine's a song that is both true and plain,--
           Although I cannot quaver so in vain
           As thou dost in thy throat, I wot not how.                120

  XXV      All men may understanding have of me,
           But, Nightingale, so may they not of thee;
           For thou hast many a foolish and quaint cry:--
           Thou say'st, OSEE, OSEE, then how may I
           Have knowledge, I thee pray, what this may be?            125

  XXVI     Ah, fool! quoth she, wist thou not what it is?
           Oft as I say OSEE, OSEE, I wis,
           Then mean I, that I should be wondrous fain
           That shamefully they one and all were slain,
           Whoever against Love mean aught amiss.                    130

  XXVII    And also would I that they all were dead,
           Who do not think in love their life to lead;
           For who is both the God of Love to obey,
           Is only fit to die, I dare well say,
           And for that cause OSEE I cry; take heed!                 135

  XXVIII   Ay, quoth the Cuckoo, that is a quaint law,
           That all must love or die; but I withdraw,
           And take my leave of all such company,
           For mine intent it neither is to die,
           Nor ever while I live Love's yoke to draw.                140

  XXIX     For lovers of all folk that be alive,
           The most disquiet have and least do thrive;
           Most feeling have of sorrow [3] woe and care,
           And the least welfare cometh to their share;
           What need is there against the truth to strive?           145

  XXX      What! quoth she, thou art all out of thy mind,
           That in thy churlishness a cause canst find
           To speak of Love's true Servants in this mood;
           For in this world no service is so good
           To every wight that gentle is of kind.                    150

  XXXI     For thereof comes all goodness and all worth;
           All gentiless [4] and honour thence come forth;
           Thence worship comes, content and true heart's pleasure,
           And full-assured trust, joy without measure,
           And jollity, fresh cheerfulness, and mirth;               155

  XXXII    And bounty, lowliness, and courtesy,
           And seemliness, and faithful company,
           And dread of shame that will not do amiss;
           For he that faithfully Love's servant is,
           Rather than be disgraced, would chuse to die.             160

  XXXIII   And that the very truth it is which I
           Now say--in such belief I'll live and die;
           And Cuckoo, do thou so, by my advice.
           Then, quoth she, let me never hope for bliss,
           If with that counsel I do e'er comply.                    165

  XXXIV    Good Nightingale! thou speakest wondrous fair,
           Yet for all that, the truth is found elsewhere;
           For Love in young folk is but rage, I wis;
           And Love in old folk a great dotage is;
           Who most it useth, him 'twill most impair.                170

  XXXV     For thereof come all contraries to gladness;
           Thence sickness comes, and overwhelming sadness,
           Mistrust and jealousy, despite, debate,
           Dishonour, shame, envy importunate,
           Pride, anger, mischief, poverty, and madness.             175

  XXXVI    Loving is aye an office of despair,
           And one thing is therein which is not fair;
           For whoso gets of love a little bliss,
           Unless it alway stay with him, I wis
           He may full soon go with an old man's hair.               180

  XXXVII   And, therefore, Nightingale! do thou keep nigh,
           For trust me well, in spite of thy quaint cry,
           If long time from thy mate thou be, or far,
           Thou'lt be as others that forsaken are;
           Then shall thou raise a clamour as do I.                  185

  XXXVIII  Fie, quoth she, on thy name, Bird ill beseen!
           The God of Love afflict thee with all teen,
           For thou art worse than mad a thousand fold;
           For many a one hath virtues manifold,
           Who had been nought, if Love had never been.              190

  XXXIX    For evermore his servants Love amendeth,
           And he from every blemish them defendeth;
           And maketh them to burn, as in a fire,
           In loyalty, and worshipful desire,
           And, when it likes him, joy enough them sendeth.          195

  XL       Thou Nightingale! the Cuckoo said, be still,
           For Love no reason hath but his own will;--
           For to th' untrue he oft gives ease and joy;
           True lovers doth so bitterly annoy,
           He lets them perish through that grievous ill.            200

  XLI      With such a master would I never be; [E]
           For he, in sooth, is blind, and may not see,
           And knows not when he hurts and when he heals;
           Within this court full seldom Truth avails,
           So diverse in his wilfulness is he.                       205

  XLII     Then of the Nightingale did I take note,
           How from her inmost heart a sigh she brought,
           And said, Alas! that ever I was born,
           Not one word have I now, I am so forlorn,--
           And with that word, she into tears burst out.             210

  XLIII    Alas, alas! my very heart will break,
           Quoth she, to hear this churlish bird thus speak
           Of Love, and of his holy services;
           Now, God of Love! thou help me in some wise,
           That vengeance on this Cuckoo I may wreak.                215

  XLIV     And so methought I started up anon,
           And to the brook I ran and got a stone,
           Which at the Cuckoo hardily I cast,
           And he for dread did fly away full fast;
           And glad, in sooth, was I when he was gone.               220

  XLV      And as he flew, the Cuckoo, ever and aye,
           Kept crying, "Farewell!--farewell, Popinjay!"
           As if in scornful mockery of me;
           And on I hunted him from tree to tree,
           Till he was far, all out of sight, away.                  225

  XLVI     Then straightway came the Nightingale to me,
           And said, Forsooth, my friend, do I thank thee,
           That thou wert near to rescue me; and now
           Unto the God of Love I make a vow,
           That all this May I will thy songstress be.               230

  XLVII    Well satisfied, I thanked her, and she said,
           By this mishap no longer be dismayed,
           Though thou the Cuckoo heard, ere thou heard'st me;
           Yet if I live it shall amended be,
           When next May comes, if I am not afraid.                  235

  XLVIII   And one thing will I counsel thee also,
           The Cuckoo trust not thou, nor his Love's saw;
           All that she said is an outrageous lie.
           Nay, nothing shall me bring thereto, quoth I,
           For Love, and it hath done me mighty woe.                 240

  XLIX     Yea, hath it? use, quoth she, this medicine;
           This May-time, every day before thou dine,
           Go look on the fresh daisy; then say I,
           Although for pain thou may'st be like to die,
           Thou wilt be eased, and less wilt droop and pine.         245

  L        And mind always that thou be good and true,
           And I will sing one song, of many new,
           For love of thee, as loud as I may cry;
           And then did she begin this song full high,
           "Beshrew all them that are in love untrue."               250

  LI       And soon as she had sung it to the end,
           Now farewell, quoth she, for I hence must wend;
           And, God of Love, that can right well and may,
           Send unto thee as mickle joy this day,
           As ever he to Lover yet did send.                         255

  LII      Thus takes the Nightingale her leave of me;
           I pray to God with her always to be,
           And joy of love to send her evermore;
           And shield us from the Cuckoo and her lore,
           For there is not so false a bird as she.                  260

  LIII     Forth then she flew, the gentle Nightingale,
           To all the Birds that lodged within that dale,
           And gathered each and all into one place;
           And them besought to hear her doleful case,
           And thus it was that she began her tale.                  265

  LIV      The Cuckoo--'tis not well that I should hide
           How she and I did each the other chide,
           And without ceasing, since it was daylight;
           And now I pray you all to do me right
           Of that false Bird whom Love can not abide.               270

  LV       Then spake one Bird, and full assent all gave;
           This matter asketh counsel good as grave,
           For birds we are--all here together brought;
           And, in good sooth, the Cuckoo here is not;
           And therefore we a Parliament will have.                  275

  LVI      And thereat shall the Eagle be our Lord,
           And other Peers whose names are on record;
           A summons to the Cuckoo shall be sent,
           And judgment there be given; or that intent
           Failing, we finally shall make accord.                    280

  LVII     And all this shall be done, without a nay,
           The morrow after Saint Valentine's day,
           Under a maple that is well beseen,
           Before the chamber-window of the Queen,
           At Woodstock, on the meadow green and gay.                285

  LVIII    She thanked them; and then her leave she took,
           And flew into a hawthorn by that brook;
           And there she sate and sung--upon that tree--
           "For term of life Love shall have hold of me"--
           So loudly, that I with that song awoke.                   290

           Unlearned Book and rude, as well I know,
           For beauty thou hast none, nor eloquence,
           Who did on thee the hardiness bestow
           To appear before my Lady? but a sense
           Thou surely hast of her benevolence,                      295
           Whereof her hourly bearing proof doth give;
           For of all good she is the best alive.

           Alas, poor Book! for thy unworthiness,
           To show to her some pleasant meanings writ
           In winning words, since through her gentiless, [5]        300
           Thee she accepts as for her service fit!
           Oh! it repents me I have neither wit
           Nor leisure unto thee more worth to give;
           For of all good she is the best alive.

           Beseech her meekly with all lowliness,                    305
           Though I be far from her I reverence,
           To think upon my truth and stedfastness,
           And to abridge my sorrow's violence,
           Caused by the wish, as knows your sapience,
           She of her liking proof to me would give;                 310
           For of all good she is the best alive.

L'ENVOY    Pleasure's Aurora, Day of gladsomeness!
           Luna by night, with heavenly influence
           Illumined! root of beauty and goodnesse,
           Write, and allay, by your beneficence,                    315
           My sighs breathed forth in silence,--comfort give!
           Since of all good, you are the best alive.

                           EXPLICIT



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1: In 1819 Wordsworth wrote the opening stanza of his version
of 'The Cuckoo and the Nightingale', in the album of Mrs. Calvert at
Keswick, thus:

  'The God of Love--ah, benedicite!'
  How mighty and how great a Lord is He!
  High can he make the heart that's low and poor,
  And high hearts low--through pains that they endure,
  And hard hearts, He can make them kind and free.

  W. W., Nov. 27, 1819.]


[Variant 2:

1842.

  ... have heard ...     1841.]


[Variant 3:

1842

  ... sorrow's ...     1841.]


[Variant 4:

1842.

  ... gentleness ...    1841.]


[Variant 5:

1842.

  ... gentleness, ...      1841.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The following extracts from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal
show the date of the composition of this poem.

  "Sunday, 6th December 1801. A very fine beautiful sun-shiny morning.
  William worked a while at Chaucer; then he set forward to walk into
  Easdale.... In the afternoon I read Chaucer aloud."

  "Monday, 7th.... William at work with Chaucer, 'The God of Love'...."

  "8th November ... William worked at 'The Cuckoo and the Nightingale'
  till he was tired."

  "Wednesday, December 9th. I read 'Palemon and Arcite', William writing
  out his alterations of Chaucer's 'Cuckoo and Nightingale'."

The question as to whether 'The Cuckoo and the Nightingale' was written
by Chaucer or not, may be solved either way without affecting the
literary value of Wordsworth's "modernisation" of it.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: In 'The Poems of Geoffrey Chaucer Modernised'.--Ed.]


[Footnote C:

  "In 'The Cuckoo and Nightingale', a poem of the third of May--a date
  corresponding to the mid-May, the very heart of May according to our
  modern reckoning--the poet after a wakeful night rises, and goes forth
  at dawn, and comes to a 'laund' or plain 'of white and green.'

    'So feire oon had I nevere in bene,
    The grounde was grene, y poudred with dayse,
    The floures and the gras ilike al hie,
    Al grene and white, was nothing elles sene.'

  Nothing seen but the short green grass and the white daisies,--grass
  and daisies being of equal height. Unfortunately in Tyrwhitt's text
  the description is nonsensical,

    'The flowres and the greves like hie.'

  The daisy flowers are as high as the _groves_! Wordsworth retained the
  groves, but refused to make daisies of equal height with them.

    'Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover,
    All green and white; and nothing else was seen.'"

(Professor Dowden, in the 'Transactions of the Wordsworth Society'. No.
III.)--Ed.]


[Footnote D:

  "In Chaucer's poem, after 'the cuckoo, bird unholy,' has said his evil
  say, the Nightingale breaks forth 'so lustily,'

    'That with her clere voys she made rynge
    Thro out alle the grene wode wide,'

  Wordsworth has taken a poet's licence with these lines:

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

  This 'loud rioting' is Wordsworth's, not Chaucer's; and it belongs, as
  it were, to that other passage of his:

    'O Nightingale, thou surely art
    A creature of a fiery heart,
    These notes of thine--they pierce and pierce;
    Tumultuous harmony and fierce!
    Thou sing'st as if the God of wine
    Had helped thee to a Valentine.'"

(Professor Dowden, in the 'Transactions of the Wordsworth Society', No.
III.)--Ed.]


[Footnote E: From a manuscript in the Bodleian, as are also stanzas 44
and 45--W. W.

(1841), which are necessary to complete the sense--W. W. (added in
1842).]



       *       *       *       *       *





TROILUS AND CRESIDA


Translated 1801.--Published 1841 [A]




  Next morning Troilus began to clear
  His eyes from sleep, at the first break of day,
  And unto Pandarus, his own Brother dear,
  For love of God, full piteously did say,
  We must the Palace see of Cresida;                              5
  For since we yet may have no other feast,
  Let us behold her Palace at the least!

  And therewithal to cover his intent
  A cause he found into the Town to go, [B]
  And they right forth to Cresid's Palace went;                  10
  But, Lord, this simple Troilus was woe,
  Him thought his sorrowful heart would break [1] in two;
  For when he saw her doors fast bolted all,
  Well nigh for sorrow down he 'gan to fall.

  Therewith when this true Lover 'gan behold,                    15
  How shut was every window of the place,
  Like frost he thought his heart was icy cold;
  For which, with changed, pale, and deadly face,
  Without word uttered, forth he 'gan to pace;
  And on his purpose bent so fast to ride,                       20
  That no wight his continuance espied. [C]

  Then said he thus,--O Palace desolate!
  O house of houses, once so richly dight!
  O Palace empty and disconsolate!
  Thou lamp of which extinguished is the light;                  25
  O Palace whilom day that now art night,
  Thou ought'st to fall and I to die; since she
  Is gone who held us both in sovereignty.

  O, of all houses once the crowned boast!
  Palace illumined with the sun of bliss;                        30
  O ring of which the ruby now is lost,
  O cause of woe, that cause has [2] been of bliss:
  Yet, since I may no better, would I kiss
  Thy cold doors; but I dare not for this rout;
  Farewell, thou shrine of which the Saint is out!               35

  Therewith he cast on Pandarus an eye, [3]
  With changed face, and piteous to behold;
  And when he might his time aright espy,
  Aye as he rode, to Pandarus he told
  Both his new sorrow and his joys of old,                       40
  So piteously, and with so dead a hue,
  That every wight might on his sorrow rue.

  Forth from the spot he rideth up and down,
  And everything to his rememberance
  Came as he rode by places of the town                          45
  Where he had felt such perfect pleasure once.
  Lo, yonder saw I mine own Lady dance,
  And in that Temple she with her bright eyes,
  My Lady dear, first bound me captive-wise.

  And yonder with joy-smitten heart have I                       50
  Heard my own Cresid's laugh; and once at play
  I yonder saw her eke full blissfully;
  And yonder once she unto me 'gan say--
  Now, my sweet Troilus, love me well, I pray!
  And there so graciously did me behold,                         55
  That hers unto the death my heart I hold.

  And at the corner of that self-same house
  Heard I my most beloved Lady dear,
  So womanly, with voice melodious
  Singing so well, so goodly, and so clear,                      60
  That in my soul methinks I yet do hear
  The blissful sound; and in that very place
  My Lady first me took unto her grace.

  O blissful God of Love! then thus he cried,
  When I the process have in memory,                             65
  How thou hast wearied [D] me on every side,
  Men thence a book might make, a history;
  What need to seek a conquest over me,
  Since I am wholly at thy will? what joy
  Hast thou thy own liege subjects to destroy?                   70

  Dread Lord! so fearful when provoked, thine ire
  Well hast thou wreaked on me by pain and grief;
  Now mercy, Lord! thou know'st well I desire
  Thy grace above all pleasures first and chief;
  And live and die I will in thy belief;                         75
  For which I ask for guerdon but one boon,
  That Cresida again thou send me soon.

  Constrain her heart as quickly to return,
  As thou dost mine with longing her to see,
  Then know I well that she would not sojourn.                   80
  Now, blissful Lord, so cruel do not be
  Unto the blood of Troy, I pray of thee,
  As Juno was unto the Theban blood,
  From whence to Thebes came griefs in multitude.

  And after this he to the gate did go                           85
  Whence Cresid rode, as if in haste she was;
  And up and down there went, and to and fro,
  And to himself full oft he said, alas!
  From hence my hope, and solace forth did pass.
  O would the blissful God now for his joy,                      90
  I might her see again coming to Troy!

  And up to yonder hill was I her guide;
  Alas, and there I took of her my leave;
  Yonder I saw her to her Father ride,
  For very grief of which my heart shall cleave;--95
  And hither home I came when it was eve;
  And here I dwell an outcast from all joy,
  And shall, unless I see her soon in Troy.

  And of himself did he imagine oft,
  That he was blighted, pale, and waxen less                    100
  Than he was wont; and that in whispers soft
  Men said, what may it be, can no one guess
  Why Troilus hath all this heaviness?
  All which he of himself conceited wholly
  Out of his weakness and his melancholy.                       105

  Another time he took into his head,
  That every wight, who in the way passed by,
  Had of him ruth, and fancied that they said,
  I am right sorry Troilus will die:
  And thus a day or two drove wearily;                          110
  As ye have heard; such life 'gan he to lead
  As one that standeth betwixt hope and dread.

  For which it pleased him in his songs to show
  The occasion of his woe, as best he might;
  And made a fitting song, of words [4] but few,                115
  Somewhat his woeful heart to make more light;
  And when he was removed from all men's sight,
  With a soft night voice, [5] he of his Lady dear,
  That absent was, 'gan sing as ye may hear.

  O star, of which I lost have all the light,                   120
  With a sore heart well ought I to bewail,
  That ever dark in torment, night by night,
  Toward my death with wind I steer and sail; [E]
  For which upon the tenth night if thou fail
  With thy bright beams to guide me but one hour,               125
  My ship and me Charybdis will devour.

  As soon as he this song had thus sung through,
  He fell again into his sorrows old;
  And every night, as was his wont to do,
  Troilus stood the bright moon to behold;                      130
  And all his trouble to the moon he told,
  And said; I wis, when thou art horn'd anew,
  I shall be glad if all the world be true.

  Thy horns were old as now upon that morrow,
  When hence did journey my bright Lady dear,                   135
  That cause is of my torment and my sorrow;
  For which, oh, gentle Luna, bright and clear,
  For love of God, run fast above [F] thy sphere;
  For when thy horns begin once more to spring,
  Then shall she come, that with her bliss may bring.           140

  The day is more, and longer every night
  Than they were wont to be--for he thought so;
  And that the sun did take his course not right,
  By longer way than he was wont to go;
  And said, I am in constant dread I trow,                      145
  That Phaeeton his son is yet alive,
  His too fond father's car amiss to drive.

  Upon the walls fast also would he walk,
  To the end that he the Grecian host might see;
  And ever thus he to himself would talk:--150
  Lo! yonder is my [6] own bright Lady free;
  Or yonder is it that the tents must be;
  And thence does come this air which is so sweet,
  That in my soul I feel the joy of it.

  And certainly this wind, that more and more                   155
  By moments thus increaseth in my face,
  Is of my Lady's sighs heavy and sore;
  I prove it thus; for in no other space
  Of all this town, save only in this place,
  Feel I a wind, that soundeth so like pain;                    160
  It saith, Alas, why severed are we twain?

  A weary while in pain he tosseth thus,
  Till fully past and gone was the ninth night;
  And ever [7] at his side stood Pandarus,
  Who busily made use of all his might                          165
  To comfort him, and make his heart more light; [8]
  Giving him always hope, that she the morrow
  Of the tenth day will come, and end his sorrow.



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1842.

  ... burst      1841.]


[Variant 2:

1842.

  ... hast ...     1841.]


[Variant 3:

1842.

  ... his eye,     1841.]


[Variant 4:

1842.

  ... whose words ...      1841.]


[Variant 5:

1842.

  With a soft voice, ...     1841.]


[Variant 6:

1842.

  ... mine ...     1841.]


[Variant 7: The "even" of 1841 is evidently a misprint.]


[Variant 8:

1842.

  ... too light;     1841.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: In 'The Poems of Geoffrey Chaucer Modernised'. It is an
extract from 'Troilus and Cressida', book v. ll. 518-686.--Ed.]


[Footnote B:

  "Chaucer's text is:

    'And therwithalle his meynye for to blende
    A cause he fonde in toune for to go.'

  'His meynye for to blende,' i. e. to keep his household or his
  domestics in the dark. But Wordsworth writes:

    'And therewithal to cover his _intent_,'

  possibly mistaking 'meynye' for 'meaning'."

(Professor Dowden, in the 'Transactions of the Wordsworth Society', No.
III.)--Ed.]


[Footnote C:

  "When Troilus sees the shut windows and desolate aspect of his lady's
  house, his face grows blanched, and he rides past in haste, so fast,
  says Wordsworth,

    'That no wight his continuance espied.'

  But in Chaucer he rides fast that his white face may not be noticed:

    'And as God wolde he gan so faste ride
    That no wight of his countenance espied.'"

(Professor Dowden, in the 'Transactions of the Wordsworth Society', No.
III.)--Ed.]


[Footnote D: In Chaucer "werreyed" = warred on = fought against.--Ed.]


[Footnote E:

    "'Toward my death with wind I steer and sail.'

  This is Urry's version, but Chaucer's text is,

    'Toward my death, with wind _in stern_ I sail,'

  Troilus' bark careering towards death, with all sails set, before a
  fierce stern-wind."

(Professor Dowden, in the 'Transactions of the Wordsworth Society', No.
III.)--Ed.]


[Footnote F: In Chaucer "aboute" = around.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





1802


The Lyrical Ballads and Sonnets which follow were written
in 1802; but during that year Wordsworth continued mainly to
work at 'The Excursion', as the following extracts from his sister's
Journal indicate:

  "Feb. 1, 1802.--William worked hard at 'The Pedlar,' and tired
  himself.

  2nd Feb.--Wm. worked at 'The Pedlar.' I read aloud the 11th book of
  'Paradise Lost'.

  Thursday, 4th.--William thought a little about 'The Pedlar.'

  5th.--Wm. sate up late at 'The Pedlar.'

  7th.--W. was working at his poem. Wm. read 'The Pedlar,' thinking it
  was done. But lo! ... it was uninteresting, and must be altered."

Similar records occur each day in the Journal from the 10th to the 14th
Feb. 1802.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





THE SAILOR'S MOTHER


Composed March 11th and 12th, 1802.--Published 1807


[Written in Town-end, Grasmere. I met this woman near the Wishing-gate,
on the high road that then led from Grasmere to Ambleside. Her
appearance was exactly as here described, and such was her account,
nearly to the letter.--I.F.]

One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed.




  One morning (raw it was and wet--
  A foggy day in winter time)
  A Woman on [1] the road I met,
  Not old, though something past her prime:
  Majestic in her person, tall and straight;                        5
  And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.

  The ancient spirit is not dead;
  Old times, thought I, are breathing there;
  Proud was I that my country bred
  Such strength, a dignity so fair:                                10
  She begged an alms, like one in poor estate;
  I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.

  When from these lofty thoughts I woke,
  "What is it," said I, "that you bear,
  Beneath the covert of your Cloak,                                15
  Protected from this cold damp air?" [2]
  She answered, soon as she the question heard,
  "A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird."

  And, thus continuing, she said,
  "I had a Son, who many a day                                     20
  Sailed on the seas, but he is dead; [3]
  In Denmark he was cast away:
  And I have travelled weary miles to see
  If aught which he had owned might still remain for me. [4]

  "The bird and cage they both were his:                           25
  'Twas my Son's bird; and neat and trim
  He kept it: many voyages
  The singing-bird had gone [5] with him;
  When last he sailed, he left the bird behind;
  From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind. [6]          30

  "He to a fellow-lodger's care
  Had left it, to be watched and fed,
  And pipe its song in safety;--there [7]
  I found it when my Son was dead;
  And now, God help me for my little wit!                          35
  I bear [8] it with me, Sir;--he took so much delight in it."



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1815.

  ... in ...     1807.]


[Variant 2:

1836.

  ... I woke,
  With the first word I had to spare
  I said to her, "Beneath your Cloak
  What's that which on your arm you bear?"     1807.

  "What treasure," said I,"do you bear,
  Beneath the covert of your Cloak
  Protected from the cold damp air?"           1820.]


[Variant 3:

1807.

  "I had a Son,--the waves might roar,
  He feared them not, a Sailor gay!
  But he will cross the waves no more:     1820.

  ... cross the deep ...                   1827.

The text of 1832 returns to that of 1807. [a]]


[Variant 4:

1827.

  And I have been as far as Hull, to see
  What clothes he might have left, or other property.     1807.

  And I have travelled far as Hull, to see                1815.

  And I have travelled many miles to see
  If aught which he had owned might still remain for me.  1820.]


[Variant 5:

1845.

  This Singing-bird hath gone ...     1807.

  ... had gone ...                    1820.]


[Variant 6:

1827.

  As it might be, perhaps, from bodings of his mind.     1807.]


[Variant 7:

1827.

  Till he came back again; and there     1807.]


[Variant 8:

1827.

  I trail ...     1807.]




       *       *       *       *       *


SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Sub-Footnote a: This return, in 1832, to the original text of the poem
was due to Barren Field's criticism, the justice of which Wordsworth
admitted.--Ed.]


In the Wordsworth household this poem went by the name
of "The Singing Bird" as well as 'The Sailor's Mother'.

  "Thursday (March 11th).--A fine morning. William worked at the poem of
  'The Singing Bird.' ..."

  "Friday (March 12th).--William finished his poem of 'The Singing
  Bird.'"


(Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal.)--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





ALICE FELL; OR, POVERTY [A]


Composed March 12th and 13th, 1802.--Published 1807


[Written to gratify Mr. Graham of Glasgow, brother of the author of 'The
Sabbath'. He was a zealous coadjutor of Mr. Clarkson, and a man of
ardent humanity. The incident had happened to himself, and he urged me
to put it into verse, for humanity's sake. The humbleness, meanness if
you like, of the subject, together with the homely mode of treating it,
brought upon me a world of ridicule by the small critics, so that in
policy I excluded it from many editions of my poems, till it was
restored at the request of some of my friends, in particular my
son-in-law, Edward Quillinan.--I.F.]

It was only excluded from the editions of 1820, 1827, and 1832. In the
edition of 1807 it was placed amongst a group of "Poems composed during
a Tour, chiefly on foot." In 1815, in 1836, and afterwards, it was
included in the group "referring to the Period of Childhood."

In Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal, the following reference to
this poem occurs:

  "Feb. 16, 1802.--Mr. Graham said he wished William had been with him
  the other day. He was riding in a post-chaise, and he heard a strange
  cry that he could not understand. The sound continued, and he called
  to the chaise-driver to stop. It was a little girl that was crying as
  if her heart would burst. She had got up behind the chaise, and her
  cloak had been caught by the wheel, and was jammed in, and it hung
  there. She was crying after it, poor thing. Mr. Graham took her into
  the chaise, and her cloak was released from the wheel, but the child's
  misery did not cease, for her cloak was torn to rags. It had been a
  miserable cloak before; but she had no other, and it was the greatest
  sorrow that could befall her. Her name was Alice Fell. She had no
  parents, and belonged to the next town. At the next town Mr. G. left
  money to buy her a new cloak."

  "Friday (March 12).--In the evening after tea William wrote 'Alice
  Fell'."

  "Saturday Morning (13th March).--William finished 'Alice Fell'...."

Ed.




  The post-boy drove with fierce career,
  For threatening clouds the moon had drowned;
  When, as we hurried on, my ear
  Was smitten with a startling sound. [1]

  As if the wind blew many ways,                               5
  I heard the sound,--and more and more;
  It seemed to follow with the chaise,
  And still I heard it as before.

  At length I to the boy called out;
  He stopped his horses at the word,                          10
  But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout,
  Nor aught else like it, could be heard.

  The boy then smacked his whip, and fast
  The horses scampered through the rain;
  But, hearing soon upon the blast                            15
  The cry, I bade him halt again. [2]

  Forthwith alighting on the ground,
  "Whence comes," said I, "this piteous moan?" [3]
  And there a little Girl I found,
  Sitting behind the chaise, alone.                           20

  "My cloak!" no other word she spake,
  But loud and bitterly she wept,
  As if her innocent heart would break; [4]
  And down from off her seat [5] she leapt.

  "What ails you, child?"--she sobbed "Look here!"            25
  I saw it in the wheel entangled,
  A weather-beaten rag as e'er
  From any garden scare-crow dangled.

  There, twisted between nave and spoke,
  It hung, nor could at once be freed;                        30
  But our joint pains unloosed the cloak, [6]
  A miserable rag indeed! [7]

  "And whither are you going, child,
  To-night along these lonesome ways?"
  "To Durham," answered she, half wild--35
  "Then come with me into the chaise."

  Insensible to all relief
  Sat the poor girl, and forth did send
  Sob after sob, as if her grief [8]
  Could never, never have an end.                             40

  "My child, in Durham do you dwell?"
  She checked herself in her distress,
  And said, "My name is Alice Fell;
  I'm fatherless and motherless.

  "And I to Durham, Sir, belong."                             45
  Again, [9] as if the thought would choke
  Her very heart, her grief grew strong;
  And all was for her tattered cloak!

  The chaise drove on; our journey's end
  Was nigh; and, sitting by my side,                          50
  As if she had lost [10] her only friend
  She wept, nor would be pacified.

  Up to the tavern-door we post;
  Of Alice and her grief I told;
  And I gave money to the host,                               55
  To buy a new cloak for the old.

  "And let it be of duffil grey,
  As warm a cloak as man can sell!"
  Proud creature was she the next day,
  The little orphan, Alice Fell!                              60



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

  When suddenly I seem'd to hear
  A moan, a lamentable sound.      1807.]


[Variant 2:

1845.

  And soon I heard upon the blast
  The voice, and bade ....      1807.]


[Variant 3:

1845.

  Said I, alighting on the ground,
  "What can it be, this piteous moan?"      1807.

  Forthwith alighted on the ground
  To learn what voice the piteous moan
  Had made, a little girl I found,      C.]


[Variant 4:

1836.

  "My Cloak!" the word was last and first,
  And loud and bitterly she wept,
  As if her very heart would burst;       1807.

  "My cloak, my cloak" she cried, and spake
  No other word, but loudly wept,            C.]


[Variant 5:

1815.

  ... off the Chaise ...      1807.]


[Variant 6:

1845.

  'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke;
  Her help she lent, and with good heed
  Together we released the Cloak;      1807.

  ... between ...      1840.]


[Variant 7:

1836.

  A wretched, wretched rag indeed!      1807.]


[Variant 8:

1845.

  She sate like one past all relief;
  Sob after sob she forth did send
  In wretchedness, as if her grief      1807.]


[Variant 9:

1836.

  And then, ...      1807.]


[Variant 10:

1836.

  ... she'd lost ...     1807.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: There was no sub-title in the edition of 1807.--Ed.]



Charles Lamb wrote to Wordsworth in 1815, referring to
the revisions of this and other poems:

  "I am glad that you have not sacrificed a verse to those scoundrels. I
  would not have had you offer up the poorest rag that lingered upon the
  stript shoulders of little Alice Fell, to have atoned all their
  malice; I would not have given 'em a red cloak to save their souls."

See 'Letters of Charles Lamb' (Ainger), vol. i. p. 283.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





BEGGARS


Composed March 13th and 14th, 1802.--Published 1807


[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Met, and described to me by my sister,
near the quarry at the head of Rydal Lake, [A] a place still a chosen
resort of vagrants travelling with their families.--I.F.]

The following are Dorothy Wordsworth's references to this poem in her
Grasmere Journal. They justify the remark of the late Bishop of Lincoln,

  "his poems are sometimes little more than poetical versions of her
  descriptions of the objects which she had seen, _and he treated them
  as seen by himself_."

(See
'Memoirs of Wordsworth', vol. i. pp. 180-1.)

  "Saturday (March 13, 1802).--William wrote the poem of the Beggar
  Woman, taken from a woman whom I had seen in May (now nearly two years
  ago), when John and he were at Gallow Hill. I sat with him at
  intervals all the morning, and took down his stanzas. After tea I read
  W. the account I had written of the little boy belonging to the tall
  woman: and an unlucky thing it was, for he could not escape from those
  very words, and so he could not write the poem. He left it unfinished,
  and went tired to bed. In our walk from Rydal he had got warmed with
  the subject, and had half cast the poem."

  "Sunday Morning (March 14).--William had slept badly. He got up at 9
  o'clock, but before he rose he had finished the Beggar Boy."

The following is the "account" written in her Journal on Tuesday, May
23, 1800:

  "A very tall woman, tall much beyond the measure of tall women, called
  at the door. She had on a very long brown cloak, and a very white cap,
  without bonnet. Her face was brown, but it had plainly once been fair.
  She led a little barefooted child about two years old by the hand, and
  said her husband, who was a tinker, was gone before with the other
  children. I gave her a piece of bread. Afterwards, on my road to
  Ambleside, beside the bridge at Rydal, I saw her husband sitting at
  the roadside, his two asses standing beside him, and the two young
  children at play upon the grass. The man did not beg. I passed on, and
  about a quarter of a mile farther I saw two boys before me, one about
  ten, the other about eight years old, at play, chasing a butterfly.
  They were wild figures, not very ragged, but without shoes and
  stockings. The hat of the elder was wreathed round with yellow
  flowers; the younger, whose hat was only a rimless crown, had stuck it
  round with laurel leaves. They continued at play till I drew very
  near, and then they addressed me with the begging cant and the whining
  voice of sorrow. I said, 'I served your mother this morning' (the boys
  were so like the woman who had called at our door that I could not be
  mistaken). 'O,' says the elder, 'you could not serve my mother, for
  she's dead, and my father's in at the next town; he's a potter.' I
  persisted in my assertion, and that I would give them nothing. Says
  the elder, 'Come, let's away,' and away they flew like lightning. They
  had, however, sauntered so long in their road that they did not reach
  Ambleside before me, and I saw them go up to Mathew Harrison's house
  with their wallet upon the elder's shoulder, and creeping with a
  beggar's complaining foot. On my return through Ambleside I met, in
  the street, the mother driving her asses, in the two panniers of one
  of which were the two little children, whom she was chiding and
  threatening with a wand with which she used to drive on her asses,
  while the little things hung in wantonness over the pannier's edge.
  The woman had told me in the morning that she was of Scotland, which
  her accent fully proved, and that she had lived (I think at Wigtown);
  that they could not keep a house, and so they travelled."

This was one of the "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed.




  She had a tall man's height or more;
  Her face from summer's noontide heat
  No bonnet shaded, but she wore
  A mantle, to her very feet
  Descending with a graceful flow,                                   5
  And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen snow. [1]

  Her skin was of Egyptian brown:
  Haughty, as if her eye had seen
  Its own light to a distance thrown,
  She towered, fit person for a Queen [2]                           10
  To lead [3] those ancient Amazonian files;
  Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian isles.

  Advancing, forth she stretched her hand
  And begged an alms with doleful plea
  That ceased not; on our English land                              15
  Such woes, I knew, could never be; [4]
  And yet a boon I gave her, for the creature
  Was beautiful to see--a weed of glorious feature. [B]

  I left her, and pursued my way;
  And soon before me did espy                                       20
  A pair of little Boys at play,
  Chasing a crimson butterfly;
  The taller followed with his hat in hand,
  Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land. [5]

  The other wore a rimless crown                                    25
  With leaves of laurel stuck about;
  And, while both [6] followed up and down,
  Each whooping with a merry shout,
  In their fraternal features I could trace
  Unquestionable lines of that wild Suppliant's face. [7]           30

  Yet _they_, so blithe of heart, seemed fit [8]
  For finest tasks of earth or air:
  Wings let them have, and they might flit
  Precursors to [9] Aurora's car,
  Scattering fresh flowers; though happier far, I ween,             35
  To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock and level green.

  They dart across my path--but lo, [10]
  Each ready with a plaintive whine!
  Said I, "not half an hour ago
  Your Mother has had alms of mine."                                40
  "That cannot be," one answered--"she is dead:"--
  I looked reproof--they saw--but neither hung his head. [11]

  "She has been dead, Sir, many a day."--
  "Hush, boys! you're telling me a lie; [12]
  It was your Mother, as I say!"                                    45
  And, in the twinkling of an eye,
  "Come! come!" cried one, and without more ado,
  Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew! [13] [C]



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

  She had a tall Man's height, or more;
  No bonnet screen'd her from the heat;
  A long drab-colour'd Cloak she wore,
  A Mantle reaching to her feet:
  What other dress she had I could not know;
  Only she wore a Cap that was as white as snow.       1807.

  Before me as the Wanderer stood,
  No bonnet screened her from the heat;
  Nor claimed she service from the hood
  Of a blue mantle, to her feet
  Depending with a graceful flow;
  Only she wore a cap pure as unsullied snow.          1827.

  Before my eyes a Wanderer stood;
  Her face from summer's noon-day heat
  Nor bonnet shaded, nor the hood
  Of that blue cloak which to her feet
  Depended with a graceful flow;
  Only she wore a cap as white as new-fallen snow.     1832.

  No bonnet shaded, nor the hood
  Of the blue cloak ...                                1836.

  She had a tall man's height or more;
  And while, 'mid April's noontide heat,
  A long blue cloak the vagrant wore,
  A mantle reaching to her feet,
  No bonnet screened her lofty brow,
  Only she wore a cap as white as new-fallen snow.      C.

  She had a tall man's height or more;
  A garment for her stature meet,
  And for a vagrant life, she wore
  A mantle reaching to her feet.
  Nor hood, nor bonnet screened her lofty brow,         C.]


[Variant 2:

1827.

  In all my walks, through field or town,
  Such Figure had I never seen:
  Her face was of Egyptian brown:
  Fit person was she for a Queen,      1807.

  Such figure had I never seen
  In all my walks through field or town,
  Fit person seemed she for a Queen,      C.]


[Variant 3:

1836.

  To head ...     1807.]


[Variant 4:

1845.

  Before me begging did she stand,
  Pouring out sorrows like a sea;
  Grief after grief:--on English Land
  Such woes I knew could never be;      1807.

  Her suit no faltering scruples checked;
  Forth did she pour, in current free,
  Tales that could challenge no respect
  But from a blind credulity;           1827.

  She begged an alms; no scruple checked
  The current of her ready plea,
  Words that could challenge ...        1832.

  Before me begging did she stand
  And boldly urged a doleful plea,
  Grief after grief, on English land
  Such woes I knew could never be.         C.]


[Variant 5:

1807.

  With yellow flowers around, as with a golden band.     C.]


[Variant 6:

1827.

  And they both ...     1807.]


[Variant 7:

1820.

  Two Brothers seem'd they, eight and ten years old;
  And like that Woman's face as gold is like to gold.     1807.]


[Variant 8: This stanza was added in the edition of 1827.]


[Variant 9:

1836.

  Precursors of ...     1827.]


[Variant 10:

1827.

  They bolted on me thus, and lo!      1807.]


[Variant 11:

1827.

  "Nay but I gave her pence, and she will buy you bread."    1807.]


[Variant 12:

1845.

  "Sweet Boys, you're telling me a lie;    1807.

  ... Heaven hears that rash reply;        1827.

The text of 1807 was resumed in 1836.]


[Variant 13:

1827.

  ... they both together flew.       1807.

  ... the thoughtless vagrants flew.    C.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The spot is easily identified, as the quarry still
exists.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: In the MS. of this poem (1807) the words, "a weed of
glorious feature," are placed within inverted commas. The quotation is
from Spenser's 'Muiopotmos' ('The Fate of the Butterflie'), stanza 27;
and is important, as it affects the meaning of the phrase. It is curious
that Wordsworth dropped the commas in his subsequent editions.--Ed.]


[Footnote C: In Wordsworth's letter to Barron Field, of 24th October
1828 (see the volumes containing his correspondence), a detailed account
is given of the reasons which had led him to alter the text of this
poem.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING,

COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER


Composed 1817.--Published 1827


In the edition of 1840 the year assigned to this Sequel is 1817. It does
not occur in the edition of 1820, but was first published in 1827. It
was one of the "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed.




  Where are they now, those wanton Boys?
  For whose free range the daedal earth
  Was filled with animated toys,
  And implements of frolic mirth;
  With tools for ready wit to guide;                            5
  And ornaments of seemlier pride,
  More fresh, more bright, than princes wear;
  For what one moment flung aside,
  Another could repair;
  What good or evil have they seen                             10
  Since I their pastime witnessed here,
  Their daring wiles, their sportive cheer?
  I ask--but all is dark between!
  [1]

  They met me in a genial hour,
  When universal nature breathed                               15
  As with the breath of one sweet flower,--
  A time to overrule the power
  Of discontent, and check the birth
  Of thoughts with better thoughts at strife,
  The most familiar bane of life                               20
  Since parting Innocence bequeathed
  Mortality to Earth!
  Soft clouds, the whitest of the year,
  Sailed through the sky--the brooks ran clear;
  The lambs from rock to rock were bounding;                   25
  With songs the budded groves resounding;
  And to my heart are still endeared
  The thoughts with which it then was cheered; [2]
  The faith which saw that gladsome pair
  Walk through the fire with unsinged hair.                    30
  Or, if such faith [3] must needs deceive--
  Then, Spirits of beauty and of grace, [A]
  Associates in that eager chase;
  Ye, who within the blameless mind
  Your favourite seat of empire find--35
  Kind Spirits! may we not believe
  That they, so happy and so fair
  Through your sweet influence, and the care
  Of pitying Heaven, at least were free
  From touch of _deadly_ injury?                               40
  Destined, whate'er their earthly doom,
  For mercy and immortal bloom?



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

  Spirits of beauty and of grace!
  Associates in that eager chase;
  Ye, by a course to nature true,
  The sterner judgment can subdue;
  And waken a relenting smile
  When she encounters fraud or guile;
  And sometimes ye can charm away
  The inward mischief, or allay,
  Ye, who within the blameless mind
  Your favourite seat of empire find!

The above is a separate stanza in the editions of 1827 and 1832. Only
the first two and the last two lines of this stanza were retained in the
edition of 1836, and were then transferred to the place they occupy in
the final text.--Ed.]


[Variant 2:

1836.

  And to my heart is still endeared
  The faith with which ...    1827.]


[Variant 3:

1836.

  ... such thoughts ...    1827.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: This and the three following lines were placed here in the
edition of 1836. See note to the previous page.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





TO A BUTTERFLY (#1)


Composed March 14, 1802.--Published 1807


[Written in the Orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. My sister and I were parted
immediately after the death of our mother, who died in 1778, both being
very young.--I. F.]

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




  Stay near me--do not take thy flight!
  A little longer stay in sight!
  Much converse do I find in thee,
  Historian of my infancy!
  Float near me; do not yet depart!                         5
  Dead times revive in thee:
  Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art!
  A solemn image to my heart,
  My father's family!

  Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,                    10
  The time, when, in our childish plays,
  My sister Emmeline [A] and I
  Together chased the butterfly!
  A very hunter did I rush
  Upon the prey:--with leaps and springs                   15
  I followed on from brake to bush;
  But she, God love her! feared to brush
  The dust from off its wings.


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: In the MS. for the edition of 1807 the transcriber (not W.
W.) wrote "Dorothy." This, Wordsworth erased, putting in
"Emmeline."--Ed.]


The text of this poem was never changed. It refers to days of childhood
spent at Cockermouth before 1778. "My sister Emmeline" is Dorothy
Wordsworth. In her Grasmere Journal, of Sunday, March 14, 1802, the
following occurs:

  "While we were at breakfast he" (William) "wrote the poem 'To a
  Butterfly'. He ate not a morsel, but sate with his shirt neck
  unbuttoned, and his waistcoat open when he did it. The thought first
  came upon him as we were talking about the pleasure we both always
  felt at the sight of a butterfly. I told him that I used to chase them
  a little, but that I was afraid of brushing the dust off their wings,
  and did not catch them. He told me how he used to kill all the white
  ones when he went to school, because they were Frenchmen. Mr. Simpson
  came in just as he was finishing the poem. After he was gone, I wrote
  it down, and the other poems, and I read them all over to him....
  William began to try to alter 'The Butterfly', and tired himself."

Compare the later poem 'To a Butterfly' (#2) (April 20), p. 297.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





THE EMIGRANT MOTHER


Composed March 16th and 17th, 1802.--Published 1807


[Suggested by what I have noticed in more than one French fugitive
during the time of the French Revolution. If I am not mistaken the lines
were composed at Sockburn when I was on a visit to Mary and her
brothers.--I. F.]

In the editions of 1807 and 1815, this poem had no distinctive title;
but in the Wordsworth circle, it was known from the year 1802 as 'The
Emigrant Mother', and at least one copy was transcribed with this title
in 1802. It was first published under that name in 1820. It was revised
and altered in 1820, 1827, 1832, 1836, and more especially in 1845.

In Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal the following entries occur:

  "Tuesday (March 16).--William went up into the orchard, and wrote a
  part of 'The Emigrant Mother'."

  "Wednesday.--William went up into the orchard, and finished the
  poem.... I went and sate with W., and walked backwards and forwards in
  the orchard till dinner-time. He read me his poem."

This poem was included among those "founded on the Affections."--Ed.




           Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned
           In which a Lady driven from France did dwell;
           The big and lesser griefs with which she mourned,
           In friendship she to me would often tell.

           This Lady, [1] dwelling upon British [2] ground,            5
           Where she was childless, daily would [3] repair
           To a poor neighbouring cottage; as I found,
           For sake of a young Child whose home was there.

           Once having seen her clasp with fond embrace
           This Child, I chanted to myself a lay,                     10
           Endeavouring, in our English tongue, to trace
           Such things as she unto the Babe might say: [4]
           And thus, from what I heard and knew, or guessed, [5]
           My song the workings of her heart expressed.

  I        "Dear Babe, thou daughter of another,                      15
           One moment let me be thy mother!
           An infant's face and looks are thine
           And sure a mother's heart is mine:
           Thy own dear mother's far away,
           At labour in the harvest field:                            20
           Thy little sister is at play;--
           What warmth, what comfort would it yield
           To my poor heart, if thou wouldst be
           One little hour a child to me!

  II       "Across the waters I am come,                              25
           And I have left a babe at home:
           A long, long way of land and sea!
           Come to me--I'm no enemy:
           I am the same who at thy side
           Sate yesterday, and made a nest                            30
           For thee, sweet Baby!--thou hast tried,
           Thou know'st the pillow of my breast;
           Good, good art thou:--alas! to me
           Far more than I can be to thee.

  III      "Here, little Darling, dost thou lie;                      35
           An infant thou, a mother I!
           Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears;
           Mine art thou--spite of these my tears.
           Alas! before I left the spot,
           My baby and its dwelling-place;                            40
           The nurse said to me, 'Tears should not
           Be shed upon an infant's face,
           It was unlucky'--no, no, no;
           No truth is in them who say so!

  IV       "My own dear Little-one will sigh,                         45
           Sweet Babe! and they will let him die.
           'He pines,' they'll say, 'it is his doom,
           And you may see his hour is come.'
           Oh! had he but thy cheerful smiles,
           Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay,                     50
           Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles,
           And countenance like a summer's day,
           They would have hopes of him;--and then
           I should behold his face again!

  V        "'Tis gone--like dreams that we forget;                    55
           There was a smile or two--yet--yet [6]
           I can remember them, I see
           The smiles, worth all the world to me.
           Dear Baby! I must lay thee down;
           Thou troublest me with strange alarms;                     60
           Smiles hast thou, bright [7] ones of thy own;
           I cannot keep thee in my arms;
           For they confound me;--where--where is
           That last, that sweetest smile of his? [8]

  VI       "Oh! how I love thee!--we will stay                        65
           Together here this one half day.
           My sister's child, who bears my name,
           From France to sheltering England came; [9]
           She with her mother crossed the sea;
           The babe and mother near me dwell:                         70
           Yet does my yearning heart to thee
           Turn rather, though I love her well: [10]
           Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here!
           Never was any child more dear!

  VII      "--I cannot help it; ill intent                            75
           I've none, my pretty Innocent!
           I weep--I know they do thee wrong,
           These tears--and my poor idle tongue.
           Oh, what a kiss was that! my cheek
           How cold it is! but thou art good; So                      80
           Thine eyes are on me--they would speak,
           I think, to help me if they could.  [11]
           Blessings upon that soft, warm face, [12]
           My heart again is in its place!

VIII

           "While thou art mine, my little Love,                      85
           This cannot be a sorrowful grove;
           Contentment, hope, and mother's glee, [13]
           I seem to find them all in thee: [14]
           Here's grass to play with, here are flowers;
           I'll call thee by my darling's name;                       90
           Thou hast, I think, a look of ours,
           Thy features seem to me the same;
           His little sister thou shalt be;
           And, when once more my home I see,
           I'll tell him many tales of Thee."                         95


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1807.

  This Mother ...      MS.]


[Variant 2:

1845.

  ... English ...      1807.]


[Variant 3:

1827.

  ... did ...     1807.]


[Variant 4:

1845.

  Once did I see her clasp the Child about,
  And take it to herself; and I, next day,
  Wish'd in my native tongue to fashion out
  Such things as she unto this Child might say:      1807.

  Once did I see her take with fond embrace
  This Infant to herself; and I, next day,
  Endeavoured in my native tongue to trace
  Such things as she unto the Child might say:       1820.

  Once, having seen her take with fond embrace
  This Infant to herself, I framed a lay,
  Endeavouring, in my native tongue, to trace        1827.]


[Variant 5:

1845.

  And thus, from what I knew, had heard, and guess'd,     1807.]


[Variant 6:

1820.

  'Tis gone--forgotten--let me do
  My best--there was a smile or two,     1807.]


[Variant 7:

1827.

  ... sweet ...      1807.]


[Variant 8:

1836.

  For they confound me: as it is,
  I have forgot those smiles of his.          1807.

  For they bewilder me--even now
  _His_ smiles are lost,--I know not how!     1820.

  By those bewildering glances crost
  In which the light of his is lost. [a]      1827.]


[Variant 9:

1827.

  From France across the Ocean came;     1807.]


[Variant 10:

1845.

  My Darling, she is not to me
  What thou art! though I love her well:     1807.

  But to my heart she cannot be              1836.]


[Variant 11:

1807.

  And I grow happy while I speak,
  Kiss, kiss me, Baby, thou art good.     MS.]


[Variant 12:

1820.

  ... that quiet face,      1807.]


[Variant 13:

1807.

  A Joy, a Comforter thou art;
  Sunshine and pleasure to my heart;
  And love and hope and mother's glee,      MS.]


[Variant 14:

1807.

  My yearnings are allayed by thee,
  My heaviness is turned to glee.      MS.]


       *       *       *       *       *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Sub-Footnote a: In a letter to Barron Field (24th Oct. 1828),
Wordsworth says that his substitution of the text of 1827 for that of
1807, was due to the objections of Coleridge.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





TO THE CUCKOO


Composed 1802.--Published 1807


[Composed in the Orchard at Town-end, 1804.--I.F.]

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




  O blithe New-comer! I have heard,
  I hear thee and rejoice.
  O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
  Or but a wandering Voice? [A]

  While I am lying on the grass                            5
  Thy twofold shout I hear,
  From hill to hill it seems to pass,
  At once far off, and near. [1]

  Though babbling only to the Vale,
  Of sunshine and of flowers,                             10
  Thou bringest unto me a tale [2]
  Of visionary hours.

  Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
  Even yet thou art to me
  No bird, but an invisible thing, [3]                    15
  A voice, a mystery;

  The same whom in my school-boy days
  I listened to; that Cry
  Which made me look a thousand ways
  In bush, and tree, and sky.                             20

  To seek thee did I often rove
  Through woods and on the green;
  And thou wert still a hope, a love;
  Still longed for, never seen.

  And I can listen to thee yet;                           25
  Can lie upon the plain
  And listen, till I do beget
  That golden time again.

  O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
  Again appears to be                                     30
  An unsubstantial, faery place;
  That is fit home for Thee!


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

  While I am lying on the grass,
  I hear thy restless shout:
  From hill to hill it seems to pass,
  About, and all about!            1807.

  Thy loud note smites my ear!--
  From hill to hill it seems to pass,
  At once far off and near!        1815.

  Thy loud note smites my ear!
  It seems to fill the whole air's space,
  At once far off and near!        1820.

  Thy twofold shout I hear,
  That seems to fill the whole air's space,
  As loud far off as near. [a]     1827.]


[Variant 2:

1827.

  To me, no Babbler with a tale
  Of sunshine and of flowers,
  Thou tellest, Cuckoo! in the vale      1807.

  I hear thee babbling to the Vale
  Of sunshine and of flowers;
  And unto me thou bring'st a tale       1815.

  But unto me ....                       1820.]


[Variant 3:

1836.

  No Bird; but an invisible Thing,      1807.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A:

  "_Vox et praterea nihil_. See Lipsius 'of the Nightingale.'"

Barron Field.--Ed.


       *       *       *       *       *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Sub-Footnote a: Barron Field remonstrated with Wordsworth about this
reading, and he agreed to restore that of 1820; saying, at the same
time, that he had "made the change to record a fact observed by
himself."--Ed.]


In the chronological lists of his poems, published in 1815 and 1820,
Wordsworth left a blank opposite this one, in the column containing the
year of composition. From 1836 to 1849, the date assigned by him was
1804. But in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal the following occurs under
date Tuesday, 22nd March 1802:

  "A mild morning. William worked at the Cuckoo poem.... At the closing
  in of day, went to sit in the orchard. William came to me, and walked
  backwards and forwards. W. repeated the poem to me. I left him there;
  and in 20 minutes he came in, rather tired with attempting to write."

  "Friday (March 25).--A beautiful morning. William worked at 'The
  Cuckoo'."

It is therefore evident that it belongs to the year 1802; although it
may have been altered and readjusted in 1804. The connection of the
seventh stanza of this poem with the first of that which follows it, "My
heart leaps up," etc., and of both with the 'Ode, Intimations of
Immortality' (vol. viii.), is obvious.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





"MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I BEHOLD"


Composed March 26, 1802.--Published 1807


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

One of the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood." In 1807 it was
No. 4 of the series called "Moods of my own Mind."--Ed.




  My heart leaps up when I behold
    A rainbow in the sky:
  So was it when my life began;
  So is it now I am a man;
  So be it when I shall grow old,                        5
    Or let me die!
  The Child is father of the Man; [A]
  And I could wish my days to be
  Bound each to each by natural piety.


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare Milton's phrase in 'Paradise Regained' (book iv. l.
220):

      'The childhood shews the man,
  As morning shews the day.'

Dryden's 'All for Love', act IV. scene I:

  'Men are but children of a larger growth.'

And Pope's 'Essay on Man', Ep. iv. l. 175:

  'The boy and man an individual makes.'

Also Chatterton's 'Fragment' (Aldine edition, vol. 1. p. 132):

  'Nature in the infant marked the man.'

Ed.]



  "March 26, 1802.--While I was getting into bed he" (W.) "wrote 'The
  Rainbow.'"

  "May 14th.--... William very nervous. After he was in bed, haunted
  with altering 'The Rainbow.'"

(Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal.) This poem was known familiarly
in the household as "The Rainbow," although not printed under that
title. The text was never changed.

In 'The Friend', vol. i. p. 58 (ed. 1818), Coleridge writes:

  "Men laugh at the falsehoods imposed on them during their childhood,
  because they are not good and wise enough to contemplate the past in
  the present, and so to produce that continuity in their
  self-consciousness, which Nature has made the law of their animal
  life. Men are ungrateful to others, only when they have ceased to look
  back on their former selves with joy and tenderness. They exist in
  fragments."

He then quotes the above poem, and adds:

  "I am informed that these lines have been cited as a specimen of
  despicable puerility. So much the worse for the citer; not willingly
  in _his_ presence would I behold the sun setting behind our
  mountains.... But let the dead bury their dead! The poet sang for the
  living.... I was always pleased with the motto placed under the figure
  of the rosemary in old herbals:

    'Sus, apage! Haud tibi spiro.'"

Compare the passage in 'The Excursion' (book ix. l. 36) beginning:

  '... Ah! why in age
  Do we revert so fondly, etc.'

also that in 'The Prelude' (book v. l. 507) beginning:

  'Our childhood sits.'





       *       *       *       *       *





WRITTEN IN MARCH, WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF BROTHERS
WATER


Composed April 16, 1802.--Published 1807


[Extempore. This little poem was a favourite with Joanna Baillie.--I.F.]

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




  The Cock is crowing,
    The stream is flowing,
    The small birds twitter,
    The lake doth glitter,
  The green field sleeps in the sun;                       5
    The oldest and youngest
    Are at work with the strongest;
    The cattle are grazing,
    Their heads never raising;
  There are forty feeding like one!                       10

    Like an army defeated
    The snow hath retreated,
    And now doth fare ill
    On the top of the bare hill;
  The Ploughboy is whooping--anon--anon: [A]              15
    There's joy in the mountains;
    There's life in the fountains;
    Small clouds are sailing,
    Blue sky prevailing;
  The rain is over and gone!                              20


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: This line was an afterthought.--Ed.]


The text of this poem was never altered. It was not "written in March"
(as the title states), but on the 16th of April (Good Friday) 1802. The
bridge referred to crosses Goldrill Beck, a little below Hartsop in
Patterdale. The following, from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, records
the walk from Ullswater, over Kirkstone Pass, to Ambleside:

  "Friday, 16th April (Good Friday).--... When we came to the foot of
  Brothers Water, I left William sitting on the bridge, and went along
  the path on the right side of the lake through the wood. I was
  delighted with what I saw: the water under the boughs of the bare old
  trees, the simplicity of the mountains, and the exquisite beauty of
  the path. There was one grey cottage. I repeated 'The Glowworm' as I
  walked along. I hung over the gate, and thought I could have stayed
  for ever. When I returned, I found William writing a poem descriptive
  of the sights and sounds we saw and heard. There was the gentle
  flowing of the stream, the glittering lively lake, green fields,
  without a living creature to be seen on them; behind us, a flat
  pasture with forty-two cattle feeding; to our left, the road leading
  to the hamlet. No smoke there, the sun shone on the bare roofs. The
  people were at work, ploughing, harrowing, and sowing; lasses working;
  a dog barking now and then; cocks crowing, birds twittering; the snow
  in patches at the top of the highest hills; yellow palms, purple and
  green twigs on the birches, ashes with their glittering stems quite
  bare. The hawthorn a bright green, with black stems under the oak. The
  moss of the oaks glossy.... As we went up the vale of Brothers Water,
  more and more cattle feeding, a hundred of them. William finished his
  poem before we got to the foot of Kirkstone. There were hundreds of
  cattle in the vale.... The walk up Kirkstone was very interesting. The
  becks among the rocks were all alive. William shewed me the little
  mossy streamlet which he had before loved, when he saw its bright
  green track in the snow. The view above Ambleside very beautiful.
  There we sate, and looked down on the green vale. We watched the crows
  at a little distance from us become white as silver, as they flew in
  the sunshine; and, when they went still farther, they looked like
  shapes of water passing over the green fields."

Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





THE REDBREAST CHASING THE BUTTERFLY [A]


Composed April 18, 1802.--Published 1807


[Observed, as described, in the then beautiful orchard, Town-end,
Grasmere.--I.F.]

Included among the "Poems of the Fancy."

In some editions this poem is assigned to the year 1806; but, in Dorothy
Wordsworth's Journal the following occurs, under date "Sunday, 18th"
(April 1802):

  "A mild grey morning with rising vapours. We sate in the orchard.
  William wrote the poem on the Robin and the Butterfly.... W. met me at
  Rydal with the conclusion of the poem to the Robin. I read it to him
  in bed. We left out some lines."

Ed.




  Art thou the bird whom Man loves best,
  The pious bird [B] with the scarlet breast,
    Our little English Robin;
  The bird that comes about our doors
  When Autumn-winds are sobbing?                            5
  Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors?
    Their Thomas in Finland,
    And Russia far inland?
  The bird, that [1] by some name or other
  All men who know thee call their brother,                10
  The darling of children and men?
  Could Father Adam [C] open his eyes
  And see this sight beneath the skies,
  He'd wish to close them again.
--If the Butterfly knew but his friend,                  15
  Hither his flight he would bend;
  And find his way to me,
  Under the branches of the tree:
  In and out, he darts about;
  Can this be the bird, to man so good,                    20
  That, after their bewildering, [2]
  Covered [3] with leaves the little children,
    So painfully in the wood?

  What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue
    A beautiful creature,                                  25
  That is gentle by nature?
  Beneath the summer sky
  From flower to flower let him fly;
  'Tis all that he wishes to do.
  The cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness,                 30
  He is the friend of our summer gladness:
  What hinders, then, that ye should be
  Playmates in the sunny weather,
  And fly about in the air together!
  His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,                35
  A crimson as bright as thine own: [4]
  Would'st thou be [5] happy in thy nest,
  O pious Bird! whom man loves best,
  Love him, or leave him alone!


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1849.

  ... whom ...       1807.

  ... who ...        1827.]



[Variant 2:

1815.

  In and out, he darts about;
  His little heart is throbbing:
  Can this be the Bird, to man so good,
    Our consecrated Robin!
  That, after ...      1807.

  ... Robin! Robin!
  His little heart is throbbing;
  Can this ...         MS.]


[Variant 3:

1832.

  Did cover ...      1807.]


[Variant 4:

1815.

  ... Like thine own breast
  His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,
  As if he were bone of thy bone.         MS.

  Like the hues of thy breast
  His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,
  A brother he seems of thine own:        1807.

  ... in the air together!
  His beautiful bosom is drest,
  In crimson as bright as thine own:      1832.

The edition of 1836 resumes the text of 1815.]


[Variant 5:

1836.

  If thou would'st be ...      1807.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The title, in the editions 1807 to 1820, was 'The Redbreast
and the Butterfly'. In the editions 1827 to 1843 it was 'The Redbreast
and Butterfly'. The final title was given in 1845.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare Cowley:

  'And Robin Redbreasts whom men praise,
  For pious birds.'

Ed.]


[Footnote C: See 'Paradise Lost', book XI., where Adam points out to Eve
the ominous sign of the Eagle chasing "two Birds of gayest plume," and
the gentle Hart and Hind pursued by their enemy.--W. W. 1815.

The passage in book XI. of 'Paradise Lost' includes lines 185-90.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





TO A BUTTERFLY (#2)


Composed April 20, 1802.--Published 1807


[Written at the same time and place. The Orchard, Grasmere Town-end,
1801.--I.F.]

Included among the "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed.




  I've watch'd you now a full [1] half-hour,
  Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
  And, little Butterfly! indeed
  I know not if you sleep or feed.
  How motionless!--not frozen seas                          5
  More motionless! and then
  What joy awaits you, when the breeze
  Hath found you out among the trees,
  And calls you forth again!

  This plot of orchard-ground is ours;                     10
  My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;
  Here rest your wings when they are weary;
  Here lodge as in a sanctuary! [2]
  Come often to us, fear no wrong;
  Sit near us on the bough!                                15
  We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
  And summer days, when we were young;
  Sweet childish days, that were as long
  As twenty days are now.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1807.

  ... short ...       1836.

The text of 1845 reverts to the reading of 1807.]


[Variant 2:

1815.

  Stop here whenever you are weary,
  And rest as in a sanctuary!       1807.

  And feed ...                      MS.]



Wordsworth's date, as given to Miss Fenwick, is incorrect. In her
Journal, April 20, 1802, Dorothy Wordsworth writes:

  "William wrote a conclusion to the poem of 'The Butterfly', 'I've
  watch'd you now a full half-hour.'"

This, and the structure of the two poems, makes it probable that the
latter was originally meant to be a sort of conclusion to the former (p.
283); but they were always printed as separate poems.

Many of the "flowers" in the orchard at Dove Cottage were planted by
Dorothy Wordsworth, and some of the "trees" by William. The "summer
days" of childhood are referred to in the previous poem, 'To a
Butterfly', written on the 14th of March 1802.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





FORESIGHT


Composed April 28, 1802.--Published 1807


[Also composed in the Orchard, Town-end, Grasmere.--I.F.]

Included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."--Ed.




  That is work of waste and ruin--[1]
  Do as Charles and I are doing!
  Strawberry-blossoms, one and all,
  We must spare them--here are many:
  Look at it--the flower is small,                          5
  Small and low, though fair as any:
  Do not touch it! summers two
  I am older, Anne, than you.
  Pull the primrose, sister Anne!
  Pull as many as you can.                                 10
  --Here are daisies, take your fill;
  <DW29>s, and the cuckoo-flower:
  Of the lofty daffodil
  Make your bed, or [2] make your bower;
  Fill your lap, and fill your bosom;                      15
  Only spare the strawberry-blossom!

  Primroses, the Spring may love them--
  Summer knows but little of them:
  Violets, a barren kind,
  Withered on the ground must lie;                         20
  Daisies leave no fruit behind
  When the pretty flowerets die;
  Pluck them, and another year
  As many will be blowing here. [3]

  God has given a kindlier power [4]                       25
  To the favoured strawberry-flower.
  Hither soon as spring is fled
  You and Charles and I will walk; [5]
  Lurking berries, ripe and red,
  Then will hang on every stalk,                           30
  Each within its leafy bower;
  And for that promise spare the flower!


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1815.

  That is work which I am rueing--1807.]


[Variant 2:

1836.

  ... and ...      1807.]


[Variant 3:

1815.

  Violets, do what they will,
  Wither'd on the ground must lie;
  Daisies will be daisies still;
  Daisies they must live and die:
  Fill your lap, and fill your bosom,
  Only spare the Strawberry-blossom!      1807.]


[Variant 4: This last stanza was added in the edition of 1815.]


[Variant 5:

1836.

  When the months of spring are fled
  Hither let us bend our walk;      1815.]


The full title of this poem, in the editions of 1807 to 1832, was
'Foresight, or the Charge of a Child to his younger Companion', but it
was originally known in the household as "Children gathering Flowers."
The shortened title was adopted in 1836. The following is from Dorothy
Wordsworth's Journal:

  "Wednesday, 28th April (1802).--Copied the 'Prioress's Tale'. William
  was in the orchard. I went to him; he worked away at his poem, though
  he was ill, and tired. I happened to say that when I was a child I
  would not have pulled a strawberry blossom; I left him, and wrote out
  the 'Manciple's Tale'. At dinner time he came in with the poem of
  'Children gathering Flowers,' but it was not quite finished, and it
  kept him long from his dinner. It is now done. He is working at 'The
  Tinker.'"

At an earlier date in the same year,--Jan. 31st, 1802,--the following
occurs:

  "I found a strawberry blossom in a rock. The little slender flower had
  more courage than the green leaves, for _they_ were but half expanded
  and half grown, but the blossom was spread full out. I uprooted it
  rashly, and I felt as if I had been committing an outrage; so I
  planted it again. It will have but a stormy life of it, but let it
  live if it can."

With this poem compare a parallel passage in Marvel's 'The Picture of T.
C. in a Prospect of Flowers':

  'But oh, young beauty of the woods,
  Whom nature courts with fruits and flowers,
  Gather the flowers, but spare the buds;
  Lest Flora, angry at thy crime
  To kill her infants in their prime,
  Should quickly make the example yours;
  And, ere we see,
  Nip in the blossom all our hopes in thee.'

Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





TO THE SMALL CELANDINE [A]


Composed April 30, 1802.--Published 1807


[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. It is remarkable that this flower,
coming out so early in the spring as it does, and so bright and
beautiful, and in such profusion, should not have been noticed earlier
in English verse. What adds much to the interest that attends it is its
habit of shutting itself up and opening out according to the degree of
light and temperature of the air.--I.F.]

One of the "Poems of the Fancy." In the original MS. this poem is called
'To the lesser Celandine', but in the proof "small" was substituted for
"lesser."

In Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal the following occurs, under date April
30, 1802:

  "We came into the orchard directly after breakfast, and sat there. The
  lake was calm, the sky cloudy. William began to write the poem of 'The
  Celandine'.... I walked backwards and forwards with William. He
  repeated his poem to me, then he got to work again, and would not give
  over."

Ed.




  <DW29>s, lilies, kingcups, daisies,
  Let them live upon their praises;
  Long as there's a sun that sets,
  Primroses will have their glory;
  Long as there are violets,                            5
  They will have a place in story:
  There's a flower that shall be mine,
  'Tis the little Celandine.

  Eyes of some men travel far
  For the finding of a star;                           10
  Up and down the heavens they go,
  Men that keep a mighty rout!
  I'm as great as they, I trow,
  Since the day I found thee out,
  Little Flower!--I'll make a stir,                    15
  Like a sage [1] astronomer.

  Modest, yet withal an Elf
  Bold, and lavish of thyself;
  Since we needs must first have met
  I have seen thee, high and low,                      20
  Thirty years or more, and yet
  'Twas a face I did not know;
  Thou hast now, go where I may,
  Fifty greetings in a day.

  Ere a leaf is on a bush,                             25
  In the time before the thrush
  Has a thought about her [2] nest,
  Thou wilt come with half a call,
  Spreading out thy glossy breast
  Like a careless Prodigal;                            30
  Telling tales about the sun,
  When we've little warmth, or none.

  Poets, vain men in their mood!
  Travel with the multitude:
  Never heed them; I aver                              35
  That they all are wanton wooers;
  But the thrifty cottager,
  Who stirs little out of doors,
  Joys to spy thee near her home;
  Spring is coming, Thou art come!                     40

  [B]

  Comfort have thou of thy merit,
  Kindly, unassuming Spirit!
  Careless of thy neighbourhood,
  Thou dost show thy pleasant face
  On the moor, and in the wood,                        45
  In the lane;--there's not a place,
  Howsoever mean it be,
  But 'tis good enough for thee.

  Ill befal the yellow flowers,
  Children of the flaring hours!                       50
  Buttercups, that will be seen,
  Whether we will see or no;
  Others, too, of lofty mien;
  They have done as worldlings do,
  Taken praise that should be thine,                   55
  Little, humble Celandine!

  Prophet of delight and mirth,
  Ill-requited [3] upon earth;
  Herald of a mighty band,
  Of a joyous train ensuing,                           60
  Serving at my heart's command,
  Tasks that are no tasks renewing, [4]
  I will sing, as doth behove,
  Hymns in praise of what I love!


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1836.

  ... great ...     1807.]


[Variant 2:

1832.

  ... it's ...     1807.]


[Variant 3:

1836.

  Scorn'd and slighted ...       1807.]


[Variant 4:

1836.

  Singing at my heart's command,
  In the lanes my thoughts pursuing,      1807.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Common Pilewort.--W. W. 1807.]


[Footnote B: The following stanza was inserted in the editions of
1836-1843:

  'Drawn by what peculiar spell,
  By what charm for sight or smell,
  Do those winged dim-eyed creatures,
  Labourers sent from waxen cells,
  Settle on thy brilliant features,
  In neglect of buds and bells
  Opening daily at thy side,
  By the season multiplied?'

In 1845 it was transferred to the following poem, where it will be
found, with a change of text.--Ed.]





         *       *       *       *       *





TO THE SAME FLOWER


Composed May 1, 1802.--Published 1807


One of the "Poems of the Fancy."--Ed.




  Pleasures newly found are sweet
  When they lie about our feet:
  February last, my heart
  First at sight of thee was glad;
  All unheard of as thou art,                              5
  Thou must needs, I think, have had,
  Celandine! and long ago,
  Praise of which I nothing know.

  I have not a doubt but he,
  Whosoe'er the man might be,                             10
  Who the first with pointed rays
  (Workman worthy to be sainted)
  Set the sign-board in a blaze,
  When the rising [1] sun he painted,
  Took the fancy from a glance                            15
  At thy glittering countenance.

  Soon as gentle breezes bring
  News of winter's vanishing,
  And the children build their bowers,
  Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mould                       20
  All about with full-blown flowers,
  Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold!
  With the proudest thou art there,
  Mantling in the tiny square.

  Often have I sighed to measure                          25
  By myself a lonely pleasure,
  Sighed to think, I read a book
  Only read, perhaps, by me;
  Yet I long could overlook
  Thy bright coronet and Thee,                            30
  And thy arch and wily ways,
  And thy store of other praise.

  Blithe of heart, from week to week
  Thou dost play at hide-and-seek;
  While the patient primrose sits                         35
  Like a beggar in the cold,
  Thou, a flower of wiser wits,
  Slip'st into thy sheltering [2] hold;
  Liveliest of the vernal train [3]
  When ye all are out again.                              40

  Drawn by what peculiar spell,
  By what charm of sight or smell,
  Does the dim-eyed curious Bee,
  Labouring for her waxen cells,
  Fondly settle upon Thee                                 45
  Prized above all buds and bells
  Opening daily at thy side,
  By the season multiplied? [4]

  Thou art not beyond the moon,
  But a thing "beneath our shoon:" [A]                    50
  Let the bold Discoverer thrid
  In his bark the polar sea;
  Rear who will a pyramid; [5]
  Praise it is enough for me,
  If there be but three or four                           55
  Who will love my little Flower.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1836.

  ... risen ...       1807.]


[Variant 2:

1832.

  ... shelter'd ...      1807.]


[Variant 3:

1845.

  Bright as any of the train      1807.]


[Variant 4: This stanza was added in 1845. (See note [Footnote B, To the
Small Celandine], p. 302.)]


[Variant 5:

1845.

  Let, as old Magellen did,
  Others roam about the sea;
  Build who will a pyramid; [a]      1807.

  Let, with bold advent'rous skill,
  Others thrid the polar sea;
  Rear a pyramid who will;          1820.

  Let the bold Adventurer thrid
  In his bark the polar sea;
  Rear who will a pyramid;          1827.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: This may be an imperfect reminiscence of 'Comus', ll.
634-5.--Ed.]


       *       *       *       *       *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Sub-Footnote a: Barron Field asked Wordsworth to restore these lines of
1807, and Wordsworth promised to do so, but never did it.--Ed.]


The following is an extract from Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal.
Saturday, May 1.

  "A heavenly morning. We went into the garden, and sowed the scarlet
  beans about the house. It was a clear sky. I sowed the flowers,
  William helped me. We then went and sat in the orchard till dinner
  time. It was very hot. William wrote 'The Celandine' (second part). We
  planned a shed, for the sun was too much for us."

Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





STANZAS WRITTEN IN MY POCKET COPY OF THOMSON'S "CASTLE OF INDOLENCE"


Begun 9th May, finished 11th May, 1802.--Published 1815


[Composed in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere, Coleridge living with us
much at this time: his son Hartley has said, that his father's character
and habits are here preserved in a livelier way than in anything that
has been written about him. I.F.]

One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed.




  Within our happy Castle there dwelt One
  Whom without blame I may not overlook;
  For never sun on living creature shone
  Who more devout enjoyment with us took:
  Here on his hours he hung as on a book,                           5
  On his own time here would he float away,
  As doth a fly upon a summer brook;
  But go to-morrow, or belike to-day,
  Seek for him,--he is fled; and whither none can say.

  Thus often would he leave our peaceful home,                     10
  And find elsewhere his business or delight;
  Out of our Valley's limits did he roam:
  Full many a time, upon a stormy night, [A]
  His voice came to us from the neighbouring height:
  Oft could [1] we see him driving full in view                    15
  At midday when the sun was shining bright;
  What ill was on him, what he had to do,
  A mighty wonder bred among our quiet crew.

  Ah! piteous sight it was to see this Man
  When he came back to us, a withered flower,--20
  Or like a sinful creature, pale and wan.
  Down would he sit; and without strength or power
  Look at the common grass from hour to hour:
  And oftentimes, how long I fear to say,
  Where apple-trees in blossom made a bower,                       25
  Retired in that sunshiny shade he lay; [B]
  And, like a naked Indian, slept himself away.

  Great wonder to our gentle tribe it was
  Whenever from our Valley he withdrew;
  For happier soul no living creature has                          30
  Than he had, being here the long day through.
  Some thought he was a lover, and did woo:
  Some thought far worse of him, and judged him wrong;
  But verse was what he had been wedded to;
  And his own mind did like a tempest strong                       35
  Come to him thus, and drove the weary Wight along.[C]

  With him there often walked in friendly guise,
  Or lay upon the moss by brook or tree,
  A noticeable Man with large grey eyes,
  And a pale face that seemed undoubtedly                          40
  As if a blooming face it ought to be;
  Heavy his low-hung lip did oft appear,
  Deprest by weight of musing Phantasy;
  Profound his forehead was, though not severe;
  Yet some did think that he had little business here:             45

  Sweet heaven forefend! his was a lawful right;
  Noisy he was, and gamesome as a boy;
  His limbs would toss about him with delight
  Like branches when strong winds the trees annoy.
  Nor lacked his calmer hours device or toy                        50
  To banish listlessness and irksome care;
  He would have taught you how you might employ
  Yourself; and many did to him repair,--
  And certes not in vain; he had inventions rare.

  Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried:                      55
  Long blades of grass, plucked round him as he lay,
  Made, to his ear attentively applied,
  A pipe on which the wind would deftly play;
  Glasses he had, that little things display,
  The beetle panoplied in gems and gold, [2]                       60
  A mailed angel on a battle-day;
  The mysteries that cups of flowers enfold, [3]
  And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.

  He would entice that other Man to hear
  His music, and to view his imagery:                              65
  And, sooth, these two were each to the other dear:
  No livelier love in such a place could be: [4]
  There did they dwell-from earthly labour free,
  As happy spirits as were ever seen;
  If but a bird, to keep them company,                             70
  Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween,
  As pleased as if the same had been a Maiden-queen.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1836.

  ... did ...      1815.]


[Variant 2:

1827.

  The beetle with his radiance manifold,    1815.]


[Variant 3:

1827.

  And cups of flowers, and herbage green and gold;    1815.]


[Variant 4:

1836.

  And, sooth, these two did love each other dear,
  As far as love in such a place could be;    1815.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare

  'And oft he traced the uplands to survey,
  When o'er the sky advanced the kindling dawn,
  The crimson cloud.'

Beattie's 'Minstrel', book I, st. 20.

  'And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb
  When all in mist the world below was lost.'

Book I. st. 21.

  'And of each gentle, and each dreadful scene
  In darkness, and in storm, he found delight.'

Book I. st. 22. Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare the stanza in 'A Poet's Epitaph' (p. 77), beginning

  'He is retired as noontide dew.'

Ed.]


[Footnote C: Many years ago Canon Ainger pointed out to me a parallel
between Beattie's description of 'The Minstrel' and Wordsworth's account
of himself in this poem. It is somewhat curious that Dorothy Wordsworth,
writing to Miss Pollard from Forncett in 1793, quotes the line from 'The
Minstrel', book I. stanza 22,

  "In truth he was a strange and wayward wight,"

and adds

  "That verse of Beattie's 'Minstrel' always reminds me of him, and
  indeed the whole character of Edwin resembles much what William was
  when I first knew him after leaving Halifax."

Mr. T. Hutchinson called the attention of Professor Dowden to the same
resemblance between the two pictures. With lines 35, 36, compare in
Shelley's 'Adonais', stanza xxxi.:

  'And his own thoughts, along that rugged way,
  Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey.'

Ed.]


There can now be no doubt that, in the first four of these 'Stanzas',
Wordsworth refers to himself; and that, in the last four, he refers to
Coleridge. For a time it was uncertain whether in the earlier stanzas he
had Coleridge, or himself, in view; and whether, in the later ones, some
one else was, or was not, described. De Quincey, quoting (as he often
did) in random fashion, mixes up extracts from each set of the stanzas,
and applies them both to Coleridge; and Dorothy Wordsworth, in her
Journal, gives apparent (though only apparent) sanction to a reverse
order of allusion, by writing of "the stanzas about C. and himself" (her
brother). The following are her references to the poem in that Journal:

  "9th May (1802).-After tea he (W.) wrote two stanzas in the manner of
  Thomson's 'Castle of Indolence', and was tired out.

  "10th May.--William still at work, though it is past ten o'clock ...
  William did not sleep till three o'clock."

  "11th May.--William finished the stanzas about C. and himself. He did
  not go out to-day. ... He completely finished his poem. He went to bed
  at twelve o'clock."

From these extracts two things are evident,

  (1) who the persons are described in the stanzas, and

  (2) the immense labour bestowed upon the poem.

In the 'Memoirs of Wordsworth', by the late Bishop of Lincoln, there is
a passage (vol. ii. chap. li. p. 309) amongst the "Personal
Reminiscences, 1836," in which the Hon. Mr. Justice Coleridge virtually
decides the question of the identity of the two persons referred to, in
his record of a conversation with the poet. It is as follows:

  "October 10th.--I have passed a great many hours to-day with
  Wordsworth in his home. I stumbled on him with proof sheets before
  him. He read me nearly all the sweet stanzas written in his copy of
  the 'Castle of Indolence', describing himself and my uncle; and he and
  Mrs. W. both assured me the description of the latter at that time was
  perfectly accurate; and he was almost as a great boy in feelings, and
  had all the tricks and fancies there described. Mrs. W. seemed to look
  back on him, and those times, with the fondest affection."

I think "the neighbouring height" referred to is the height of White
Moss Common, behind the Fir-Grove, where Wordsworth was often heard
murmuring out his verses," booing" as the country folks said: and the

    'driving full in view
  At midday when the sun was shining bright,'

aptly describes his habits as recorded in his sister's Journal, and
elsewhere. The "withered flower," the "creature pale and wan," are
significant of those terrible reactions of spirit, which followed his
joyous hours of insight and inspiration. Stanzas IV. to VII. of
'Resolution and Independence' (p. 314), in which Wordsworth undoubtedly
described himself, may be compared with stanza III. of this poem. The
lines

  'Down would he sit; and without strength or power
  Look at the common grass from hour to hour,'

are aptly illustrated by such passages in his sister's Journal, as the
following, of 29th April 1802:

  "We went to John's Grove, sate a while at first; afterwards William
  lay, and I lay in the trench, under the fence--he with his eyes
  closed, and listening to the waterfalls and the birds. There was no
  one waterfall above another--it was a kind of water in the air--the
  voice of the air. We were unseen by one another."

Again, April 23rd,

  "Coleridge and I pushed on before. We left William sitting on the
  stones, feasting with silence."

And this recalls the first verse of 'Expostulation and Reply', written
at Alfoxden in 1798;

  'Why, William, on that old grey stone,
  Thus for the length of half a day,
  Why, William, sit you thus alone,
  And dream your time away?'

The retreat where "apple-trees in blossom made a bower," and where he so
often "slept himself away," was evidently the same as that described in
the poem 'The Green Linnet':

  'Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
  Their snow white blossoms on my head.'

On the other hand, the "low-hung lip" and "profound" forehead of the
other, the "noticeable Man with large grey eyes," mark him out as S. T.
C.; "the rapt One, of the god-like forehead," described in the
'Extempore Effusion upon the Death of James Hogg'. The description
"Noisy he was, and gamesome as a boy," is verified by what the poet and
his wife said to Mr. Justice Coleridge in 1836. In addition, Mr.
Hutchinson of Kimbolton tells me he "often heard his father say that
Coleridge was uproarious in his mirth."

Matthew Arnold wrote me an interesting letter some years ago about these
stanzas, from which I make the following extract:

  "When one looks uneasily at a poem it is easy to fidget oneself
  further, and neither the Wordsworth nor the Coleridge of our common
  notions seem to be exactly hit off in the 'Stanzas'; still, I believe
  that the first described is Wordsworth and that the second described
  is Coleridge. I have myself heard Wordsworth speak of his prolonged
  exhausting wanderings among the hills. Then Miss Fenwick's notes show
  that Coleridge is certainly one of the two personages of the poem, and
  there are points in the description of the second man which suit him
  very well. The 'profound forehead' is a touch akin to the 'god-like
  forehead' in the mention of Coleridge in a later poem.

  "I have a sort of recollection of having heard something about the
  'inventions rare,' and Coleridge is certain to have dabbled, at one
  time or other, in natural philosophy."

In 1796 Coleridge wrote to his friend Cottle from Nether Stowey:

  " ... I should not think of devoting less than 20 years to an Epic
  Poem: ten to collect materials and warm my mind with universal
  science. I would be a tolerable Mathematician, I would thoroughly know
  Mechanics, Hydrostatics, Optics, and Astronomy, Botany, Metallurgy,
  Fossilism, Chemistry, Geology, Anatomy, Medicine--then the 'mind of
  man'--then the 'minds of men'--in all Travels, Voyages, and Histories.
  So I would spend ten years--the next five to the composition of the
  poem--and the last five to the correction of it. So would I write,
  haply not unhearing of the divine and rightly whispering Voice," etc.

Mr. T. Hutchinson (Dublin) writes in 'The Athenaeum', Dec. 15, 1894:

  "I take it for granted these lines were written, not only on the
  fly-leaf of Wordsworth's copy of the 'Castle of Indolence', but also
  by way of Supplement to that poem; i. e. as an 'addendum' to the
  descriptive list of the denizens of the Castle given in stanzas
  LVII-LXIX of Canto I.; that, in short, they are meant to be read as
  though they were an after-thought of James Thomson's. Their author,
  therefore, has rightly imparted to them the curiously blended flavour
  of 'romantic melancholy and slippered mirth,' of dreamlike vagueness
  and smiling hyperbole, which forms the distinctive mark of Thomson's
  poem; and thus the Poet and the Philosopher-Friend of Wordsworth's
  stanzas, like Thomson's companion sketches of the splenetic Solitary,
  the 'bard more fat than bard beseems,' and the 'little, round, fat,
  oily Man of God,' are neither more nor less than gentle caricatures."

It has been suggested by Coleridge's grandson that Wordsworth was
describing S. T. C. in all the stanzas of this poem; that he drew two
separate pictures of him; in the first four stanzas a realistic
"character portrait," and in the last four a "companion picture,
figuring the outward semblance of Coleridge, but embodying
characteristics drawn from a third person"; so that we have a "fancy
sketch" mixed up with a real one. I cannot agree with this.  The
evidence against it is

  (1) Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal;
  (2) the poet's and his wife's remarks to Mr. Justice Coleridge;
  (3) the fact that Wordsworth was not in the habit of "passing from
  realism into artistic composition," except where he distinctly
  indicated it, as in the case of the Hawkshead Schoolmaster, in the
  "Matthew" poems.  Such composite or conglomerate work was quite
  foreign to Wordsworth's genius.

Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE


Begun May 3, finished July 4, 1802.--Published 1807


[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. This old man I met a few hundred yards
from my cottage; and the account of him is taken from his own mouth. I
was in the state of feeling described in the beginning of the poem,
while crossing over Barton Fell from Mr. Clarkson's, at the foot of
Ullswater, towards Askham. The image of the hare I then observed on the
ridge of the Fell.--I.F.]

This poem was known in the Wordsworth household as "The Leech-Gatherer,"
although it never received that name in print. An entry in Dorothy
Wordsworth's Journal of Friday, 3rd October 1800, may preface what she
wrote in 1802 about the composition of the poem.

  "When William and I returned from accompanying Jones, we met an old
  man almost double. He had on a coat thrown over his shoulders above
  his waistcoat and coat. Under this he carried a bundle, and had an
  apron on, and a night-cap. His face was interesting. He had dark eyes,
  and a long nose. John, who afterwards met him at Wytheburn, took him
  for a Jew. He was of Scotch parents, but had been born in the army. He
  had had a wife, 'and a good woman, and it pleased God to bless him
  with ten children.' All these were dead but one, of whom he had not
  heard for many years, a sailor. His trade was to gather leeches; but
  now leeches were scarce, and he had not strength for it. He lived by
  begging, and was making his way to Carlisle where he would buy a few
  books to sell. He said leeches were very scarce, partly owing to this
  dry season; but many years they had been scarce. He supposed it was
  owing to their being much sought after; that they did not breed fast;
  and were of slow growth. Leeches were formerly 2s. 6d. the 100; now
  they were 30s. He had been hurt in driving a cart, his leg broken, his
  body driven over, his skull fractured. He felt no pain till he
  recovered from his first insensibility. It was late in the evening,
  when the light was just going away."

It is most likely that this walk of William and Dorothy Wordsworth
"accompanying Jones," was on the day of Jones's departure from Dove
Cottage, viz. 26th September.

The Journal continues:

  "Tuesday, 4th May, 1802.--Though William went to bed nervous and jaded
  in the extreme, he rose refreshed. I wrote out 'The Leech-Gatherer'
  for him, which he had begun the night before, and of which he wrote
  several stanzas in bed this morning...."

  (They started to walk up the Raise to Wytheburn.)

  "It was very hot; we rested several times by the way, read, and
  repeated 'The Leech-Gatherer.'"

  "Friday, 7th May.--William had slept uncommonly well, so, feeling
  himself strong, he fell to work at 'The Leech-Gatherer'; he wrote hard
  at it till dinner time, then he gave over, tired to death--he had
  finished the poem."

  "Sunday morning, 9th May.--William worked at 'The Leech-Gatherer'
  almost incessantly from morning till tea-time. I copied 'The
  Leech-Gatherer' and other poems for Coleridge. I was oppressed and
  sick at heart, for he wearied himself to death."

  "Sunday, 4th July.--... William finished 'The Leech-Gatherer' to-day."

  "Monday, 5th July.--I copied out 'The Leech-Gatherer' for Coleridge,
  and for us."

From these extracts it is clear that Dorothy Wordsworth considered the
poem as "finished" on the 7th of May, and on the 9th she sent a copy to
Coleridge; but that it was not till the 4th of July that it was really
finished, and then a second copy was forwarded to Coleridge. It is
impossible to say from which of the two MSS. sent to him Coleridge
transcribed the copy which he forwarded to Sir George Beaumont. From
that copy of a copy (which is now amongst the Beaumont MSS. at
Coleorton) the various readings given, on Coleridge's authority, in the
notes to the poem, were obtained some years ago.

The Fenwick note to the poem illustrates Wordsworth's habit of blending
in one description details which were originally separate, both as to
time and place. The scenery and the incidents of the poem are alike
composite. As he tells us that he met the leech-gatherer a few hundred
yards from Dove Cottage, the "lonely place" with its "pool, bare to the
eye of heaven," at once suggests White Moss Common and its small tarn;
but he adds that, in the opening stanzas of the poem, he is describing a
state of feeling he was in, when crossing the fells at the foot of
Ullswater to Askam, and that the image of the hare "running races in her
mirth," with the glittering mist accompanying her, was observed by him,
not on White Moss Common, but in one of the ridges of Moor Divock. To H.
C. Robinson he said of the "Leech-Gatherer" (Sept. 10, 1816), that "he
gave to his poetic character powers of mind which his original did not
possess." (Robinson's 'Diary', etc., vol. ii. p. 24.)

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




  I        There was a roaring in the wind all night;
           The rain came heavily and fell in floods;
           But now the sun is rising calm and bright;
           The birds are singing in the distant woods;
           Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;             5
           The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;
           And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.

  II       All things that love the sun are out of doors;
           The sky rejoices in the morning's birth;
           The grass is bright with rain-drops;--on the moors         10
           The hare is running races in her mirth;
           And with her feet she from the plashy earth
           Raises a mist; that, [1] glittering in the sun,
           Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.

  III      I was a Traveller then upon the moor;                      15
           I saw the hare that raced about with joy;
           I heard the woods and distant waters roar;
           Or heard them not, as happy as a boy:
           The pleasant season did my heart employ:
           My old remembrances went from me wholly;                   20
           And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy.

  IV       But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might
           Of joy in minds that can no further go,
           As high as we have mounted in delight
           In our dejection do we sink as low;                        25
           To me that morning did it happen so;
           And fears and fancies thick upon me came;
           Dim sadness--and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could name.

  V        I heard the sky-lark warbling [2] in the sky;
           And I bethought me of the playful hare:                    30
           Even such a happy Child of earth am I;
           Even as these blissful [3] creatures do I fare;
           Far from the world I walk, and from all care;
           But there may come another day to me--
           Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.            35

  VI       My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,
           As if life's business were a summer mood;
           As if all needful things would come unsought
           To genial faith, still rich in genial good; [4]
           But how can He expect that others should                   40
           Build for him, sow for him, and at his call
           Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all? [A]

  VII      I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy,
           The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride; [5]
           Of Him who walked in glory and in joy                      45
           Following his plough, along the mountain-side: [6]
           By our own spirits are we deified:
           We Poets in our youth begin in gladness;
           But thereof come [7] in the end despondency and madness.

  VIII     Now, whether it were [8] by peculiar grace,                50
           A leading from above, a something given,
           Yet it befel, that, in this [9] lonely place,
           When I with these untoward thoughts had striven,
           Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven [10]
           I saw [11] a Man before me unawares:                       55
           The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
           [12]

  IX       As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie
           Couched on the bald top of an eminence;
           Wonder to all who [13] do the same espy,
           By what means it could thither come, and whence;           60
           So that it seems a thing endued with sense:
           Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that [14] on a shelf
           Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself;

  X        Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead,
           Nor all asleep--in his extreme old age:                    65
           His body was bent double, feet and head
           Coming together in life's pilgrimage; [15]
           As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage
           Of sickness felt by him in times long past,
           A more than human weight upon his frame [16] had cast.     70

  XI       Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face, [17]
           Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood:
           And, still as I drew near with gentle pace,
           Upon the margin of that moorish flood [18]
           Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood,                   75
           That heareth not the loud winds when they call;
           And moveth all together, if it move [19] at all.
           [20]


  XII      At length, himself unsettling, he the pond
           Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look
           Upon the muddy water, which he conned,                     80
           As if he had been reading in a book:
           And now a stranger's privilege I took; [21]
           And, drawing to his side, to him did say,
           "This morning gives us promise of a glorious day."

  XIII     A gentle answer did the old Man make,                      85
           In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew:
           And him with further words I thus bespake,
           "What occupation do you there pursue? [22
           This is a lonesome place for one like [23] you."
           Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise                   90
           Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes. [24] [B]

  XIV      His words came feebly, from a feeble chest,
           But [25] each in solemn order followed each,
           With something of a lofty [26] utterance drest--
           Choice word [27] and measured phrase, above [27] the reach 95
           Of ordinary men; a stately speech;
           Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use,
           Religious men, who give to God and man their dues.

  XV       He told, that to these waters he had come [28]
           To gather leeches, being old and poor:                    100
           Employment hazardous and wearisome!
           And he had many hardships to endure: [29]
           From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor;
           Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance;
           And in this way he gained an honest maintenance.          105

  XVI      The old Man still stood talking by my side;
           But now [30] his voice to me was like a stream
           Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide;
           And the whole body of the Man did seem
           Like one whom I had met with in a dream;                  110
           Or like a man from some far region sent,
           To give me human strength, by apt admonishment. [31]

  XVII     My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills;
           And [32] hope that is unwilling to be fed;
           Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills;             115
           And mighty Poets in their misery dead.
--Perplexed, and longing to be comforted, [33]
           My question eagerly did I renew,
           "How is it that you live, and what is it you do?" [34]

  XVIII    He with a smile did then his words repeat;                120
           And said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide
           He travelled; stirring thus about his feet
           The waters of the pools where they abide. [35]
           "Once I could meet with them on every side;
           But they have dwindled long by slow decay;                125
           Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may." [36]

  XIX      While he was talking thus, the lonely place,
           The old Man's shape, and speech--all troubled me:
           In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace
           About the weary moors continually,                        130
           Wandering about alone and silently.
           While I these thoughts within myself pursued,
           He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed.

  XX       And soon [37] with this he other matter blended,
           Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind,                  135
           But stately in the main; and when he ended, [38]
           I could have laughed myself to scorn to find
           In that decrepit Man so firm a mind.
           "God," said I, "be my help and stay secure;
           I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!"     140


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827.

  ... which, ...    1807.

And in MS. letter from Coleridge to Sir George Beaumont, 1802.[i]]



[Variant 2:

1820.

  ... singing ...     1807.

And MS. 1802.]


[Variant 3:

1807.

  ... happy ...       MS. 1802.]


[Variant 4:

1807.

  And they who lived in genial faith found nought
  that grew more willingly than genial good;      MS. 1802.]


[Variant 5:

1815.

  ... who perished in his pride;        MS. 1802.

  ... that perished in its pride;           1807.]


[Variant 6:

1820.

  Behind his plough, upon the mountain-side: 1807.

And MS. 1802.]


[Variant 7:

1836.

  ... comes ...     1807.

And MS. 1802.]


[Variant 8:

1807.

  ... was ...       MS. 1802.]


[Variant 9:

1807.

  ... that ...      MS. 1802.]


[Variant 10:

1820.

  When up and down my fancy thus was driven,
  And I with these untoward thoughts had striven,      1807.

And MS. 1802.]


[Variant 11:

1807.

  I spied ...       MS. 1802.]


[Variant 12:

  My course I stopped as soon as I espied
  The Old Man in that naked wilderness:
  Close by a Pond, upon the further side, [i]
  He stood alone: a minute's space I guess
  I watch'd him, he continuing motionless:
  To the Pool's further margin then I drew;
  He being all the while before me full in view. [ii]       1807.

This stanza, which appeared in the editions of 1807 and 1815, was, on
Coleridge's advice, omitted from subsequent ones.]


[Variant 13:

1807.

  ... that ...      MS. 1802.]


[Variant 14:

1820.

  ... which ...      1807.

And MS. 1802.]


[Variant 15:

1820.

  ... in their pilgrimage     1807.

And MS. 1802.]


[Variant 16:

1807.

  ... his age ...      MS. 1802.]


[Variant 17:

1836.

  Himself he propp'd, both body, limbs, and face,      MS. 1802.

  ... his body, ...                                        1807.]


[Variant 18:

1820.

  Beside the little pond or moorish flood      1807.

And MS. 1802.]


[Variant 19.

1807.


  ... moves . . MS. 1802.]


[Variant 20.

  He wore a Cloak the same as women wear
  As one whose blood did needful comfort lack;
  His face look'd pale as if it had grown fair;
  And, furthermore he had upon his back,
  Beneath his cloak, a round and bulky Pack;
  A load of wool or raiment as might seem.
  That on his shoulders lay as if it clave to him.

This stanza appeared only in MS. 1802.]


[Variant 21.

1820.

  And now such freedom as I could I took;        1807.

And Ms. 1802.]


[Variant 22.

1820.

  "What kind of work is that which you pursue?    1807.

And MS. 1802.]


[Variant 23.

1807.

  ... for such as ... MS.]


[Variant 24.

1836.

  He answer'd me with pleasure and surprize;
  And there was, while he spake, a fire about his eyes.  1807.

And MS. 1802.

  He answered, while a flash of mild surprise
  Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes.       1820.]


[Variant 25.

1820.

  Yet ...    1807.

And MS. 1802.]


[Variant 26.

1807.

  ... pompous ...    MS. 1802.]


[Variant 27.

1807.

  ...words ...  MS.

  ...beyond ... MS. 1802.]


[Variant 28.

1827.

  He told me that he to the pond had come ...   MS. 1802.

  ....this pond ...                                 1807.]


[Variant 29.

1807.

  This was his calling, better far than some,
  Though he had ...... MS. 1802.]



[Variant 30:

1807.

  But soon ...      MS. 1802.]


[Variant 31:

1827.

  ... and strong admonishment.      1807.

  ... by strong admonishment.       1820.]


[Variant 32:

1815.

  The ...       1807.

And MS. 1802.]


[Variant 33:

1820.

  And now, not knowing what the Old Man had said,       1807.

And MS. 1802.

  But now, perplex'd by what the Old Man had said,      1815.]


[Variant 34.

1807.

  ... live? what is it that you do?"       MS. 1802.]


[Variant 35:

1827.

  And said, that wheresoe'er they might be spied
  He gather'd Leeches, stirring at his feet
  The waters in the Ponds ...      MS. 1802.

  And said, that, gathering Leeches, far and wide
  He travelled; stirring thus about his feet
  The waters of the Ponds ...          1807.]


[Variant 36:

1807.

  Once he could meet with them on every side;
  But fewer they became from day to day,
  And so his means of life before him died away.      MS. 1802.]


[Variant 37:

1807.

  And now ...       MS. 1802.]


[Variant 38:

1807.

  Which he delivered with demeanour kind,
  Yet stately ...       MS. 1802.]


       *       *       *       *       *

SUB-VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Sub-Variant i:

  ... hither side,      MS. 1802.]


[Sub-Variant ii:

  He all the while before me being full in view.      MS. 1802.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Some have thought that Wordsworth had S.T.C. in his mind,
in writing this stanza. I cannot agree with this. The value and interest
of the poem would be lessened by our imagining that Wordsworth's heart
never failed him; and that, when he appears to moralise at his own
expense, he was doing so at Coleridge's. Besides, the date of this poem,
taken in connection with entries in the Grasmere Journal of Dorothy
Wordsworth, makes it all but certain that Coleridge was not referred
to.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare in 'The Matron of Jedborough and her Husband', p.
417, ll. 66-69:

  'Some inward trouble suddenly
  Broke from the Matron's strong black eye--
  A remnant of uneasy light,
  A flash of something over-bright!'

Ed.]


       *       *       *       *       *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Sub-Footnote i: Additional variants obtained from this source are
inserted as "MS. 1802."--Ed.]


The late Bishop of Lincoln, in the 'Memoirs' of his uncle (vol. i. pp.
172, 173), quotes from a letter, written by Wordsworth "to some friends,
which has much interest as bearing on this poem. [C] The following are
extracts from it:

  "It is not a matter of indifference whether you are pleased with his
  figure and employment, it may be comparatively whether you are pleased
  with _this Poem_; but it is of the utmost importance that you should
  have had pleasure in contemplating the fortitude, independence,
  persevering spirit, and the general moral dignity of this old man's
  character." Again, "I will explain to you, in prose, my feelings in
  writing _that_ poem.... I describe myself as having been exalted to
  the highest pitch of delight by the joyousness and beauty of nature;
  and then as depressed, even in the midst of those beautiful objects,
  to the lowest dejection and despair. A young poet in the midst of the
  happiness of nature is described as overwhelmed by the thoughts of the
  miserable reverses which have befallen the happiest of all men, viz.
  poets. I think of this till I am so deeply impressed with it, that I
  consider the manner in which I was rescued from my dejection and
  despair almost as an interposition of Providence. A person reading the
  poem with feelings like mine will have been awed and controlled,
  expecting something spiritual or supernatural. What is brought
  forward? A lonely place, 'a pond, by which an old man _was_, far from
  all house or home:' not _stood_, nor _sat_, but _was_--the figure
  presented in the most naked simplicity possible. This feeling of
  spirituality or supernaturalness is again referred to as being strong
  in my mind in this passage. How came he here? thought I, or what can
  he be doing? I then describe him, whether ill or well is not for me to
  judge with perfect confidence; but this I _can_ confidently affirm,
  that though I believe God has given me a strong imagination, I cannot
  conceive a figure more impressive than that of an old man like this,
  the survivor of a wife and ten children, travelling alone among the
  mountains and all lonely places, carrying with him his own fortitude
  and the necessities which an unjust state of society has laid upon
  him. You speak of his speech as tedious. Every thing is tedious when
  one does not read with the feelings of the author. 'The Thorn' is
  tedious to hundreds; and so is 'The Idiot Boy' to hundreds. It is in
  the character of the old man to tell his story, which an impatient
  reader must feel tedious. But, good heavens! such a figure, in such a
  place; a pious, self-respecting, miserably infirm and pleased old man
  telling such a tale!"

Ed.


[Footnote A: It is unfortunate that in this, as in many other similar
occasions in these delightful volumes by the poet's nephew, the
reticence as to names--warrantable perhaps in 1851, so soon after the
poet's death--has now deprived the world of every means of knowing to
whom many of Wordsworth's letters were addressed. Professor Dowden asks
about it--and very naturally:

  "Was it the letter to Mary and Sara" (Hutchinson) "about 'The
  Leech-Gatherer,' mentioned in Dorothy's Journal of 14th June
  1802?"

Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





"I GRIEVED FOR BUONAPARTE"


Composed May 21, 1802.--Published 1807 [A]


[In the cottage of Town-end, 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 Shakespeare'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, etc.'; one of the others was
never written down; the third, which was I believe preserved, I cannot
particularise.--I.F.]

One of the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty," afterwards called "Poems
dedicated to National Independence and Liberty." From the edition of
1815 onwards, it bore the title '1801'.--Ed.




  I grieved for Buonaparte, with a vain
  And an unthinking grief! The tenderest mood [1]
  Of that Man's mind--what can it be? what food
  Fed his first hopes? what knowledge could _he_ gain?
  'Tis not in battles that from youth we train                  5
  The Governor who must be wise and good,
  And temper with the sternness of the brain
  Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
  Wisdom doth live with children round her knees:
  Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk                10
  Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk
  Of the mind's business: these are the degrees
  By which true Sway doth mount; this is the stalk
  True Power doth grow on; and her rights are these.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1837.

                  ... grief! the vital blood
  Of that man's mind, what can it be? What food
  Fed his first hopes? what knowledge could he gain?     1802.

                  ... grief! for, who aspires
  To genuine greatness but from just desires,
  And knowledge such as _He_ could never gain?           1815.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: It had twice seen the light previously in 'The Morning
Post', first on September 16, 1802, unsigned, and again on January 29,
1803, when it was signed W. L. D.--Ed.]


Wordsworth's date 1801, in the Fenwick note, should have been 1802. His
sister writes, in her Journal of 1802:

  "May 21.--W. wrote two sonnets on Buonaparte, after I had read
  Milton's sonnets to him."

The "irregular" sonnet, written "at school," to which Wordsworth refers,
is probably the one published in the 'European Magazine' in 1787, vol.
xi. p. 202, and signed Axiologus.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





A FAREWELL


Composed May 29, 1802.--Published 1815


[Composed just before my Sister and I went to fetch Mrs. Wordsworth from
Gallow-hill, near Scarborough.--I.F.]

This was one of the "Poems founded on the Affections." It was published
in 1815 and in 1820 without a title, but with the sub-title 'Composed in
the Year 1802'. In 1827 and 1832 it was called 'A Farewell', to which
the sub-title was added. The sub-title was omitted in 1836, and
afterwards.--Ed.




  Farewell, thou little Nook of mountain-ground,
  Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair
  Of that magnificent temple which doth bound
  One side of our whole vale with grandeur rare;
  Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair,                            5
  The loveliest spot that man hath ever found,
  Farewell!--we leave thee to Heaven's peaceful care,
  Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost surround.

  Our boat is safely anchored by the shore,
  And there will safely ride [1] when we are gone;                10
  The flowering shrubs that deck our humble door [2]
  Will prosper, though untended and alone:
  Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have none:
  These narrow bounds contain our private store
  Of things earth makes, and sun doth shine upon;                 15
  Here are they in our sight--we have no more.

  Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell!
  For two months now in vain we shall be sought;
  We leave you here in solitude to dwell
  With these our latest gifts of tender thought;                  20
  Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat,
  Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, farewell!
  Whom from the borders of the Lake we brought,
  And placed together near our rocky Well.

  We go for One to whom ye will be dear;                          25
  And she will prize this Bower, this Indian shed,
  Our own contrivance, Building without peer!
--A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred,
  Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered,
  With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer,                   30
  Will come [3] to you; to you herself will wed;
  And love the blessed life that [4] we lead here.

  Dear Spot! which we have watched with tender heed,
  Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown
  Among the distant mountains, flower and weed,                   35
  Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own.
  Making all kindness registered and known;
  Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child indeed,
  Fair in thyself and beautiful alone,
  Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need.                   40

  And O most constant, yet most fickle Place,
  That hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost show
  To them who look not daily on [5] thy face;
  Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know,
  And say'st, when we forsake thee, "Let them go!"                45
  Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race
  Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow,
  And travel with the year at a soft pace.

  Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by,
  And this sweet spring, the best beloved and best;               50
  Joy will be flown in its mortality;
  Something must stay to tell us of the rest.
  Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breast
  Glittered at evening like a starry sky;
  And in this bush our sparrow built her nest,                    55
  Of which I sang [6] one song that will not die. [A]

  O happy Garden! whose seclusion deep
  Hath been so friendly to industrious hours;
  And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep
  Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers,              60
  And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers;
  Two burning months let summer overleap,
  And, coming back with Her who will be ours,
  Into thy bosom we again shall creep.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1836.

  And safely she will ride ...      1815.

  ... will she ...                  1832.]


[Variant 2:

1836.

  ... that decorate our door      1815.]


[Variant 3:

1820.

  She'll come ...       1815.]


[Variant 4:

1827.

  ... which ...      1815]


[Variant 5:

1827.

  ... in ...       1815.]


[Variant 6:

1832.

  ... sung ...       1815.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: See 'The Sparrow's Nest', p. 236.--Ed.]


  "May 29.--William finished his poem on going for Mary. I wrote it out.
  A sweet day. We nailed up the honeysuckle and hoed the scarlet beans."

She added on the 31st,

  "I wrote out the poem on our departure, which he seemed to have
  finished;"

and on June 13th,

  "William has been altering the poem to Mary this morning."

The "little Nook of mountain-ground" is in much the same condition now,
as it was in 1802. The "flowering shrubs" and the "rocky well" still
exist, and "the steep rock's breast" is "thronged with primroses" in
spring. The "bower" is gone; but, where it used to be, a seat is now
erected.

The Dove Cottage orchard is excellently characterised in Mr. Stopford
Brooke's pamphlet describing it (1890). See also 'The Green Linnet', p.
367, with the note appended to it, and Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere
Journal, _passim_.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





"THE SUN HAS LONG BEEN SET"


Composed June 8, 1802.--Published 1807


[This _Impromptu_ appeared, many years ago, among the Author's poems,
from which, in subsequent editions, it was excluded. [A] It is
reprinted, at the request of the Friend in whose presence the lines were
thrown off.--I.F.]

One of the "Evening Voluntaries."--Ed.




  The sun has long been set,
    The stars are out by twos and threes,
  The little birds are piping yet
  Among the bushes and trees; [1]
  There's a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes,                  5
  And a far-off wind that rushes,
  And a sound of water that gushes, [2]
  And the cuckoo's sovereign cry
  Fills all the hollow of the sky.

  Who would go "parading"                                    10
  In London, "and masquerading," [B]
  On such a night of June
  With that beautiful soft half-moon,
  And all these innocent blisses?
  On such a night as this is!                                15


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1807.

  ... and the trees;      1836.

The edition of 1837 returns to the text of 1807.]


[Variant 2:

1835.

  And a noise of wind that rushes,
  With a noise of water that gushes;      1807.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: It appeared in 1807 as No. II. of "Moods of my own Mind,"
and not again till the publication of "Yarrow Revisited" in 1835.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare:

  'At operas and plays parading,
  Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading.'

Burns, 'The Two Dogs, a Tale', II. 124-5.--Ed.]


  "June 8th (1802).--After tea William came out and walked, and wrote
  that poem, 'The sun has long been set,' etc. He walked on our own
  path, and wrote the lines; he called me into the orchard and there
  repeated them to me."

(Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal.) The "Friend in whose presence the lines
were thrown off," was his sister.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPTEMBER 3, 1802


Composed July 31, 1802.--Published 1807


[Written on the roof of a coach, on my way to France.--I.F.]

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



  Earth has not any thing to show more fair:
  Dull would he be of soul [1] who could pass by
  A sight so touching in its majesty:
  This City now doth, like a garment, wear
  The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,                         5
  Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
  Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
  All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
  Never did sun more beautifully steep
  In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;                  10
  Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
  The river glideth at his own sweet will:
  Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
  And all that mighty heart is lying still!


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1807.

  ... heart ...      MS.]



The date which Wordsworth gave to this sonnet on its first publication
in 1807, viz. September 3, 1803,--and which he retained in all
subsequent editions of his works till 1836,--is inaccurate. He left
London for Dover, on his way to Calais, on the 31st of July 1802. The
sonnet was written that morning as he travelled towards Dover. The
following record of the journey is preserved in his sister's Journal:

  "July 30. [A]--Left London between five and six o'clock of the morning
  outside the Dover coach. A beautiful morning. The city, St. Paul's,
  with the river--a multitude of little boats, made a beautiful sight as
  we crossed _Westminster Bridge_; the houses not overhung by their
  clouds of smoke, and were hung out endlessly; yet the sun shone so
  brightly, with such a pure light, that there was something like the
  purity of one of Nature's own grand spectacles."

This sonnet underwent no change in successive editions.

In illustration of it, an anecdote of the late Bishop of St. David's may
be given, as reported by Lord Coleridge.

  "In the great debate on the abolition of the Irish Establishment in
  1869, the Bishop of St. David's, Dr. Thirlwall, had made a very
  remarkable speech, and had been kept till past daybreak in the House
  of Lords, before the division was over, and he was able to walk home.
  He was then an old man, and in failing health. Some time after, he was
  asked whether he had not run some risk to his health, and whether he
  did not feel much exhausted. 'Yes,' he said, 'perhaps so; but I was
  more than repaid by walking out upon Westminster Bridge after the
  division, seeing London in the morning light as Wordsworth saw it, and
  repeating to myself his noble sonnet as I walked home.'"

This anecdote was told to the Wordsworth Society, at its meeting on the
3rd of May 1882, after a letter had been read by the Secretary, from Mr.
Robert Spence Watson, recording the following similar experience:

  "... As confirming the perfect truth of Wordsworth's description of
  the external aspects of a scene, and the way in which he reached its
  inmost soul, I may tell you what happened to me, and may have happened
  to many others. Many years ago, I think it was in 1859, I chanced to
  be passing (in a pained and depressed state of mind, occasioned by the
  death of a friend) over Waterloo Bridge at half-past three on a lovely
  June morning. It was broad daylight, and I was alone. Never when alone
  in the remotest recesses of the Alps, with nothing around me but the
  mountains, or upon the plains of Africa, alone with the wonderful
  glory of the southern night, have I seen anything to approach the
  solemnity--the soothing solemnity--of the city, sleeping under the
  early sun:

    'Earth has not any thing to show more fair.'

  "How simply, yet how perfectly, Wordsworth has interpreted it! It was
  a happy thing for us that the Dover coach left at so untimely an hour.
  It was this sonnet, I think, that first opened my eyes to Wordsworth's
  greatness as a poet. Perhaps nothing that he has written shows more
  strikingly the vast sympathy which is his peculiar dower."

Ed.

[Footnote A: This is an error of date. Saturday, the day of their
departure from London, was the 31st of July.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802


Composed August, 1802.--Published 1807


One of the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty"; re-named in 1845, "Poems
dedicated to National Independence and Liberty."--Ed.




  Fair Star of evening, Splendour of the west,
  Star of my Country!--on the horizon's brink
  Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink
  On England's bosom; yet well pleased to rest,
  Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest                        5
  Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think,
  Should'st be my Country's emblem; and should'st wink,
  Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest
  In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot
  Beneath thee, that is England; there she lies. [1]              10
  Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot,
  One life, one glory!--I, with many a fear
  For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs,
  Among men who do not love her, linger here.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1837.

  ... it is England; there it lies.      1807.]


This sonnet, and the seven that follow it, were written during
Wordsworth's residence at Calais, in the month of August, 1802. The
following extract from his sister's Journal illustrates it:

  "We arrived at _Calais_ at four o'clock on Sunday morning the 31st of
  July. We had delightful walks after the heat of the day was
  passed--seeing far off in the west the coast of England, like a cloud,
  crested with Dover Castle, the evening Star, and the glory of the sky;
  the reflections in the water were more beautiful than the sky itself;
  purple waves brighter than precious stones, for ever melting away upon
  the sands."

Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802


Composed August 7, 1802--Published 1807 [A]


One of the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty"; re-named in 1845, "Poems
dedicated to National Independence and Liberty."--Ed.




  Is it a reed that's shaken by the wind,
  Or what is it that ye go forth to see?
  Lords, lawyers, statesmen, squires of low degree,
  Men known, and men unknown, sick, lame, and blind,
  Post forward all, like creatures of one kind,                     5
  With first-fruit offerings crowd to bend the knee
  In France, before the new-born Majesty.
  'Tis ever thus. Ye men of prostrate mind, [1]
  A seemly reverence may be paid to power;
  But that's a loyal virtue, never sown                            10
  In haste, nor springing with a transient shower:
  When truth, when sense, when liberty were flown,
  What hardship had it been to wait an hour?
  Shame on you, feeble Heads, to slavery prone!


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1807.

  Thus fares it ever. Men of prostrate mind!      1803.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: This sonnet was first published in 'The Morning Post', Jan.
29, 1803, under the signature W. L. D., along with the one beginning, "I
grieved for Buonaparte, with a vain," and was afterwards printed in the
1807 edition of the Poems. Mr. T. Hutchinson (Dublin) suggests that the
W. L. D. stood either for _Wordsworthius Libertatis Defensor_, or (more
likely) _Wordsworthii Libertati Dedicatunt_ (carmen).--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





COMPOSED NEAR CALAIS, ON THE ROAD LEADING TO ARDRES, AUGUST 7, 1802 [A]


Composed August, 1802.--Published 1807


One of the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty"; re-named in 1845, "Poems
dedicated to National Independence and Liberty."--Ed.




  Jones! as [1] from Calais southward you and I
  Went pacing side by side, this public Way
  Streamed with the pomp of a too-credulous day, [B]
  When faith was pledged to new-born Liberty: [2]
  A homeless sound of joy was in the sky:                          5
  From hour to hour the antiquated Earth, [3]
  Beat like the heart of Man: songs, garlands, mirth, [4]
  Banners, and happy faces, far and nigh!
  And now, sole register that these things were,
  Two solitary greetings have I heard,                            10
  "_Good morrow, Citizen!_" a hollow word,
  As if a dead man spake it! Yet despair
  Touches me not, though pensive as a bird
  Whose vernal coverts winter hath laid bare. [5]


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1837.

  ... when ...       1807.

  ... while ...      1820.]


[Variant 2:

1837.

  Travell'd on foot together; then this Way,
  Which I am pacing now, was like the May
  With festivals of new-born Liberty:              1807.

  Where I am walking now ...                         MS.

  Urged our accordant steps, this public Way
  Streamed with the pomp of a too-credulous day,
  When faith was pledged to new-born Liberty:      1820.]


[Variant 3:

1845.

  The antiquated Earth, as one might say,      1807.

  The antiquated Earth, hopeful and gay,       1837.]


[Variant 4:

1845.

  ... garlands, play,      1807.]


[Variant 5:

1827.

  I feel not: happy am I as a Bird:
  Fair seasons yet will come, and hopes as fair.      1807.

  I feel not: jocund as a warbling Bird;              1820.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: In the editions of 1807 to 1837 this is a sub-title, the
chief title being 'To a Friend'. In the editions of 1840-1843, the chief
title is retained in the Table of Contents, but is erased in the
text.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: 14th July 1790.--W. W. 1820.]


This sonnet, originally entitled 'To a Friend, composed near Calais, on
the Road leading to Ardres, August 7th, 1802', was addressed to Robert
Jones, of Plas-yn-llan, near Ruthin, Denbighshire, a brother collegian
at Cambridge, and afterwards a fellow of St. John's College, and
incumbent of Soulderne, near Deddington, in Oxfordshire. It was to him
that Wordsworth dedicated his 'Descriptive Sketches', which record their
wanderings together in Switzerland; and it is to the pedestrian tour,
undertaken by the two friends in the long vacation of 1790, that he
refers in the above sonnet. The character of Jones is sketched in the
poem written in 1800, beginning:

    'I marvel how Nature could ever find space,' [A]

and his parsonage in Oxfordshire is described in the sonnet--

    'Where holy ground begins, unhallowed ends,
    Is marked by no distinguishable line.'

The following note on Jones was appended to the edition of
1837:

  "This excellent Person, one of my earliest and dearest friends, died
  in the year 1835. We were under-graduates together of the same year,
  at the same college; and companions in many a delightful ramble
  through his own romantic Country of North Wales. Much of the latter
  part of his life he passed in comparative solitude; which I know was
  often cheered by remembrance of our youthful adventures, and of the
  beautiful regions which, at home and abroad, we had visited together.
  Our long friendship was never subject to a moment's
  interruption,--and, while revising these volumes for the last time, I
  have been so often reminded of my loss, with a not unpleasing sadness,
  that I trust the Reader will excuse this passing mention of a Man who
  well deserves from me something more than so brief a notice. Let me
  only add, that during the middle part of his life he resided many
  years (as Incumbent of the Living) at a Parsonage in Oxfordshire,
  which is the subject of one of the 'Miscellaneous Sonnets.'"

Ed.


[Footnote A: See p. 208 ['A Character'].--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





CALAIS, AUGUST 15, 1802


Composed August 15, 1802.--Published 1807 [A]


One of the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty"; re-named in 1845, "Poems
dedicated to National Independence and Liberty."--Ed.



  Festivals have I seen that were not names:
  This is young Buonaparte's natal day,
  And his is henceforth an established sway--
  Consul for life. With worship France proclaims
  Her approbation, and with pomps and games.                      5
  Heaven grant that other Cities may be gay!
  Calais is not: and I have bent my way
  To the [1] sea-coast, noting that each man frames
  His business as he likes. Far other show
  My youth here witnessed, in a prouder time; [2]                10
  The senselessness of joy was then sublime!
  Happy is he, who, caring not for Pope,
  Consul, or King, can sound himself to know
  The destiny of Man, and live in hope.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1807.

  ... this ...      1803.]


[Variant 2:

1827.

  ... Another time
  That was, when I was here twelve years ago.      1803.

  ... long years ago:                              1807.

  ... Far different time
  That was, which here I witnessed, long ago;      1820.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: It had appeared in 'The Morning Post', February 26, 1803,
under the initials W. L. D.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





"IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM AND FREE"


Composed August, 1802.--Published 1807


[This was composed on the beach near Calais, in the autumn of 1802.--I.
F.]

One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets." In 1807 it was No. 19 of that
series.--Ed.




  It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, [1]
  The holy time is quiet as a Nun
  Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
  Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
  The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea: [2]                5
  Listen! [3] the mighty Being is awake,
  And doth with his eternal motion make
  A sound like thunder--everlastingly.
  Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here, [A]
  If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, [4]                 10
  Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
  Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;
  And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
  God being with thee when we know it not. [B]


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1807.

  Air sleeps,--from strife or stir the clouds are free;     1837.

  A fairer face of evening cannot be;                       1840.

The text of 1845 returns to that of 1807.]


[Variant 2:

1837.

  ... is on the Sea:     1807.]


[Variant 3:

1807.

  But list! ...     1837.

The text of 1840 returns to that of 1807.]


[Variant 4:

1845.

  Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
  If thou appear'st untouch'd by solemn thought,        1807.

  Dear Child! dear happy Girl! if thou appear
  Heedless--untouched with awe or serious thought,      1837.

  Heedless-unawed, untouched with serious thought,      1838.

The text of 1840 returns to that of 1807.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: I thought, for some time, that the "girl" referred to was
Dorothy Wordsworth. Her brother used to speak, and to write, of her
under many names, "Emily," "Louisa," etc.; and to call her a "child" in
1802--a "child of Nature" she was to the end of her days--or a "girl,"
seemed quite natural. However, a more probable suggestion was made by
Mr. T. Hutchinson to Professor Dowden, that it refers to the girl
Caroline mentioned in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal.

  "We arrived at Calais at four o'clock on Sunday morning, the 3rd of
  July.... We found out Annette and C., chez Madame Avril dans la rue de
  la Tete d'or. The weather was very hot. We walked by the shore almost
  every evening with Annette and Caroline, or William and I alone.... It
  was beautiful on the calm hot night to see the little boats row out of
  harbour with wings of fire, and the sail-boats with the fiery track
  which they cut as they went along, and which closed up after them with
  a hundred thousand sparkles and streams of glowworm light. Caroline
  was delighted."

I have been unable to discover who Annette and Caroline were. Dorothy
Wordsworth frequently records in her Grasmere Journal that either
William, or she, "wrote to Annette," but who she was is unknown to
either the Wordsworth or the Hutchinson family.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare:

  'The Child is father of the Man, etc.'

p. 292.

Also S. T. C. in 'The Friend', iii. p. 46:

  'The sacred light of childhood,'

and 'The Prelude', book v. l. 507.      Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC


Composed August, 1802.--Published 1807


This and the following ten sonnets were included among the "Sonnets
dedicated to Liberty"; re-named in 1845, "Poems dedicated to National
Independence and Liberty."--Ed.




  Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee;
  And was the safeguard of the west: the worth
  Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
  Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty.
  She was a maiden City, bright and free;                        5
  No guile seduced, no force could violate;
  And, when she took unto herself a Mate,
  She must espouse the everlasting Sea. [A]
  And what if she had seen those glories fade,
  Those titles vanish, and that strength decay;                 10
  Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
  When her long life hath reached its final day:
  Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade
  Of that which once was great, is passed away.


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare 'Childe Harold's Pilgrimage' (canto iv. II):

  'The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord.'

Ed.]


  "Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee."

The special glory of Venice dates from the conquest of Constantinople by
the Latins in 1202. The fourth Crusade--in which the French and
Venetians alone took part--started from Venice, in October 1202, under
the command of the Doge, Henry Dandolo. Its aim, however, was not the
recovery of Palestine, but the conquest of Constantinople. At the close
of the crusade, Venice received the Morea, part of Thessaly, the
Cyclades, many of the Byzantine cities, and the coasts of the
Hellespont, with three-eighths of the city of Constantinople itself, the
Doge taking the curious title of Duke of three-eighths of the Roman
Empire.

  "And was the safeguard of the west."

This may refer to the prominent part which Venice took in the Crusades,
or to the development of her naval power, which made her mistress of the
Mediterranean for many years, and an effective bulwark against invasions
from the East.

  "The eldest Child of Liberty."

The origin of the Venetian State was the flight of many of
the inhabitants of the mainland--on the invasion of Italy by
Attila--to the chain of islands that lie at the head of the
Adriatic.

  "In the midst of the waters, free, indigent, laborious, and
  inaccessible, they gradually coalesced into a republic: the first
  foundations of Venice were laid in the island of Rialto.... On the
  verge of the two empires the Venetians exult in the belief of
  primitive and perpetual independence."

Gibbon's 'Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire', chap. lx.

  "And, when she took unto herself a Mate,
  She must espouse the everlasting Sea."

In 1177, Pope Alexander III. appealed to the Venetian Republic for
protection against the German Emperor. The Venetians were successful in
a naval battle at Saboro, against Otho, the son of Frederick Barbarossa.
In return, the Pope presented the Doge Liani with a ring, with which he
told him to wed the Adriatic, that posterity might know that the sea was
subject to Venice, "as a bride is to her husband."

In September 1796, nearly six years before this sonnet was written, the
fate of the old Venetian Republic was sealed by the treaty of Campo
Formio. The French army under Napoleon had subdued Italy, and, having
crossed the Alps, threatened Vienna. To avert impending disaster, the
Emperor Francis arranged a treaty which extinguished the Venetian
Republic. He divided its territory between himself and Napoleon, Austria
retaining Istria, Dalmatia, and the left bank of the Adige in the
Venetian State, with the "maiden city" itself; France receiving the rest
of the territory and the Ionian Islands. Since the date of that treaty
the city has twice been annexed to Italy.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





THE KING OF SWEDEN


Composed August, 1802.--Published 1807



  The Voice of song from distant lands shall call
  To that great [1] King; shall hail the crowned Youth
  Who, taking counsel of unbending Truth,
  By one example hath set forth to all
  How they with dignity may stand; or fall,                         5
  If fall they must. Now, whither doth it tend?
  And what to him and his shall be the end?
  That thought is one which neither can appal
  Nor cheer him; for the illustrious Swede hath done
  The thing which ought to be; is raised _above_ [2]               10
  All consequences: work he hath begun
  Of fortitude, and piety, and love,
  Which all his glorious ancestors approve:
  The heroes bless him, him their rightful son.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1807.

  ... bold ...   In 1838 only.]


[Variant 2:

1845.

  ... He stands _above_    1807.]


The following is Wordsworth's note to this sonnet, added in 1837:

  "In this and a succeeding Sonnet on the same subject, 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 hereafter
  placed [A] in contrast with him, is the most melancholy evidence of
  degradation in British feeling and intellect which the times have
  furnished."

The king referred to is Gustavus IV., who was born in 1778, proclaimed
king in 1792, and died in 1837. His first public act after his accession
was to join in the coalition against Napoleon, and dislike of Napoleon
was the main-spring of his policy. It is to this that Wordsworth refers
in the sonnet:

  '... the illustrious Swede hath done
  The thing which ought to be ...'

It made him unpopular, however, and gave rise to a conspiracy against
him, and to his consequent abdication in 1809. He "died forgotten and in
poverty."--Ed.


[Footnote A: See the sonnet beginning "Call not the royal Swede
unfortunate," vol. iv. p. 224.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE


Composed August, 1802.--Published 1807 [A]




  Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men! [B]
  Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough
  Within thy hearing, or thy head be now
  Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den;--[1]
  O miserable Chieftain! where and when                            5
  Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou
  Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:
  Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,
  Live, and take comfort. [2] Thou hast left behind
  Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies;          10
  There's not a breathing of the common wind
  That will forget thee; thou hast great allies;
  Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
  And love, and man's unconquerable mind. [C]


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827.

  Whether the rural milk-maid by her cow
  Sing in thy hearing, or thou liest now
  Alone in some deep dungeon's earless den,         1803.

  Whether the all-cheering sun be free to shed
  His beams around thee, or thou rest thy head
  Pillowed in some dark dungeon's noisome den,      1815.

  Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough
  Within thy hearing, or Thou liest now
  Buried in some deep dungeon's earless den;--1820.]


[Variant 2:

1807.

  ... Yet die not; be thou
  Life to thyself in death; with chearful brow
  Live, loving death, nor let one thought in ten
  Be painful to thee ...      1803.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: But previously printed in 'The Morning Post' of February 2,
1803, under the signature W. L. D.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare Massinger, 'The Bondman', act I. scene iii. l. 8:

  'Her man of men, Timoleon.'

Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare Rowe's 'Tamerlane', iii. 2:

  'But to subdue the unconquerable mind.'

Also Gray's poem 'The Progress of Poesy', ii. 2, l. 10:

  'Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.'

Ed.]



Francois Dominique Toussaint (who was surnamed L'Ouverture), the child
of African slaves, was born at St. Domingo in 1743. He was a Royalist in
political sympathy till 1794, when the decree of the French convention,
giving liberty to the slaves, brought him over to the side of the
Republic. He was made a general of division by Laveux, and succeeded in
taking the whole of the north of the island from the English. In 1796 he
was made chief of the French army of St. Domingo, and first the British
commander, and next the Spanish, surrendered everything to him. He
became governor of the island, which prospered under his rule. Napoleon,
however, in 1801, issued an edict re-establishing slavery in St.
Domingo. Toussaint professed obedience, but showed that he meant to
resist the edict. A fleet of fifty-four vessels was sent from France to
enforce it. Toussaint was proclaimed an outlaw. He surrendered, and was
received with military honours, but was treacherously arrested and sent
to Paris in June 1802, where he died, in April 1803, after ten months'
hardship in prison. He had been two months in prison when Wordsworth
addressed this sonnet to him.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





COMPOSED IN THE VALLEY NEAR DOVER, ON THE DAY OF LANDING


Composed August 30, 1802.--Published 1807




  Here, on our native soil, we breathe once more. [1]
  The cock that crows, the smoke that curls, that sound
  Of bells;--those boys who [2] in yon meadow-ground
  In white-sleeved shirts are playing; [A] and the roar
  Of the waves breaking on the chalky shore;--[3]                   5
  All, all are English. Oft have I looked round
  With joy in Kent's green vales; but never found
  Myself so satisfied in heart before.
  Europe is yet in bonds; but let that pass,
  Thought for another moment. Thou art free,                        10
  My Country! and 'tis joy enough and pride
  For one hour's perfect bliss, to tread the grass
  Of England once again, and hear and see,
  With such a dear Companion at my side.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827.

  Dear fellow Traveller! here we are once more.        1807.]


[Variant 2:

1820.

  ... that ...        1807.]


[Variant 3:

1815.

  In white sleev'd shirts are playing by the score,
  And even this little River's gentle roar,        1807.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: At the beginning of Dorothy Wordsworth's 'Journal of a Tour
on the Continent' in 1820, she writes (July 10, 1820):

  "When within a mile of Dover saw crowds of people at a cricket match,
  the numerous combatants dressed in 'white-sleeved shirts;' and it was
  in the very same field, where, when we 'trod the grass of England once
  again,' twenty years ago, we had seen an assemblage of youths, engaged
  in the same sport, so very like the present that all might have been
  the same. (See my brother's sonnet.)"

Ed.]


Dorothy Wordsworth writes in her Journal,

  "On Sunday, the 29th of August, we left Calais, at twelve o'clock in
  the morning, and landed at Dover at one on Monday the 30th. It was
  very pleasant to me, when we were in the harbour at Dover, to breathe
  the fresh air, and to look up and see the stars among the ropes of the
  vessel. The next day was very hot, we bathed, and sat upon the Dover
  Cliffs, and looked upon France with many a melancholy and tender
  thought. We could see the shores almost as plain as if it were but an
  English lake. We mounted the coach, and arrived in London at six, the
  30th August."

Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





SEPTEMBER 1, 1802


Composed September 1, 1802.--Published 1807 [A]


Among the capricious acts of Tyranny that disgraced these times, was the
chasing of all <DW64>s from France by decree of the Government: we had a
Fellow-passenger who was one of the expelled.--W. W. 1827.




  We had a female Passenger who came [1]
  From Calais with us, spotless [2] in array,
  A white-robed <DW64>, [3] like a lady gay,
  Yet downcast [4] as a woman fearing blame;
  Meek, destitute, as seemed, of hope or aim [5]                     5
  She sate, from notice turning not away,
  But on all proffered intercourse did lay [6]
  A weight of languid speech, or to the same
  No sign of answer made by word or face:
  Yet still her eyes retained their tropic fire,                    10
  That, burning independent of the mind,
  Joined with the lustre of her rich attire
  To mock the Outcast--O ye Heavens, be kind!
  And feel, thou Earth, for this afflicted Race![7]


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

  We had a fellow-passenger that came              1803.

  ... who ...                                      1807.

  Driven from the soil of France, a Female came    1827.

The edition of 1838 returns to the text of 1807, but the edition of 1840
reverts to that of 1827.]


[Variant 2:

1845.

  ... gaudy ...        1803.

  ... brilliant ...    1827.]


[Variant 3:

1845.

  A <DW64> woman, ...    1803.]


[Variant 4:

1827.

  Yet silent ...    1803.]


[Variant 5:

1827.

  Dejected, downcast, meek, and more than tame:    1803.

  Dejected, meek, yea pitiably tame,               1807.]


[Variant 6:

1827.

  But on our proffer'd kindness still did lay    1803.]


[Variant 7:

1845.

  ... or at the same
  Was silent, motionless in eyes and face.
  She was a <DW64> woman, out of France,
  Rejected, like all others of that race:
  Not one of whom may now find footing there.
  What is the meaning of this ordinance?
  Dishonour'd Despots, tell us if ye dare.             1803.

  ... driv'n from France,
  Rejected like all others of that race,
  Not one of whom may now find footing there;
  This the poor Out-cast did to us declare,
  Nor murmur'd at the unfeeling Ordinance.             1807.

  Meanwhile those eyes retained their tropic fire,
  Which, burning independent of the mind,
  Joined with the lustre of her rich attire
  To mock the outcast--O ye Heavens, be kind!
  And feel, thou Earth, for this afflicted Race!       1827.

  Yet still those eyes retained their tropic fire,     1837.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT


[Footnote A: First printed in 'The Morning Post', February 11, 1803,
under the title of 'The Banished <DW64>s', and signed W. L. D.--Ed.]



It was a natural arrangement which led Wordsworth to place this sonnet,
in his edition of 1807, immediately after the one addressed 'To
Toussaint L'Ouverture'.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





SEPTEMBER, 1802, NEAR DOVER [A]


Composed September, 1802.--Published 1807




  Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood;
  And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear,
  The coast of France--the coast of France how near!
  Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood.
  I shrunk; for verily the barrier flood                       5
  Was like a lake, or river bright and fair,
  A span of waters; yet what power is there!
  What mightiness for evil and for good! [B]
  Even so doth God protect us if we be
  Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll,             10
  Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity;
  Yet in themselves are nothing! One decree
  Spake laws to _them_, and said that by the soul
  Only, the Nations shall be great and free.


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: From 1807 to 1843 the title was 'September, 1802'; "near
Dover" appeared in the "Sonnets" of 1838, but did not become a permanent
part of the title until 1845.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare in S. T. 'Coleridge's Ode to the Departing Year',
stanza vii.:

  'And Ocean 'mid his uproar wild
  Speaks safety to his island-child.'

Ed.]


In 'The Friend' (ed. 1818, vol. i. p. 107), Coleridge writes:

  "The narrow seas that form our boundaries, what were they in times of
  old? The convenient highway for Danish and Norman pirates. What are
  they now? Still, but a 'Span of Waters.' Yet they roll at the base of
  the Ararat, on which the Ark of the Hope of Europe and of Civilization
  rested!"

He then quotes this sonnet from the line "Even so doth God protect us if
we be."

The note appended to the sonnet, 'Composed in the Valley near Dover, on
the day of Landing' (p. 341), shows that this one refers to the same
occasion; and that while "Inland, within a hollow vale," Wordsworth was,
at the same time, on the Dover Cliffs; the "vale" being one of the
hollow clefts in the headland, which front the Dover coast-line. The
sonnet may, however, have been finished afterwards in London.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER, 1802


Composed September, 1802.--Published 1807


[This was written immediately after my return from France to London,
when I could not but be struck, as here described, with the vanity and
parade of our own country, especially in great towns and cities, as
contrasted with the quiet, and I may say the desolation, that the
Revolution had produced in France. This must be borne in mind, or else
the reader may think that in this and the succeeding Sonnets I have
exaggerated the mischief engendered and fostered among us by undisturbed
wealth. It would not be easy to conceive with what a depth of feeling I
entered into the struggle carried on by the Spaniards for their
deliverance from the usurped power of the French. Many times have I gone
from Allan Bank in Grasmere Vale, where we were then residing, to the
top of Raise-gap, as it is called, so late as two o'clock in the
morning, to meet the carrier bringing the newspapers from Keswick.
Imperfect traces of the state of mind in which I then was may be found
in my tract on the Convention of Cintra, as well as in these
Sonnets.--I. F.]




  O FRIEND! [A] I know not which way I must look [1]
  For comfort, being, as I am, opprest,
  To think that now our life is only drest
  For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,
  Or groom!--We must run glittering like a brook                   5
  In the open sunshine, or we are unblest:
  The wealthiest man among us is the best:
  No grandeur now in nature or in book
  Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
  This is idolatry; and these we adore:                           10
  Plain living and high thinking are no more:
  The homely beauty of the good old cause
  Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,
  And pure religion breathing household laws. [B]


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANT ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1807.

  O thou proud City! which way shall I look      1838.

The text of 1840 returns to that of 1807.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The "Friend" was Coleridge. In the original MS. it stands
"Coleridge! I know not," etc. Wordsworth changed it in the proof
stage.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare--in Hartley Coleridge's 'Lives of Distinguished
Northerners'--what is said of this sonnet, in his life of Anne Clifford,
where the passing cynicism of Wordsworth's poem is pointed out.--Ed.]


Wordsworth stayed in London from August 30th to September 22nd 1802.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





LONDON, 1802


Composed September, 1802.--Published 1807




  Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour:
  England hath need of thee: she is a fen
  Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
  Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
  Have forfeited their ancient English dower                      5
  Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
  Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
  And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
  Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
  Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:               10
  Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
  So didst thou travel on life's common way,
  In cheerful godliness; and yet [A] thy heart
  The lowliest duties on herself [1] did lay.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANT ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1820.

  ... itself ...       1807.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: In old English "yet" means "continuously" or "always"; and
it is still used in Cumberland with this signification.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





"GREAT MEN HAVE BEEN AMONG US; HANDS THAT PENNED"


Composed September, 1802.--Published 1807




  Great men have been among us; hands that penned
  And tongues that uttered wisdom--better none:
  The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington,
  Young Vane, [A] and others who called Milton friend.
  These moralists could act and comprehend:                       5
  They knew how genuine glory was put on;
  Taught us how rightfully a nation shone
  In splendour: what strength was, that would not bend
  But in [1] magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange,
  Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then.               10
  Perpetual emptiness! unceasing change!
  No single volume paramount, no code,
  No master spirit, no determined road;
  But equally a want of books and men!


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANT ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1807.

  But to ...       MS.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: See Clarendon's 'History of the Rebellion', book iii.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





"IT IS NOT TO BE THOUGHT OF THAT THE FLOOD"


Composed September, 1802.--Published 1807 [A]




  It is not to be thought of that the Flood
  Of British freedom, which, to the open sea
  Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity
  Hath flowed, "with pomp of waters, unwithstood,"[B]
  Roused though it be full often to a mood                       5
  Which spurns the check of salutary bands, [1]
  That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands
  Should perish; and to evil and to good
  Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung
  Armoury of the invincible Knights of old:                     10
  We must be [2] free or die, who speak the tongue
  That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold
  Which Milton held.--In every thing we are sprung
  Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827.

  ... unwithstood,
  Road by which all might come and go that would,
  And bear out freights of worth to foreign lands;    1803.]


[Variant 2:

1807.

  ... must live ...      1803.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: It was first printed in 'The Morning Post', April 16. 1803,
and signed W. L. D.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare Daniel's 'Civil War', book ii. stanza 7.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





"WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY WHAT HAS TAMED"


Composed September, 1802.--Published 1807 [A]




  When I have borne in memory what has tamed
  Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart
  When men change swords for ledgers, and desert
  The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed
  I had, my Country!--am I to be blamed?                         5
  Now, [1] when I think of thee, and what thou art,
  Verily, in the bottom of my heart,
  Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. [2]
  For dearly must we prize thee; we who find
  In thee a bulwark for the cause of men; [3]                   10
  And I by my affection was beguiled:
  What wonder if a Poet now and then,
  Among the many movements of his mind,
  Felt for thee as a lover or a child!


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1.

1845.

  But,...      1803.]


[Variant 2.

1807.

  I of those fears of mine am much ashamed.    1803.]


[Variant 3.

1845.

  But dearly do I prize thee for I find
  In thee a bulwark of the cause of men;         1803.

  But dearly must we prize thee; we who find     1807.

  ... for the cause of men;                      1827.

  Most dearly                                    1838.

The text of 1840 returns to that of 1827.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: But printed previously in 'The Morning Post', September 17,
1803, under the title 'England', and signed W. L. D. Also, see
Coleridge's 'Poems on Political Events', 1828-9.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





COMPOSED AFTER A JOURNEY ACROSS THE HAMBLETON HILLS, [A] YORKSHIRE


Composed October 4, 1802.--Published 1807


[Composed October 4th, 1802, after a journey over the Hambleton Hills,
on a day memorable to me--the day of my marriage. The horizon commanded
by those hills is most magnificent. The next day, while we were
travelling in a post-chaise up Wensleydale, we were stopped by one of
the horses proving restive, and were obliged to wait two hours in a
severe storm before the post-boy could fetch from the inn another to
supply its place. The spot was in front of Bolton Hall, where Mary Queen
of Scots was kept prisoner, soon after her unfortunate landing at
Workington. The place then belonged to the Scroops, and memorials of her
are yet preserved there. To beguile the time I composed a Sonnet. The
subject was our own confinement contrasted with hers; but it was not
thought worthy of being preserved.--I. F.]

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




  Dark and more dark the shades of evening fell;
  The wished-for point was reached--but at an hour
  When little could be gained from that rich dower [1]
  Of prospect, whereof many thousands tell.
  Yet did the glowing west with marvellous power                   5
  Salute us; there stood Indian citadel,
  Temple of Greece, and minster with its tower
  Substantially expressed--a place for bell
  Or clock to toll from! Many a tempting isle,
  With groves that never were imagined, lay                       10
  'Mid seas how steadfast! objects all for the eye
  Of silent rapture; but we felt the while [2]
  We should forget them; they are of the sky,
  And from our earthly memory fade away.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1837.

  Ere we had reach'd the wish'd-for place, night fell:
  We were too late at least by one dark hour,
  And nothing could we see of all that power
  Of prospect, ...                                    1807.

  Dark, and more dark, the shades of Evening fell;
  The wish'd-for point was reach'd--but late the hour;
  And little could we see of all that power           1815.

  And little could be gained from all that dower      1827.]


[Variant 2:

1837.

  The western sky did recompence us well
  With Grecian Temple, Minaret, and Bower;
  And, in one part, a Minster with its Tower
  Substantially distinct, a place for Bell
  Or Clock to toll from. Many a glorious pile
  Did we behold, sights that might well repay
  All disappointment! and, as such, the eye
  Delighted in them; but we felt, the while,         1807.

  Substantially expressed--...                       1815.

  Did we behold, fair sights that might repay        1815.

  Yet did the glowing west in all its power          1827.

The text of 1827 is otherwise identical with that of 1837.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Called by Wordsworth, "The Hamilton Hills" in the editions
from 1807 to 1827.--Ed.]


The following extract from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal indicates, as
fully as any other passage in it, the use which her brother occasionally
made of it. We have the "Grecian Temple," and the "Minster with its
Tower":

  "Before we had crossed the Hambleton Hill and reached the point
  overlooking Yorkshire it was quite dark. We had not wanted, however,
  fair prospects before us, as we drove along the flat plain of the high
  hill; far, far off from us, in the western sky, we saw shapes of
  castles, ruins among groves--a great, spreading wood, rocks, and
  single trees--a Minster with its Tower unusually distinct, Minarets in
  another quarter, and a round Grecian Temple also; the colours of the
  sky of a bright grey, and the forms of a sober grey, with a dome. As
  we descended the hill there was no distinct view, but of a great
  space, only near us, we saw the wild (and as the people say)
  bottomless Tarn in the hollow at the side of the hill. It seemed to be
  made visible to us only by its own light, for all the hill about us
  was dark."

Wordsworth and his sister crossed over the Hambleton (or Hamilton)
Hills, on their way from Westmoreland to Gallow Hill, Yorkshire, to
visit the Hutchinsons, before they went south to London and Calais,
where they spent the month of August, 1802. But after his marriage to
Mary Hutchinson, on the 4th of October, Wordsworth, his wife, and
sister, recrossed these Hambleton Hills on their way to Grasmere, which
they reached on the evening of the 6th October. The above sonnet was
composed on the evening of the 4th October, as the Fenwick note
indicates.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





TO H. C.

SIX YEARS OLD


Composed 1802.--Published 1807


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




  O thou! whose fancies from afar are brought;
  Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel,
  And fittest to unutterable thought
  The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol;
  Thou faery voyager! that dost float                          5
  In such clear water, that thy boat
  May rather seem
  To brood on air [A] than on an earthly stream;
  Suspended in a stream as clear as sky,
  Where earth and heaven do make one imagery;                 10
  O blessed vision! happy child!
  Thou [1] art so exquisitely wild,
  I think of thee with many fears
  For what may be thy lot in future years.

  I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest,            15
  Lord of thy house and hospitality;
  And Grief, uneasy lover! never rest
  But when she sate within the touch of thee.
  O too industrious folly!
  O vain and causeless melancholy!                            20
  Nature will either end thee quite;
  Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,
  Preserve for thee, by individual right,
  A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks.
  What hast thou to do with sorrow,                           25
  Or the injuries of to-morrow?
  Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth,
  Ill fitted to sustain [2] unkindly shocks,
  Or to be trailed along the soiling earth;
  A gem that glitters while it lives,                         30
  And no forewarning gives;
  But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife
  Slips in a moment out of life.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

  That ...       1807.]


[Variant 2:

1827.

  Not doom'd to jostle with ...    1807.

  Not framed to undergo ...        1815.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: See Carver's Description of his Situation upon one of the
Lakes of America.--W. W. 1807.]


These stanzas were addressed to Hartley Coleridge. The lines,

  'I think of thee with many fears
  For what may be thy lot in future years,'

taken in connection with his subsequent career, suggest the similarly
sad "presentiment" with which the 'Lines composed above Tintern Abbey'
conclude. The following is the postscript to a letter by his father, S.
T. C., addressed to Sir Humphry Davy, Keswick, July 25, 1800:

  "Hartley is a spirit that dances on an aspen leaf; the air that yonder
  sallow-faced and yawning tourist is breathing, is to my babe a
  perpetual nitrous oxide. Never was more joyous creature born. Pain
  with him is so wholly trans-substantiated by the joys that had rolled
  on before, and rushed on after, that oftentimes five minutes after his
  mother has whipt him he has gone up and asked her to whip him again."

('Fragmentary Remains, Literary and Scientific', of Sir Humphry Davy,
Bart., pp. 78, 79.)--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





TO THE DAISY


Composed 1802.--Published 1807




  "Her [A] divine skill taught me this,
  That from every thing I saw
  I could some instruction draw,
  And raise pleasure to the height
  Through the meanest object's sight.
  By the murmur of a spring,
  Or the least bough's rustelling;
  By a Daisy whose leaves spread
  Shut when Titan goes to bed;
  Or a shady bush or tree;
  She could more infuse in me
  Than all Nature's beauties can
  In some other wiser man."

G. WITHER. [1]


[Composed in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere.--I. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Fancy."--Ed.




  In youth from rock to rock I went,
  From hill to hill in discontent
  Of pleasure high and turbulent,
      Most pleased when most uneasy;
  But now my own delights I make,--5
  My thirst at every rill can slake, [2]
  And gladly Nature's love partake,
      Of Thee, sweet Daisy! [3]

  Thee Winter in the garland wears
  That thinly decks his few grey hairs;                    10
  Spring parts the clouds with softest airs,
    That she may sun thee; [4]
  Whole Summer-fields are thine by right;
  And Autumn, melancholy Wight!
  Doth in thy crimson head delight                         15
    When rains are on thee.

  In shoals and bands, a morrice train,
  Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane;
  Pleased at his greeting thee again;
    Yet nothing daunted,                                   20
  Nor grieved if thou be set at nought: [5]
  And oft alone in nooks remote
  We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,
    When such are wanted.

  Be violets in their secret mews                          25
  The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose;
  Proud be the rose, with rains and dews
    Her head impearling,
  Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim,
  Yet hast not gone without thy fame;                      30
  Thou art indeed by many a claim
      The Poet's darling.

  If to a rock from rains he fly,
  Or, some bright day of April sky,
  Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie                           35
      Near the green holly,
  And wearily at length should fare;
  He needs [6] but look about, and there
  Thou art!--a friend at hand, to scare
      His melancholy.                                      40

  A hundred times, by rock or bower,
  Ere thus I have lain couched an hour,
  Have I derived from thy sweet power
      Some apprehension;
  Some steady love; some brief delight; [7]                45
  Some memory that had taken flight;
  Some chime [8] of fancy wrong or right;
      Or stray invention.

  If stately passions in me burn,
  And one [9] chance look to Thee should turn,             50
  I drink out of an humbler urn
      A lowlier pleasure;
  The homely sympathy that heeds
  The common life, our nature breeds;
  A wisdom fitted to the needs                             55
      Of hearts at leisure.

  Fresh-smitten by the morning ray,
  When thou art up, alert and gay,
  Then, cheerful Flower! my spirits play
      With kindred gladness: [10]                          60
  And when, at dusk, by dews opprest
  Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest
  Hath often eased my pensive breast
      Of careful sadness. [11]

  And all day long I number yet,                           65
  All seasons through, another debt,
  Which I, wherever thou art met,
      To thee am owing; [12]
   An instinct call it, a blind sense;
  A happy, genial influence,                               70
  Coming one knows not how, nor whence,
      Nor whither going.

  Child of the Year! that round dost run
  Thy pleasant course,--when day's begun
  As ready to salute the sun                               75
      As lark or leveret,
  Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain; [B]
  Nor be less dear to future men
  Than in old time;--thou not in vain [13]
      Art Nature's favourite. [C]                          80


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1: The extract from Wither was first prefixed to this poem in
the edition of 1815. The late Mr. <DW18>s Campbell was of opinion that
Charles Lamb had suggested this motto to Wordsworth, as 'The Shepherd's
Hunting' was Lamb's "prime favourite" amongst Wither's poems. It may be
as well to note that his quotation was erroneous in two places. His
"instruction" should be "invention" (l. 3), and his "the" (in l. 4)
should be "her."--Ed.]


[Variant 2:

1807.

  To gentle sympathies awake,     MS.]


[Variant 3:

1807.

  And Nature's love of Thee partake,
    Her much-loved Daisy!     1836.

The text of 1840 returns to the reading of 1807.

    Of her sweet Daisy.          C.]


[Variant 4:

1836.

  When soothed a while by milder airs,
  Thee Winter in the garland wears
  That thinly shades his few grey hairs;
    Spring cannot shun thee;        1807.

  When Winter decks his few grey hairs
  Thee in the scanty wreath he wears;
  Spring parts the clouds with softest airs,
    That she may sun thee;          1827.]


[Variant 5:

1836.

  ... in the lane;
  If welcome once thou count'st it gain;
    Thou art not daunted,
  Nor car'st if thou be set at naught;        1807.

  If welcom'd ...                             1815.

The text of 1827 returns to that of 1807.]


[Variant 6:

1820

  He need.....       1807]


[Variant 7:

1807

  ....some chance delight;     MS.]


[Variant 8:

1807

  Some charm.....        C.]


[Variant 9:

1807

  And some.....          MS.]


[Variant 10:

1836.

  When, smitten by the morning ray,
  I see thee rise alert and gay,
  Then, chearful Flower! my spirits play
      With kindred motion:                 1807.

      With kindred gladness:               1815.

  Then Daisy! do my spirits play,
      With cheerful motion.                  MS.]


[Variant 11:

1815.

  At dusk, I've seldom mark'd thee press
  The ground, as if in thankfulness
  Without some feeling, more or less,
      Of true devotion.                  1807.

  The ground in modest thankfulness        MS.]


[Variant 12:

1807.

  But more than all I number yet
  O bounteous Flower! another debt
  Which I to thee wherever met
      Am daily owing;                    MS.]


[Variant 13:

1836.

  Child of the Year! that round dost run
  Thy course, bold lover of the sun,
  And chearful when the day's begun
      As morning Leveret,
  Thou long the Poet's praise shalt gain;
  Thou wilt be more belov'd by men
  In times to come; thou not in vain         1807.

  Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain;
  Dear shalt thou be to future men
  As in old time;--1815.

  Dear thou shalt be                         1820.

The text of 1827 returns to that of 1815.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: His Muse.--W. W. 1815.

The extract is from 'The Shepherds Hunting', eclogue fourth, ll.
368-80.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honours formerly
paid to this flower.--W. W. 1815.]


[Footnote C: This Poem, and two others to the same Flower, which the
Reader will find in the second Volume, were written in the year 1802;
which is mentioned, because in some of the ideas, though not in the
manner in which those ideas are connected, and likewise even in some of
the expressions, they bear a striking resemblance to a Poem (lately
published) of Mr. Montgomery, entitled, 'A Field Flower'. This being
said, Mr. Montgomery will not think any apology due to him; I cannot
however help addressing him in the words of the Father of English Poets:

  'Though it happe me to rehersin--
  That ye han in your freshe songis saied,
  Forberith me, and beth not ill apaied,
  Sith that ye se I doe it in the honour
  Of Love, and eke in service of the Flour.'

W. W. 1807.

In the edition of 1836, the following variation of the text of this note
occurs: "There is a resemblance to passages in a Poem."--Ed.]



For illustration of the last stanza, see Chaucer's Prologue to 'The
Legend of Good Women'.

  'As I seyde erst, whanne comen is the May,
  That in my bed ther daweth me no day,
  That I nam uppe and walkyng in the mede,
  To seen this floure agein the sonne sprede,
  Whan it up rysith erly by the morwe;
  That blisful sight softneth al my sorwe,
  So glad am I, whan that I have presence
  Of it, to doon it alle reverence,
  As she that is of alle floures flour.'
  ...
  To seen this flour so yong, so fresshe of hewe,
  Constreynde me with so gredy desire,
  That in myn herte I feele yet the fire,
  That made me to ryse er yt wer day,
  And this was now the firste morwe of May,
  With dredful hert, and glad devocioun
  For to ben at the resurreccion
  Of this flour, whan that yt shulde unclose
  Agayne the sonne, that roos as rede as rose
  ...
  And doune on knes anoon ryght I me sette,
  And as I koude, this fresshe flour I grette,
  Knelying alwey, til it unclosed was,
  Upon the smale, softe, swote gras.

Again, in The 'Cuckoo and the Nightingale', after a wakeful night, the
Poet rises at dawn, and wandering forth, reaches a "laund of white and
green."

  'So feire oon had I nevere in bene,
  The grounde was grene, y poudred with dayse,
  The floures and the gras ilike al hie,
  Al grene and white, was nothing elles sene.'


Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





TO THE SAME FLOWER [A]


Composed 1802.--Published 1807


[Composed in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere.-I. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Fancy."--Ed.




  With little here to do or see
  Of things that in the great world be,
  Daisy! again I talk to thee, [1]
      For thou art worthy,
  Thou unassuming Common-place                              5
  Of Nature, with that homely face,
  And yet with something of a grace,
    Which Love makes for thee!

  Oft on the dappled turf at ease
  I sit, and play with similes, [2]                        10
  Loose types of things through all degrees,
    Thoughts of thy raising:
  And many a fond and idle name
  I give to thee, for praise or blame,
  As is the humour of the game,                            15
    While I am gazing.

  A nun demure of lowly port;
  Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court,
  In thy simplicity the sport
    Of all temptations;                                    20
  A queen in crown of rubies drest;
  A starveling in a scanty vest;
  Are all, as seems [3] to suit thee best,
    Thy appellations.

  A little cyclops, with one eye                           25
  Staring to threaten and defy,
  That thought comes next--and instantly
    The freak is over,
  The shape will vanish--and behold
  A silver shield with boss of gold,                       30
  That spreads itself, some faery bold
    In fight to cover!

  I see thee glittering from afar--
  And then thou art a pretty star;
  Not quite so fair as many are                            35
    In heaven above thee!
  Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
  Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;--
  May peace come never to his nest,
  Who shall reprove thee!                                  40

  Bright _Flower!_ [4] for by that name at last,
  When all my reveries are past,
  I call thee, and to that cleave fast,
  Sweet silent creature!
  That breath'st with me in sun and air,                   45
  Do thou, as thou art wont, repair
  My heart with gladness, and a share
  Of thy meek nature!


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

  Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee,    1807.

  Yet once again I talk . .           1836.]


[Variant 2:

1820.

  Oft do I sit by thee at ease,
  And weave a web of similies,        1807.]


[Variant 3:

1827.

  ... seem ...        1807.]


[Variant 4:

1836.

  Sweet Flower!....         1807.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The two following Poems were overflowings of the mind in
composing the one which stands first in the first Volume (i.e. the
previous Poem),--W. W. 1807.]



In his editions 1836-1849 Wordsworth gave 1805 as the year in which this
poem was composed, but the Fenwick note prefixed to it renders this
impossible. It evidently belongs to the same time, and "mood," as the
previous poem.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





TO THE DAISY (#2)


Composed 1802.--Published 1807


[This and the other Poems addressed to the same flower were composed at
Town-end, Grasmere, during the earlier part of my residence there. I
have been censured for the last line but one--"thy function
apostolical"--as being little less than profane. How could it be thought
so? The word is adopted with reference to its derivation, implying
something sent on a mission; and assuredly this little flower,
especially when the subject of verse, may be regarded, in its humble
degree, as administering both to moral and to spiritual purposes.--I.F.]

This was included among the "Poems of the Fancy" from 1815 to 1832. In
1837 it was transferred to the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."--Ed.




  Bright Flower! whose home is everywhere,
  Bold in maternal Nature's care,
  And all the long year through the heir [1]
  Of joy and [2] sorrow.
  Methinks that there abides in thee                           5
  Some concord [3] with humanity,
  Given to no other flower I see
  The forest thorough!

  Is it that Man is soon deprest? [4]
  A thoughtless Thing! who, once unblest,                     10
  Does little on his memory rest,
  Or on his reason,
  And [5] Thou would'st teach him how to find
  A shelter under every wind,
  A hope for times that are unkind                            15
  And every season?

  Thou wander'st the wide world about,
  Uncheck'd by pride or scrupulous doubt,
  With friends to greet thee, or without,
  Yet pleased and willing;                                    20
  Meek, yielding to the occasion's call,
  And all things suffering from all,
  Thy function apostolical
    In peace fulfilling. [6]


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1840.

  Bright Flower, whose home is every where!
  A Pilgrim bold in Nature's care,
  And all the long year through the heir        1807.

  Bright flower, whose home is every where!
  A Pilgrim bold in Nature's care,
  And oft, the long year through, the heir      1827.

  Confiding Flower, by Nature's care
  Made bold,--who, lodging here or there,
  Art all the long year through the heir        1837.]


[Variant 2:

1850.

  ... or ...                                    1807.]


[Variant 3:

1807.

  Communion ...                                 1837.

The text of 1840 returns to that of 1807.]


[Variant 4:

1807.

  And wherefore? Man is soon deprest;           1827.

The text of 1837 returns to that of 1807.]


[Variant 5:

1807.

  But ...                                       1827.

The text of 1837 returns to that of 1807.]


[Variant 6:

1807.

This stanza was omitted in the editions of 1827 and 1832, but replaced
in 1837.]


The three preceding poems 'To the Daisy' evidently belong to the same
time, and are, as Wordsworth expressly says, "overflowings of the mind
in composing the one which stands first." Nevertheless, in the revised
edition of 1836-7, he gave the date 1802 to the first, 1803 to the
third, and 1805 to the second of them. In the earlier editions 1815 to
1832, they are all classed among the "Poems of the Fancy," but in the
edition of 1837, and afterwards, the last, "Bright Flower! whose home is
everywhere," is ranked among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."
They should manifestly be placed together. Wordsworth's fourth poem 'To
the Daisy', which is an elegy on his brother John, and belongs to a
subsequent year--having no connection with the three preceding poems,
will be found in its chronological place.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





LOUISA

AFTER ACCOMPANYING HER ON A MOUNTAIN EXCURSION


Composed 1802.--Published 1807


[Town-end 1805.--I. F.]

One of the "Poems founded on the Affections." From 1807 to 1832 the
title was simply 'Louisa'.--Ed.




  I met Louisa in the shade,
  And, having seen that lovely Maid,
  Why should I fear to say [1]
  That, nymph-like, she is fleet and strong, [2]
  And down the rocks can leap along                             5
  Like rivulets in May?
  [3]
  She loves her fire, her cottage-home;
  Yet o'er the moorland will she roam
  In weather rough and bleak;
  And, when against the wind she strains,                      10
  Oh! might I kiss the mountain rains
  That sparkle on her cheek.

  Take all that's mine "beneath the moon," [A]
  If I with her but half a noon
  May sit beneath the walls                                    15
  Of some old cave, or mossy nook,
  When up she winds along the brook [4]
  To hunt the waterfalls.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1807.

  Though, by a sickly taste betrayed,
  Some will dispraise the lovely Maid,
  With fearless pride I say       1836.

The text of 1845 returns to that of 1807.]


[Variant 2:

1845.

  That she is ruddy, fleet, and strong;       1807.

  That she is healthful, ...                  1836.]


[Variant 3: In the editions of 1807 to 1843 occurs the following verse,
which was omitted from subsequent editions:

  And she hath smiles to earth unknown;
  Smiles, that with motion of their own
  Do spread, and sink, and rise;
  That come and go with endless play,
  And ever, as they pass away,
  Are hidden in her eyes.]


[Variant 4:

1807.

  When she goes barefoot up the brook      MS.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare Young's 'Night Thoughts', where the phrase occurs
three times. See also 'Lear', act IV. scene vi. l. 26:

  'For all beneath the moon.'

Haywood, 'The English Traveller', v. 1:

  'All things that dwell beneath the moon.'

It was also used by William Drummond, in one of his sonnets,

  'I know that all beneath the moon decays.'

Ed.]



Wordsworth gave as the date of the composition of this poem the year
1805; but he said of the following one, 'To a Young Lady, who had been
Reproached for taking Long Walks in the Country'--"composed at the same
time" and "designed to make one piece"--that it was written in 1803.

But it is certain that these following lines appeared in 'The Morning
Post', on Feb. 12, 1802, where they are headed 'To a beautiful Young
Lady, who had been harshly spoken of on account of her fondness for
taking long walks in the Country'. There is difficulty, both in
ascertaining the exact date of composition, and in knowing who "Louisa"
or the "Young Lady" was. Mrs. Millicent G. Fawcett wrote to me several
years ago, suggesting, with some plausibility, a much earlier date, if
Dorothy Wordsworth was the lady referred to. She referred me to
Dorothy's letter to her aunt, Mrs. Crackenthorpe, written from
Windybrow, Keswick, in 1794, when staying there with her brother; and
says

  "What inclined me to think that the poem was written earlier than 1805
  was that it anticipates Dorothy's marriage, and this would more
  naturally be present as a probable event in W. W.'s mind in 1794 or
  thereabouts than in 1805, after Dorothy had dedicated her life to her
  brother, to the exclusion of all wish to make a home of her own by
  marriage. The expression 'Healthy as a shepherd boy' is also more
  applicable to a girl of twenty-two than to a woman of thirty-three. Do
  you think it possible that the poem may have been written in 1794, and
  not published till later, when its application would be less evident
  to the family circle?"

Dorothy Wordsworth's letter will be quoted in full in a later volume,
but the following extract from it may be given now:

  "I cannot pass unnoticed that part of your letter in which you speak
  of my 'rambling about the country on foot.' So far from considering
  this as a matter for condemnation I rather thought it would have given
  my friends pleasure that I had courage to make use of the strength
  with which Nature has endowed me, when it not only procured me
  infinitely more pleasure than I should have received from sitting in a
  post-chaise, but was also the means of saving me at least thirty
  shillings."

I do not think the date of composition can be so early as 1794. What may
be called internal, or structural, evidence is against it. Wordsworth
never could have written these two poems till after his settlement at
Dove Cottage. Besides, in 1794, he could have no knowledge of a possible
"nest in a green dale, a harbour and a hold"; while at that time his
sister had certainly no "cottage home." I believe they were written
after he took up his residence at Town-end (the date being uncertain);
and that they refer to his sister, and not to his wife. It has been
suggested by Mr. Ernest Coleridge (see 'The Athenaeum', Oct. 21, 1893)
that they refer to Mary Hutchinson: but there is no evidence of
Wordsworth taking long country walks with her before their marriage, or
that she was "nymph-like," "fleet and strong," that she loved to "roam
the moorland," "in weather rough and bleak," or that she "hunted
waterfalls." The reference to his sister is confirmed by the omission of
the delightful second stanza of the poem in the last edition revised by
the poet, that of 1849, when she was a confirmed invalid at Rydal Mount.
Those "smiles to earth unknown," had then ceased for ever. The reason
why Wordsworth erased so delightful and wonderful a stanza, is to me
only explicable on the supposition, that it was his sister he referred
to, she who had accompanied him in former days, in so many of his "long
walks in the country." His wife never did this; she had not the physical
strength to do it; and, if she had been the person referred to,
Wordsworth would hardly, in 1845, have erased such a description of her,
as occurs in the stanza written in 1802, when she was still so vigorous.
Besides, Mary Wordsworth was in no sense "a Child of Nature," as Dorothy
was: while the testimony of the Wordsworth household is explicit, that
it was to his sister, and not to his wife, that the poet referred. I
find no difficulty in the allusion made in the second poem to Dorothy
being yet possibly a "Wife and Friend"; nor to the fact that it was
originally addressed "To a beautiful Young Lady." Neither Dorothy nor
Mary Wordsworth were physically "beautiful," according to our highest
standards; although the poet addressed the latter as "a Phantom of
delight," and as "a lovely apparition." It is quite true that it was
Mary Wordsworth's old age that was "serene and bright," while Dorothy's
was the very reverse; but the poet's anticipation of the future was
written when his sister was young, and was by far the stronger of the
two.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





TO A YOUNG LADY, WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG WALKS IN THE
COUNTRY [A]


Composed 1802.--Published 1807


[Composed at the same time and on the same view as "I met Louisa in the
shade:" indeed they were designed to make one piece.--I.F.]

From 1815 to 1832 this was classed among the "Poems proceeding from
Sentiment and Reflection." In 1836 it was transferred to the group of
"Poems of the Imagination."--Ed.




  Dear Child of Nature, let them rail!
--There is a nest in a green dale,
  A harbour and a hold;
  Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shalt see
  Thy own heart-stirring days, [1] and be                       5
  A light to young and old.

  There, healthy as a shepherd boy,
  And treading among flowers of joy
  Which at no season fade, [2]
  Thou, while thy babes around thee cling,                     10
  Shalt show us how divine a thing
  A Woman may be made.

  Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die,
  Nor leave thee, when grey hairs are nigh
  A melancholy slave;                                          15
  But an old age serene [3] and bright,
  And lovely as a Lapland night,
  Shall lead thee to thy grave.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1836.

  Thy own delightful days, ...      1802.]


[Variant 2:

1836.

  As if thy heritage were joy,
  And pleasure were thy trade.       1802.

  And treading among flowers of joy,
  That at no season fade,            1827.]


[Variant 3:

1815.

  ... alive ...      1802.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: For the original title of this poem,--as published in 'The
Morning Post and Gazetteer',--see the note to the previous poem. When
first published it was unsigned.--Ed.]


See the editorial note to the preceding poem.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





1803


The poems associated with the year 1803 consist mainly of the "Memorials
of a Tour in Scotland," which Wordsworth and his sister took--along with
Coleridge--in the autumn of that year, although many of these were not
written till some time after the Tour was finished. 'The Green Linnet'
and 'Yew-trees' were written in 1803, and some sonnets were composed in
the month of October; but, on the whole, 1803 was not a fruitful year in
Wordsworth's life, as regards his lyrics and smaller poems. Doubtless
both 'The Prelude' and 'The Excursion' were revised in 1803.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





THE GREEN LINNET


Composed 1803.--Published 1807


[Composed in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere, where the bird was often
seen as here described.--I.F.]

One of the "Poems of the Fancy."--Ed.




  Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
  Their snow white blossoms on my head,
  With brightest sunshine round me spread
    Of spring's unclouded weather,
  In this sequestered nook how sweet                          5
  To sit upon my orchard-seat!
  And birds and flowers once more to greet,
    My last year's friends together. [1]

  One have I marked, the happiest guest
  In all this covert of the blest:                           10
  Hail to Thee, far above the rest
    In joy of voice and pinion!
  Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,
  Presiding Spirit here to-day,
  Dost lead the revels of the May;                           15
    And this is thy dominion.

  While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,
  Make all one band of paramours,
  Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
    Art sole in thy employment:                              20
  A Life, a Presence like the Air,
  Scattering thy gladness without care,
  Too blest with any one to pair;
    Thyself thy own enjoyment.

  Amid [2] yon tuft of hazel trees,                          25
  That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
  Behold him perched in ecstacies,
    Yet seeming still to hover;
  There! where the flutter of his wings
  Upon his back and body flings                              30
  Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
    That cover him all over.

  My dazzled sight he oft deceives,
  A Brother of the dancing leaves;
  Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves                     35
    Pours forth his song in gushes; [3]
  As if by that exulting strain
  He mocked and treated with disdain
  The voiceless Form he chose to feign,
    While fluttering in the bushes. [4]                      40


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827.

  The May is come again:--how sweet
  To sit upon my Orchard-seat!
  And Birds and Flowers once more to greet,
    My last year's Friends together:
  My thoughts they all by turns employ;
  A whispering Leaf is now my joy,
  And then a Bird will be the toy
    That doth my fancy tether.                   1807.

  And Flowers and Birds once more to greet,      1815.

The text of 1815 is otherwise identical with that of 1827.]


[Variant 2:

1845.

  Upon ...      1807.]


[Variant 3:

1845.

  While thus before my eyes he gleams,
  A Brother of the Leaves he seems;
  When in a moment forth he teems
  His little song in gushes:               1807.

  My sight he dazzles, half deceives,
  A Bird so like the dancing Leaves;
  Then flits, and from the Cottage eaves
    Pours forth his song in gushes;        1827.

  My dazzled sight the Bird deceives,
  A Brother of the dancing Leaves;         1832.

  The Bird my dazzled sight deceives,      1840.

  The Bird my dazzling sight deceives      C.]


[Variant 4:

1827.

  As if it pleas'd him to disdain
  And mock the Form which he did feign,
  While he was dancing with the train
    Of Leaves among the bushes.              1807.

  The voiceless Form he chose to feign,      1820.]


Of all Wordsworth's poems this is the one most distinctively associated
with the Orchard, at Town-end, Grasmere. Dorothy Wordsworth writes in
her Journal under date May 28th, 1802:

  "We sat in the orchard. The young bull-finches in their pretty
   raiment, bustle about among the blossoms, and poise
  themselves like wire-dancers or tumblers, shaking the twigs and
  dashing off the blossoms."

Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





YEW-TREES


Composed 1803.--Published 1815


[Written at Grasmere. These Yew-trees are still standing, but the spread
of that at Lorton is much diminished by mutilation. I will here mention
that a little way up the hill, on the road leading from Rosthwaite to
Stonethwaite (in Borrowdale) lay the trunk of a Yew-tree, which appeared
as you approached, so vast was its diameter, like the entrance of a
cave, and not a small one. Calculating upon what I have observed of the
slow growth of this tree in rocky situations, and of its durability, I
have often thought that the one I am describing must have been as old as
the Christian era. The Tree lay in the line of a fence. Great masses of
its ruins were strewn about, and some had been rolled down the hillside
and lay near the road at the bottom. As you approached the tree, you
were struck with the number of shrubs and young plants, ashes, etc.,
which had found a bed upon the decayed trunk and grew to no
inconsiderable height, forming, as it were, a part of the hedgerow. In
no part of England, or of Europe, have I ever seen a yew-tree at all
approaching this in magnitude, as it must have stood. By the bye,
Hutton, the old guide, of Keswick, had been so impressed with the
remains of this tree, that he used gravely to tell strangers that there
could be no doubt of its having been in existence before the
flood.--I.F.]

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




  There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,
  Which to this day stands single, in the midst
  Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore:
  Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands
  Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched                          5
  To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea
  And drew their sounding bows at Azincour,
  Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.
  Of vast circumference and gloom profound
  This solitary Tree! a living thing                              10
  Produced too slowly ever to decay;
  Of form and aspect too magnificent
  To be destroyed. But worthier still of note
  Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale,
  Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;                       15
  Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth
  Of intertwisted fibres serpentine
  Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved;
  Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and looks
  That threaten the profane;--a pillared shade,                   20
  Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue,
  By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged
  Perennially--beneath whose sable roof
  Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked
  With unrejoicing berries--ghostly Shapes                        25
  May meet at noontide; Fear and trembling Hope,
  Silence and Foresight; Death the Skeleton
  And Time the Shadow;--there to celebrate,
  As in a natural temple scattered o'er
  With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,                         30
  United worship; or in mute repose
  To lie, and listen to the mountain flood
  Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.



The text of this poem was never altered. The Lorton Yew-tree--which, in
1803, was "of vast circumference," the "pride of Lorton Vale," and
described as:

    'a living thing
  Produced too slowly ever to decay;
  Of form and aspect too magnificent
  To be destroyed--'

does not now verify its poet's prediction of the future. Mr. Wilson
Robinson of Whinfell Hall, Cockermouth, wrote to me of it in May 1880:

  "The tree in outline expanded towards the root considerably: then, at
  about two feet from the ground, the trunk began to separate into huge
  limbs, spreading in all directions. I once measured this trunk at its
  least circumference, and found it 23 feet 10 inches. For the last 50
  or 60 years the branches have been gradually dying on the S. E. side,
  and about 25 years ago a strong S. E. gale, coming with accumulated
  force down Hope Gill, and--owing to the tree being so open on that
  side--taking it laterally at a disadvantage, wrenched off one of the
  great side branches down to the ground, carrying away nearly a third
  of the tree. This event led to farther peril; for, the second portion
  having been sold to a cabinetmaker at Whitehaven for L15, this gave
  the impression that the wood was very valuable (owing to the celebrity
  of the tree); and a local woodmonger bought the remainder. Two men
  worked half a day to grub it up; but a Cockermouth medical gentleman,
  hearing what was going on, made representations to the owner, and it
  ended in the woodmen sparing the remainder of the tree, which was not
  much the worse for what had been done. Many large dead branches have
  also been cut off, and now we have to regret that the 'pride of Lorton
  Vale,' shorn of its ancient dignity, is but a ruin, much more
  venerable than picturesque."

The "fraternal Four of Borrowdale" are certainly "worthier still of
note." The "trunk" described in the Fenwick note, as on the road between
Rosthwaite and Stonethwaite, has disappeared long ago; but the "solemn
and capacious grove" existed till 1883 in its integrity. The description
in the poem is realistic throughout, while the visible scene suggests

  "an ideal grove, in which the ghostly masters of mankind meet, and
  sleep, and offer worship to the Destiny that abides above them, while
  the mountain flood, as if from another world, makes music to which
  they dimly listen."

(Stopford A. Brooke, in 'Theology in the English Poets', p. 259.) With
the first part of the poem Wordsworth's 'Sonnet composed at----Castle'
during the Scotch Tour of 1803 may be compared (p. 410). For a critical
estimate of the poem see 'Modern Painters', part III. sec. II, chap. iv.
Ruskin alludes to "the real and high action of the imagination in
Wordsworth's 'Yew-trees' (perhaps the most vigorous and solemn bit of
forest landscape ever painted). It is too long to quote, but the reader
should refer to it: let him note especially, if painter, that pure touch
of colour, 'by sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged.'" See also
Coleridge's criticism in 'Biographia Literaria', vol. ii. p. 177,
edition 1847, and his daughter Sara's comment on her father's note.
There can be little doubt that, as Professor Dowden has suggested, the
lines 23 to 28 were suggested to Wordsworth by Virgil's lines in the
Sixth Book of the 'AEneid', 273-284--

  'Vestibulum ante ipsum primisque in faucibus Orci
  Luctus et ultrices posuere cubilia Curae;
  Pallentesque habitant Morbi, tristisque Senectus,
  Et Metus, et malesuada Fames, ac turpis Egestas,
  Terribiles visu formae, Letumque, Labosque;
  Tum consanguineus Leti Sopor, et mala mentis
  Gaudia, mortiferumque adverso in limine Bellum,
  Ferreique Eumenidum thalami, et Discordia demens,
  Vipereum crinem vittis innexa cruentis.
    In medio ramos annosaque bracchia pandit
  Ulmus opaca, ingens, quam sedem Somnia volgo
  Vana tenere ferunt, foliisque sub omnibus haerent.'


  "The 'Four Yew Trees,' and the mysterious company which you have
  assembled there, 'Death the Skeleton and Time the Shadow.' It is a
  sight not for every youthful poet to dream of; it is one of the last
  results he must have gone thinking for years for."

(Charles Lamb to Wordsworth, 1815.)

In Crabb Robinson's 'Diary', a reference to the Yew-trees of Lorton and
Borrowdale will be found under date Sept. 16 and 20, 1816.

  "The pride of Lorton Vale" is now a ruin, and has lost all its ancient
  majesty: but, until the close of 1883, the "fraternal four" of
  Borrowdale were still to be seen "in grand assemblage." Every one who
  has felt the power of Wordsworth's poetry,--and especially those who
  had visited the Seathwaite valley, and read the 'Yew-Trees' under the
  shade of that once "solemn and capacious grove" before 1884,--must
  have felt as if they had lost a personal friend, when they heard that
  the "grove" was gone. The great gale of December 11, 1883, smote it
  fiercely, uprooting one of the trees, and blowing the others to
  ribbands. The following is Mr. Rawnsley's account of the disaster:

    'Last week the gale that ravaged England did the Lake country much
    harm. We could spare many of the larch plantations, and could hear
    (with a sigh) of the fall of the giant Scotch firs opposite the
    little Scafell Inn at Rosthwaite, and that Watendlath had lost its
    pines; but who could spare those ancient Yews, the great

      "... fraternal Four of Borrowdale,
      Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;
      Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth
      Of intertwisted fibres serpentine
      Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved."

    'For beneath their pillared shade since Wordsworth wrote his poem,
    that Yew-tree grove has suggested to many a wanderer up Borrowdale,
    and visitant to the Natural Temple,

      "an ideal grove in which the ghostly masters of mankind meet, and
      sleep, and offer worship to the Destiny that abides above them,
      while the mountain flood, as if from another world, makes music to
      which they dimly listen."

    'These Yew-trees, seemingly

      "Produced too slowly ever to decay;
      Of form and aspect too magnificent
      To be destroyed,"

    'have been ruthlessly overthrown. One has been uprooted bodily; all
    the leaders and branches of the others have been wrenched from the
    main trunk; and the three still standing are bare poles and broken
    wreckage. Until one visits the spot one can have no conception of
    the wholesale destruction that the hurricane has wrought; until he
    looks on the huge rosy-hearted branches he cannot guess the
    tremendous force with which the tornado had fallen upon that "sable
    roof of boughs."

    'For tornado or whirlwind it must needs have been. The Yews grew
    under the eastern flank of the hill called Base Brown. The gale
    raged from the westward. One could hardly believe it possible that
    the trees could have been touched by it; for the barrier hill on
    which they grew,--and under whose shelter they have seen centuries
    of storm,--goes straight upwards, betwixt them and the west. It was
    only realizable when, standing amid the wreckage, and looking across
    the valley, it was seen that a larch plantation had been entirely
    levelled, and evidently by a wind that was coming from the east, and
    directly toward the Yew-trees. On enquiring at Seathwaite Farm, one
    found that all the slates blown from the roof of that building on
    the west side, had been whirled up clean over the roof: and we can
    only surmise that the winds rushing from the west and north-west,
    and meeting the bastions of Glaramara and the Sty-head <DW72>s, were
    whirled round in the 'cul-de-sac' of the valley, and moved with
    churning motion back from east to west over the Seathwaite Farm, and
    so in straight line across the beck, and up the <DW72> to the
    Yew-tree cluster. With what a wrenching, and with what violence,
    these trees were in a moment shattered, only those can guess who now
    witness the ruins of the pillared shade, upon the "grassless floor
    of red-brown hue."'"

Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





"WHO FANCIED WHAT A PRETTY SIGHT"


Composed 1803.--Published 1807


In the edition of 1807 this poem was No. VIII. of the series entitled
"Moods of my own Mind." It was afterwards included among the "Poems of
the Fancy," and in a MS. copy it was named "The Coronet of
Snowdrops."--Ed.




  Who fancied what a pretty sight
  This Rock would be if edged around
  With living snow-drops? circlet bright!
  How glorious to this orchard-ground!
  Who loved the little Rock, and set                    5
  Upon its head this coronet?

  Was it the humour of a child?
  Or rather of some gentle [1] maid,
  Whose brows, the day that she was styled
  The shepherd-queen, were thus arrayed?               10
  Of man mature, or matron sage?
  Or old man toying with his age?

  I asked--'twas whispered; The device
  To each and [2] all might well belong:
  It is the Spirit of Paradise                         15
  That prompts such work, a Spirit strong,
  That gives to all the self-same bent
  Where life is wise and innocent.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1836.

  ... love-sick ...       1807.]


[Variant 2:

1827.

  ... or ...       1807.]





       *       *       *       *       *





"IT IS NO SPIRIT WHO FROM HEAVEN HATH FLOWN"


Composed 1803.--Published 1807


[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. I remember the instant my sister S. H.,
called me to the window of our Cottage, saying, "Look how beautiful is
yon star! It has the sky all to itself." I composed the verses
immediately.--I.F.]

This was No. XIII. of "Moods of my own Mind," in the edition of 1807. It
was afterwards included among the "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed.




  It is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown,
  And is descending on his embassy;
  Nor Traveller gone from earth the heavens to espy!
  'Tis Hesperus--there he stands with glittering crown,
  First admonition that the sun is down!                        5
  For yet it is broad day-light: clouds pass by;
  A few are near him still--and now the sky,
  He hath it to himself--'tis all his own.
  O most ambitious Star! an inquest wrought
  Within me when I recognised thy light;                       10
  A moment I was startled at the sight:
  And, while I gazed, there came to me a thought
  That I might step beyond my natural race
  As thou seem'st now to do; might one day trace [1]
  Some ground not mine; and, strong her strength above,        15
  My Soul, an Apparition in the place,
  Tread there with steps that no one shall reprove! [A]


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANT ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1: 1807.

  O most ambitious Star! an inquest wrought
  Within me when I recognised thy light;
  A moment I was startled at the sight:
  And, while I gazed, there came to me a thought
  That even I beyond my natural race
  Might step as thou dost now: might one day trace    1815.

  O most ambitious Star! thy Presence brought
  A startling recollection to my mind
  Of the distinguished few among mankind,
  Who dare to step beyond their natural race,
  As thou seem'st now to do:--nor was a thought
  Denied--that even I might one day trace             1820.

The text of 1836 returns to that of 1807.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Professor Dowden directs attention to the relation between
these lines and the poem beginning "If thou indeed derive thy light from
Heaven."--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND

1803

These poems were first collected, under the above title, in the edition
of 1827. In 1807, nine of them--viz. 'Rob Roy's Grave', 'The Solitary
Reaper', 'Stepping Westward', 'Glen Almain, or, The Narrow Glen', 'The
Matron of Jedborough and her Husband', 'To a Highland Girl', 'Sonnet',
'To the Sons of Burns after visiting the Grave of their Father', 'Yarrow
Unvisited',--were printed under the title, "Poems written during a Tour
in Scotland." This group begins the second volume of the edition of that
year. But in 1815 and 1820--when Wordsworth began to arrange his poems
in groups--they were distributed with the rest of the series in the
several artificial sections. Although some were composed after the Tour
was finished--and the order in which Wordsworth placed them is not the
order of the Scotch Tour itself--it is advisable to keep to his own
method of arrangement in dealing with this particular group, for the
same reason that we retain it in such a series as the Duddon
Sonnets.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





DEPARTURE FROM THE VALE OF GRASMERE. AUGUST, 1803 [A]


Composed 1811.--Published 1827


[Mr. Coleridge, my sister, and myself started together from Town-end to
make a tour in Scotland. Poor Coleridge was at that time in bad spirits,
and somewhat too much in love with his own dejection; and he departed
from us, as is recorded in my Sister's Journal, soon after we left Loch
Lomond. The verses that stand foremost among these Memorials were not
actually written for the occasion, but transplanted from my 'Epistle to
Sir George Beaumont'.--I. F.]




  The gentlest Shade that walked Elysian plains
  Might sometimes covet dissoluble chains;
  Even for the tenants of the zone that lies
  Beyond the stars, celestial Paradise,
  Methinks 'twould heighten joy, to overleap                    5
  At will the crystal battlements, and peep
  Into some other region, though less fair,
  To see how things are made and managed there.
  Change for the worse might please, incursion bold
  Into the tracts of darkness and of cold;                     10
  O'er Limbo lake with aery flight to steer,
  And on the verge of Chaos hang in fear.
  Such animation often do I find,
  Power in my breast, wings growing in my mind,
  Then, when some rock or hill is overpast,                    15
  Perchance without one look behind me cast,
  Some barrier with which Nature, from the birth
  Of things, has fenced this fairest spot on earth.
  O pleasant transit, Grasmere! to resign
  Such happy fields, abodes so calm as thine;                  20
  Not like an outcast with himself at strife;
  The slave of business, time, or care for life,
  But moved by choice; or, if constrained in part,
  Yet still with Nature's freedom at the heart;--
  To cull contentment upon wildest shores,                     25
  And luxuries extract from bleakest moors;
  With prompt embrace all beauty to enfold,
  And having rights in all that we behold.
--Then why these lingering steps?--A bright adieu,
  For a brief absence, proves that love is true;               30
  Ne'er can the way be irksome or forlorn
  That winds into itself for sweet return.


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: This first poem referring to the Scottish Tour of 1803, was
not actually written till 1811. It originally formed the opening
paragraph of the 'Epistle to Sir George Beaumont'. Wordsworth himself
dated it 1804. It is every way desirable that it should introduce the
series of poems referring to the Tour of 1803.--Ed.]


The following is from Dorothy Wordsworth's 'Recollections of a Tour made
in Scotland':

  "William and I parted from Mary on Sunday afternoon, August 14th,
  1803; and William, Coleridge, and I left Keswick on Monday morning,
  the 15th."

Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS, 1803. SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH


Composed 1803. [A]--Published 1842


[For illustration, see my Sister's Journal. It may be proper to add that
the second of these pieces, though _felt_ at the time, was not composed
till many years after.--I. F.]




  I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold,
  At thought of what I now behold:
  As vapours breathed from dungeons cold
      Strike pleasure dead,
  So sadness comes from out [1] the mould                     5
      Where Burns is laid.

  And have I then thy bones so near,
  And thou forbidden to appear?
  As if it were thyself that's here
      I shrink with pain;                                    10
  And both my wishes and my fear
      Alike are vain.
  [2]
  Off weight--nor press on weight!--away
  Dark thoughts!--they came, but not to stay;
  With chastened feelings would I pay                        15
      The tribute due
  To him, and aught that hides his clay
      From mortal view.

  Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth
  He sang, his genius "glinted" forth, [B]                   20
  Rose like a star that touching earth,
      For so it seems,
  Doth glorify its humble birth
      With matchless beams.

  The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow,                     25
  The struggling heart, where be they now?--
  Full soon the Aspirant of the plough,
      The prompt, the brave,
  Slept, with the obscurest, in the low
      And silent grave.                                      30

  I mourned with thousands, but as one
  More deeply grieved, for He was gone
  Whose light I hailed when first it shone,
      And showed my youth [3]
  How Verse may build a princely throne                      35
      On humble truth.

  Alas! where'er the current tends,
  Regret pursues and with it blends,--
  Huge Criffel's hoary top ascends
      By Skiddaw seen,--40
  Neighbours we were, and loving friends
      We might have been;

  True friends though diversely inclined;
  But heart with heart and mind with mind,
  Where the main fibres are entwined,                        45
      Through Nature's skill,
  May even by contraries be joined
      More closely still.

  The tear will start, and let it flow;
  Thou "poor Inhabitant below," [C]                          50
  At this dread moment--even so--
      Might we together
  Have sate and talked where gowans blow,
      Or on wild heather.

  What treasures would have then been placed                 55
  Within my reach; of knowledge graced
  By fancy what a rich repast!
      But why go on?--
  Oh! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast,
      His grave grass-grown.                                 60

  There, too, a Son, his joy and pride,
  (Not three weeks past the Stripling died,)
  Lies gathered to his Father's side,
      Soul-moving sight!
  Yet one to which is not denied                             65
      Some sad delight.

  For _he_ is safe, a quiet bed
  Hath early found among the dead,
  Harboured where none can be misled,
      Wronged, or distrest;                                  70
  And surely here it may be said
      That such are blest.

  And oh for Thee, by pitying grace
  Checked oft-times in a devious race,
  May He who halloweth the place                             75
      Where Man is laid
  Receive thy Spirit in the embrace
      For which it prayed!

  Sighing I turned away; but ere
  Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear,                     80
  Music that sorrow comes not near,
      A ritual hymn,
  Chanted in love that casts out fear
      By Seraphim. [D]


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1842.

  ... out of ...    MS.]


[Variant 2:

  But wherefore tremble? 'tis no place
  Of pain and sorrow, but of grace,
  Of shelter, and of silent peace,
      And "friendly aid";
  Grasped is he now in that embrace
      For which he prayed. [a]        MS.]


[Variant 3:

1845.

  Well might I mourn that He was gone
  Whose light I hailed when first it shone,
  When, breaking forth as nature's own,
      It showed my youth                 1842.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: It is dated thus by Wordsworth himself on three occasions,
and the year of its composition is also indicated in the title of the
poem.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare Burns's poem 'To a Mountain Daisy', l. 15.--Ed.]


[Footnote C: See Burns's 'A Bard's Epitaph', l. 19.--Ed.]


[Footnote D: Compare 'The Tomb of Burns', by William Watson, 1895.--Ed.]


       *       *       *       *       *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Sub-Footnote a:  See in his poem the 'Ode to Ruin'.--Ed.]



The following is an extract from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal of the
Tour in Scotland:

  "Thursday, August 18th.--Went to the churchyard where Burns is
  buried. A bookseller accompanied us. He showed us the outside of
  Burns's house, where he had lived the last three years of his life,
  and where he died. It has a mean appearance, and is in a bye
  situation, whitewashed.... Went on to visit his grave. He lies at a
  corner of the churchyard, and his second son, Francis Wallace, beside
  him. There is no stone to mark the spot; but a hundred guineas have
  been collected, to be expended on some sort of monument.

    'There,' said the bookseller, pointing to a pompous monument, 'there
    lies Mr. Such-a-one. I have forgotten his name. A remarkably clever
    man; he was an attorney, and hardly ever lost a cause he undertook.
    Burns made many a lampoon upon him, and there they rest, as you
    see.'

  We looked at the grave with melancholy and painful reflections,
  repeating to each other his own verses.

    'Is there a man whose judgment clear,
    Can others teach the way to steer,
    Yet runs himself life's mad career,
                Wild as the wave?
    Here let him pause, and through a tear
                Survey this grave.

    The poor Inhabitant below
    Was quick to learn, and wise to know,
    And keenly felt the friendly glow,
                And softer flame;
    But thoughtless follies laid him low
                And stained his name.'

  "I cannot take leave of the country which we passed through to-day
  without mentioning that we saw the Cumberland Mountains, within
  half-a-mile of Ellisland, Burns's house, the last view we had of them.
  Drayton has prettily described the connection which this neighbourhood
  has with ours when he makes Skiddaw say:

                     'Seurfell [E] from the sky,
    That Anadale [F] doth crown, with a most amorous eye,
    Salutes me every day, or at my pride looks grim,
    Oft threatening me with clouds, as I oft threatening him!'

  "These lines recurred to William's memory, and we talked of Burns, and
  of the prospect he must have had, perhaps from his own door, of
  Skiddaw and his companions, including ourselves in the fancy, that we
  _might_ have been personally known to each other, and he have looked
  upon those objects with more pleasure for our sakes."

Ed.


[Footnote E: Criffel.--Ed.]


[Footnote F: Annandale.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





THOUGHTS SUGGESTED THE DAY FOLLOWING, ON THE BANKS OF NITH, NEAR THE
POET'S RESIDENCE


Composed 1803. [A]--Published 1842




  Too frail to keep the lofty vow
  That must have followed when his brow
  Was wreathed--"The Vision" [B] tells us how--
        With holly spray,
  He faultered, drifted to and fro,                           5
        And passed away.

  Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throng
  Our minds when, lingering all too long,
  Over the grave of Burns we hung
        In social grief--10
  Indulged as if it were a wrong
        To seek relief.

  But, leaving each unquiet theme
  Where gentlest judgments may misdeem,
  And prompt to welcome every gleam                          15
        Of good and fair,
  Let us beside this limpid Stream
        Breathe hopeful air.

  Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight;
  Think rather of those moments bright                       20
  When to the consciousness of right
        His course was true,
  When Wisdom prospered in his sight
        And virtue grew.

  Yes, freely let our hearts expand,                         25
  Freely as in youth's season bland,
  When side by side, his Book in hand,
        We wont to stray,
  Our pleasure varying at command
        Of each sweet Lay.                                   30

  How oft inspired must he have trod
  These pathways, yon far-stretching road!
  There lurks his home; in that Abode,
        With mirth elate,
  Or in his nobly-pensive mood,                              35
        The Rustic sate.

  Proud thoughts that Image overawes,
  Before it humbly let us pause,
  And ask of Nature, from what cause
      And by what rules                                      40
  She trained her Burns to win applause
      That shames the Schools.

  Through busiest street and loneliest glen
  Are felt the flashes of his pen;
  He rules mid winter snows, and when                        45
      Bees fill their hives;
  Deep in the general heart of men
      His power survives.

  What need of fields in some far clime
  Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime,                        50
  And all that fetched the flowing rhyme
        From genuine springs,
  Shall dwell together till old Time
        Folds up his wings?

  Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven                        55
  This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven;
  The rueful conflict, the heart riven
        With vain endeavour,
  And memory of Earth's bitter leaven,
        Effaced for ever.                                    60

  But why to Him confine the prayer,
  When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear
  On the frail heart the purest share
      With all that live?--
  The best of what we do and are,                            65
      Just God, forgive!


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Though "suggested" on "the day following," these stanzas
were not written then; but "many years after." They must, however, find
a place in the "Memorials" of this 1803 Tour in Scotland.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: Burns's poem, thus named.--Ed.]



See the note to the previous poem. The line

  'These pathways, yon far-stretching road!'

refers probably to the road to Brownhill, past Ellisland farmhouse
where Burns lived. "The day following" would be Aug. 19th,
1803. The extract which follows from the Journal is a further
illustration of the poem. August 8th.

  "... Travelled through the vale of Nith, here little like a vale, it
  is so broad, with irregular hills rising up on each side, in outline
  resembling the old-fashioned valances of a bed. There is a great deal
  of arable land; the corn ripe; trees here and there--plantations,
  clumps, coppices, a newness in everything. So much of the gorse and
  broom rooted out that you wonder why it is not all gone, and yet there
  seems to be almost as much gorse and broom as corn; and they grow one
  among another you know not how. Crossed the Nith; the vale becomes
  narrow, and very pleasant; cornfields, green hills, clay cottages; the
  river's bed rocky, with woody banks. Left the Nith about a mile and a
  half, and reached Brownhill, a lonely inn, where we slept. The view
  from the windows was pleasing, though some travellers might have been
  disposed to quarrel with it for its general nakedness; yet there was
  abundance of corn. It is an open country--open, yet all over hills. At
  a little distance were many cottages among trees, that looked very
  pretty. Brownhill is about seven or eight miles from Ellisland. I
  fancied to myself, while I was sitting in the parlour, that Burns
  might have caroused there, for most likely his rounds extended so far,
  and this thought gave a melancholy interest to the smoky walls...."

On Dec. 23, 1839, Wordsworth wrote to Professor Henry Reed,
Philadelphia:

  "The other day I chanced to be looking over a MS. poem belonging to
  the year 1803, though not actually composed till many years
  afterwards. It was suggested by visiting the neighbourhood of
  Dumfries, in which Burns had resided, and where he died: it concluded
  thus:

    'Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven, etc.'

  I instantly added, the other day,

    'But why to Him confine the prayer, etc.'

  The more I reflect upon this, the more I feel justified in attaching
  comparatively small importance to any literary monument that I may be
  enabled to leave behind. It is well however, I am convinced, that men
  think otherwise in the earlier part of their lives...."

It may be mentioned that in his note to the "Poems, chiefly
of Early and Late Years," (1842), Wordsworth does not quote
from the text of his sister's Journal,--which was first published
in 1875,--but from some other copy of it.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





TO THE SONS OF BURNS, AFTER VISITING THE GRAVE OF THEIR FATHER [A]


Composed before 1807 [B]--Published 1807


The Poet's grave is in a corner of the church-yard. We looked at it with
melancholy and painful reflections, repeating to each other his own
verses:

  'Is there a man whose judgment clear, etc.'

'Extract from the Journal of my Fellow-Traveller.'--W. W. 1827. [C]

One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection" in the 1815 and 1820
editions.--Ed.




  'Mid crowded obelisks and urns
  I sought the untimely grave of Burns;
  Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns
      With sorrow true;
  And more would grieve, but that it turns                  5
      Trembling to you!

  Through twilight shades of good and ill
  Ye now are panting up life's hill, [1]
  And more than common strength and skill
      Must ye display;                                     10
  If ye would give the better will
      Its lawful sway.

  Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear
  Intemperance with less harm, beware!
  But if the Poet's wit ye share,                          15
      Like him can speed
  The social hour--of tenfold care [2]
      There will be need;

  For honest men delight will take
  To spare your failings for his sake,                     20
  Will flatter you,--and fool and rake [3]
      Your steps pursue;
  And of your Father's name will make
      A snare for you.

  Far from their noisy haunts retire,                      25
  And add your voices to the quire
  That sanctify the cottage fire
      With service meet;
  There seek the genius of your Sire,
      His spirit greet;                                    30

  Or where,'mid "lonely heights and hows," [D]
  He paid to Nature tuneful vows;
  Or wiped his honourable brows
      Bedewed with toil,
  While reapers strove, or busy ploughs                    35
      Upturned the soil;

  His judgment with benignant ray
  Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way;
  But ne'er to a seductive lay
      Let faith be given;                                  40
  Nor deem that "light which leads astray,
      Is light from Heaven." [E]

  Let no mean hope your souls enslave;
  Be independent, generous, brave;
  Your Father such example gave,                           45
      And such revere;
  But be admonished by his grave,
      And think, and fear! [F]


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827.

  Ye now are panting up life's hill!
  'Tis twilight time of good and ill,    1807.]


[Variant 2:

1840.

  Strong bodied if ye be to bear
  Intemperance with less harm, beware!
  But if your Father's wit ye share,
      Then, then indeed,
  Ye Sons of Burns! for watchful care     1807.

  ... for tenfold care                    1827.

The text of 1827 is otherwise identical with that of 1840.]


[Variant 3:

1840.

  For honest men delight will take
  To shew you favor for his sake,
  Will flatter you; and Fool and Rake     1807.

  For their beloved Poet's sake,
  Even honest men delight will take
  To flatter you; ...                     1820.

  Even honest Men delight will take
  To spare your failings for his sake,
  Will flatter you,--...                 1827.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: In the edition of 1807, this poem has the title 'Address to
the Sons of Burns after visiting their Father's Grave (August 14th,
1803)'. Slight changes were made in the title afterwards.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: Dorothy Wordsworth wrote, in her 'Recollections' of this
tour, under date August 18th, 1803,

  "William wrote long afterwards the following Address to the sons of
  the ill-fated poet."

Ed.]


[Footnote C: This explanatory note appears in every edition of the Poems
from 1827 to 1850. It is taken (but not literally) from the
'Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland' as published in 1875.--Ed.]


[Footnote D: From Burns's 'Epistle to James Smith', l. 53.--Ed.]


[Footnote E: From Burns's poem, 'The Vision', Duan Second.--Ed.]


[Footnote F: In the edition of 1807, the poem began with what is now the
second stanza, and consisted of four stanzas only, viz. Nos. ii., iii.,
iv., and viii. Stanzas i., v., vi., and vii. were added in 1827. Stanza
iii. was omitted in 1820, but restored in 1827.--Ed.]



In Dorothy Wordsworth's 'Recollections' of this Tour we find, under date
August 18, 1803:

  "The grave of Burns's Son, which we had just seen by the side of his
  Father, and some stories heard at Dumfries respecting the dangers his
  surviving children were exposed to, filled us with melancholy
  concern, which had a kind of connection with ourselves."


  "The body of Burns was not allowed to remain long in this place. To
  suit the plan of a rather showy mausoleum his remains were removed
  into a more commodious spot of the same kirkyard on the 5th July
  1815."--(Allan Cunningham.)

'Ellen Irwin; or, the Braes of Kirtle', comes next in this series of
"Memorials of a Tour in Scotland, 1803." It has already been printed,
however, (p. 124), in its proper chronological place, among the poems
belonging to the year 1800.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





TO A HIGHLAND GIRL

(AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND)


Composed 1803.--Published 1807


Classed in 1815 and 1820 as one of the "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed.

[This delightful creature and her demeanour are particularly described
in my Sister's Journal. The sort of prophecy with which the verses
conclude has, through God's goodness, been realized; and now,
approaching the close of my 73rd year, I have a most vivid remembrance
of her and the beautiful objects with which she was surrounded. She is
alluded to in the poem of 'The Three Cottage Girls' among my Continental
Memorials. In illustration of this class of poems I have scarcely
anything to say beyond what is anticipated in my Sister's faithful and
admirable Journal.--I. F.]




  Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
  Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
  Twice seven consenting years have shed
  Their utmost bounty on thy head:
  And these grey rocks; that [1] household lawn;                5
  Those trees, [A] a veil just half withdrawn;
  This fall of water that doth make
  A murmur near the silent lake;
  This little bay; a quiet road
  That holds in shelter thy Abode--10
  In truth together do ye seem [2]
  Like something fashioned in a dream;
  Such Forms as from their covert peep
  When earthly cares are laid asleep!
  But, O fair Creature! in the light                           15
  Of common day, so heavenly bright, [3]
  I bless Thee, Vision [4] as thou art,
  I bless thee with a human heart;
  God shield thee to thy latest years!
  Thee, neither know I, [5] nor thy peers;                     20
  And yet my eyes are filled with tears.

    With earnest feeling I shall pray
  For thee when I am far away:
  For never saw I mien, or face,
  In which more plainly I could trace                          25
  Benignity and home-bred sense
  Ripening in perfect innocence.
  Here scattered, like a random seed,
  Remote from men, Thou dost not need
  The embarrassed look of shy distress,                        30
  And maidenly shamefacedness:
  Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear
  The freedom of a Mountaineer:
  A face with gladness overspread!
  Soft smiles, [6] by human kindness bred!                     35
  And seemliness complete, that sways
  Thy courtesies, about thee plays;
  With no restraint, but such as springs
  From quick and eager visitings
  Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach                        40
  Of thy few words of English speech:
  A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife
  That gives thy gestures grace and life!
  So have I, not unmoved in mind,
  Seen birds of tempest-loving kind--45
  Thus beating up against the wind.

    What hand but would a garland cull
  For thee who art so beautiful?
  O happy pleasure! here to dwell
  Beside thee in some heathy dell;                             50
  Adopt your homely ways and dress,
  A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess!
  But I could frame a wish for thee
  More like a grave reality:
  Thou art to me but as a wave                                 55
  Of the wild sea; and I would have
  Some claim upon thee, if I could,
  Though but of common neighbourhood.
  What joy to hear thee, and to see!
  Thy elder Brother I would be,                                60
  Thy Father--anything to thee! [B]

    Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
  Hath led me to this lonely place.
  Joy have I had; and going hence
  I bear away my recompence.                                   65
  In spots like these it is we prize
  Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes:
  Then, why should I be loth to stir?
  I feel this place was made for her;
  To give new pleasure like the past,                          70
  Continued long as life shall last.
  Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,
  Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;
  For I, methinks, till I grow old,
  As fair before me shall behold,                              75
  As I do now, the cabin small,
  The lake, the bay, the waterfall;
  And Thee, the Spirit of them all!


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1837.

  ... this ...     1807.]


[Variant 2:

1827.

  In truth together ye do seem     1807.

  In truth, unfolding thus, ye seem      1837.

The text of 1845 returns to that of 1827.]


[Variant 3: The two preceding lines were added in 1845.]


[Variant 4:

1845.

  Yet, dream and vision ...      1807.

  ... or vision ...              1837.]


[Variant 5:

1845.

  I neither know thee ...      1807.]


[Variant 6:

1827.

  Sweet looks, ...      1807.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A:

  "The distribution of 'these,' 'that,' and 'those' in these two lines,
  was attained in 1845, after various changes. "

(Edward Dowden.)]


[Footnote B: Compare Virgil's 'Eclogues', x. 35:

  'Atque utinam ex vobis unus, etc.'

Ed.]



In her 'Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland', 1803, Dorothy
Wordsworth writes:

  "Sunday, August 28th.--... After long waiting, the girls, who had been
  on the look-out, informed us that the boat was coming. I went to the
  waterside, and saw a cluster of people on the opposite shore; but,
  being yet at a distance, they looked more like soldiers surrounding a
  carriage than a group of men and women; red and green were the
  distinguishable colours. We hastened to get ourselves ready as soon as
  we saw the party approach, but had longer to wait than we expected,
  the lake being wider than it appears to be. As they drew near we could
  distinguish men in tartan plaids, women in scarlet cloaks, and green
  umbrellas by the half-dozen. The landing was as pretty a sight as ever
  I saw. The bay, which had been so quiet two days before, was all in
  motion with small waves, while the swollen waterfall roared in our
  ears. The boat came steadily up, being pressed almost to the water's
  edge by the weight of its cargo; perhaps twenty people landed, one
  after another. It did not rain much, but the women held up their
  umbrellas; they were dressed in all the colours of the rainbow, and
  with their scarlet cardinals, the tartan plaids of the men, and Scotch
  bonnets, made a gay appearance. There was a joyous bustle surrounding
  the boat, which even imparted something of the same character to the
  waterfall in its tumult, and the restless grey waves; the young men
  laughed and shouted, the lasses laughed, and the elder folks seemed to
  be in a bustle to be away. I remember well with what haste the
  mistress of the house where we were ran up to seek after her child,
  and seeing us, how anxiously and kindly she inquired how we had fared,
  if we had had a good fire, had been well waited upon, etc. All this in
  three minutes--for the boatman had another party to bring from the
  other side, and hurried us off.

  "The hospitality we had met with at the two cottages and Mr.
  Macfarlane's gave us very favourable impressions on this our first
  entrance into the Highlands, and at this day the innocent merriment of
  the girls, with their kindness to us, and the beautiful face and
  figure of the elder, come to my mind whenever I think of the
  ferry-house and waterfall of Loch Lomond, and I never think of the two
  girls but the whole image of that romantic spot is before me, a living
  image as it will be to my dying day. The following poem was written by
  William not long after our return from Scotland."

Compare the poem called 'The Three Cottage Girls', in the "Memorials of
a Tour on the Continent, 1820," published in 1822.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





GLEN-ALMAIN; OR, THE NARROW GLEN


Composed (possibly) in 1803.--Published 1807


Classed in 1815 and 1820 with the "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed.




  In this still place, remote from men,
  Sleeps Ossian, in the NARROW GLEN;
  In this still place, where murmurs on
  But one meek streamlet, only one:
  He sang of battles, and the breath                             5
  Of stormy war, and violent death;
  And should, methinks, when all was past,
  Have rightfully been laid at last
  Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent
  As by a spirit turbulent;                                     10
  Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,
  And everything unreconciled;
  In some complaining, dim retreat,
  For fear and melancholy meet;
  But this is calm; there cannot be                             15
  A more entire tranquillity.

    Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?
  Or is it but a groundless creed?
  What matters it?--I blame them not
  Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot                               20
  Was moved; and in such [1] way expressed
  Their notion of its perfect rest.
  A convent, even a hermit's cell,
  Would break the silence of this Dell: [A]
  It is not quiet, is not ease;                                 25
  But something deeper far than these:
  The separation that is here
  Is of the grave; and of austere
  Yet [2] happy feelings of the dead:
  And, therefore, was it rightly said                           30
  That Ossian, last of all his race!
  Lies buried in this lonely place.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827.

  ... in this ...      1807.]


[Variant 2:

1827.

  And ...       1807.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare the poem 'To the Lady Fleming', stanza iii. ll.
28-9.--Ed.]


The glen is Glenalmond, in Perthshire, between Crieff and Amulree, known
locally as "the Sma' Glen." I am not aware that it was ever called "Glen
Almain," till Wordsworth gave it that singularly un-Scottish name. [B]
It must have been a warm August day, after a tract of dry weather, when
he went through it, or the Almond would scarcely have been called a
"small streamlet." In many seasons of the year the distinctive features
of the Glen would be more appropriately indicated by the words, which
the poet uses by way of contrast with his own experience of it, viz. a
place

  'Where sights are rough, and sounds are wild,
  And everything unreconciled.'

But his characterization of the place--a glen, the charm of which is
little known--in the stillness of an autumn afternoon, is as true to
nature as any of his interpretations of the spirit of the hills and
vales of Westmoreland. As yet there is no farm-house, scarcely even a
sheiling, to "break the silence of this Dell."

The following is Dorothy Wordsworth's account of their walk through it
on Friday, September 9th, 1803:

  "Entered the glen at a small hamlet at some distance from the head,
  and, turning aside a few steps, ascended a hillock which commanded a
  view to the top of it--a very sweet scene, a green valley, not very
  narrow, with a few scattered trees and huts, almost invisible in a
  misty green of afternoon light. At this hamlet we crossed a bridge,
  and the road led us down the glen, which had become exceedingly
  narrow, and so continued to the end: the hills on both sides heathy
  and rocky, very steep, but continuous; the rock not single or
  overhanging, not scooped into caverns, or sounding with torrents;
  there are no trees, no houses, no traces of cultivation, not one
  outstanding object. It is truly a solitude, the road even making it
  appear still more so; the bottom of the valley is mostly smooth and
  level, the brook not noisy: everything is simple and undisturbed, and
  while we passed through it the whole place was shady, cool, clear, and
  solemn. At the end of the long valley we ascended a hill to a great
  height, and reached the top, when the sun, on the point of setting,
  shed a soft yellow light upon every eminence. The prospect was very
  extensive; over hollows and plains, no towns, and few houses
  visible--a prospect, extensive as it was, in harmony with the secluded
  dell, and fixing its own peculiar character of removedness from the
  world, and the secure possession of the quiet of nature more deeply in
  our minds. The following poem was written by William on hearing of a
  tradition relating to it, which we did not know when we were there."

Ed.


[Footnote B: In the Statistical Account of Scotland, however--drawn up
by the parish ministers of the county, and edited by Sir John
Sinclair--both the river and the glen are spelt Almon, by the Rev. Mr.
Erskine, who wrote the account of Monzie Parish in Perthshire. This was
in 1795. A recent authority states:

  "'Glenamon,' in Ayrshire, and 'Glenalmond,' in Perthshire, are both
  from the corrupted spelling of the word 'Avon,' which derives from its
  being very nearly the pronunciation of the Gaelic word for 'a river.'
  These names are from 'Gleann-abhuinn,' that is,'the valley of the
  river.'"

(See the 'Gaelic Topography of Scotland', by James A. Robertson,
Edinburgh, 1859.)--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





STEPPING WESTWARD


Composed between 1803 and 1805.--Published 1807


While my Fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of Loch
Ketterine, one fine evening after sun-set, in our road to a Hut where in
the course of our Tour we had been hospitably entertained some weeks
before, we met, in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region,
two well dressed Women, one of whom said to us, by way of greeting,
"What, you are stepping westward?"--W. W. 1807.

Classed in 1815 and 1820 among the "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed.




  "_What, you are stepping westward?"--" Yea_."
    'Twould be a _wildish_ [A] destiny,
  If we, who thus together roam
  In a strange Land, and far from home,
  Were in this place the guests of Chance:                     5
  Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,
  Though home or shelter he had none,
  With such a sky to lead him on?

  The dewy ground was dark and cold;
  Behind, all gloomy to behold;                               10
  And stepping westward seemed to be
  A kind of _heavenly_ destiny:
  I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound
  Of something without place or bound;
  And seemed to give me spiritual right                       15
  To travel through that region bright.

  The voice was soft, and she who spake
  Was walking by her native lake:
  The salutation had to me [1]
  The very sound of courtesy:                                 20
  Its power was felt; and while my eye
  Was fixed upon the glowing Sky,
  The echo of the voice enwrought
  A human sweetness with the thought
  Of travelling through the world that lay                    25
  Before me in my endless way.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANT ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1807.

  ... seemed to me

In MS. letter to Sir G. Beaumont.    N. D.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Italics were first used in 1855.--Ed.]



The following is from the 'Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland':

  "Sunday, Sept. 11th.--We have never had a more delightful walk than
  this evening. Ben Lomond and the three pointed-topped mountains of
  Loch Lomond, which we had seen from the garrison, were very majestic
  under the clear sky, the lake perfectly calm, the air sweet and mild.
  I felt that it was much more interesting to visit a place where we
  have been before than it can possibly be the first time, except under
  peculiar circumstances. The sun had been set for some time, when,
  being within a quarter of a mile of the ferry man's hut, our path
  having led us close to the shore of the calm lake, we met two
  neatly-dressed women, without hats, who had probably been taking their
  Sunday evening's walk. One of them said to us in a friendly, soft tone
  of voice, 'What, you are stepping westward?' I cannot describe how
  affecting this simple expression was in that remote place, with the
  western sky in front, yet glowing with the departed sun. William wrote
  the following poem long after, in remembrance of his feelings and
  mine."

Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





THE SOLITARY REAPER


Composed between 1803 and 1805.--Published 1807


One of the "Poems of the Imagination" in 1815 and 1820.--Ed.




  Behold her, single [1] in the field,
  Yon solitary Highland Lass!
  Reaping and singing by herself;
  Stop here, or gently pass!
  Alone she cuts and binds the grain,                       5
  And sings a melancholy strain;
  O listen! for the Vale profound
  Is overflowing with the sound.

  No Nightingale did ever chaunt
  More welcome notes to weary bands [2]                    10
  Of travellers in some shady haunt,
  Among Arabian sands:
  A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard [3]
  In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
  Breaking the silence of the seas [A]                     15
  Among the farthest Hebrides.

  Will no one tell me what she sings?--
  Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
  For old, unhappy, far-off things,
  And battles long ago:                                    20
  Or is it some more humble lay,
  Familiar matter of to-day?
  Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
  That has been, and may be again?

  Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang [4]                  25
  As if her song could have no ending;
  I saw her singing at her work,
  And o'er the sickle bending;--
  I listened, motionless and still; [5]
  And, as [6] I mounted up the hill,                       30
  The music in my heart I bore,
  Long after it was heard no more.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1807.

  ... singing ...

MS.]


[Variant 2:

1827.

  So sweetly to reposing bands    1807.]


[Variant 3:

1837.

  No sweeter voice was ever heard         1807.

  ... sound ...                           MS.

  Such thrilling voice was never heard    1827.]


[Variant 4:

1815.

  ... sung    1807.]


[Variant 5:

1820.

  I listen'd till I had my fill:      1807.]


[Variant 6:

1807.

  And when ...        1827.

The text of 1837 returns to that of 1807.]


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare 'The Ancient Mariner'(part ii. stanza 6):

  'And we did speak only to break
  The silence of the sea.'

Ed.]



The following is from Dorothy Wordsworth's 'Recollections' of the Tour:
13th Sept. 1803.

  "As we descended, the scene became more fertile, our way being
  pleasantly varied--through coppices or open fields, and passing
  farm-houses, though always with an intermixture of cultivated ground.
  It was harvest-time, and the fields were quietly--might I be allowed
  to say pensively?--enlivened by small companies of reapers. It is not
  uncommon in the more lonely parts of the Highlands to see a single
  person so employed. The following poem was suggested to William by a
  beautiful sentence in Thomas Wilkinson's 'Tour in Scotland.'"

In a note appended to the editions 1807 to 1820, Wordsworth wrote:

  "This Poem was suggested by a beautiful sentence in a MS. 'Tour in
  Scotland,' written by a Friend, the last line being taken from it
  _verbatim_."

The first part of Wilkinson's 'Tours to the British Mountains', which
was published in 1824, narrates his journey in Scotland (it took place
in 1787); and the following sentence occurs in the record of his travels
near Loch Lomond (p. 12),

  "Passed a female who was reaping alone: she sung in Erse, as she
  bended over her sickle; the sweetest human voice I ever heard: her
  strains were tenderly melancholy, and felt delicious, long after they
  were heard no more."

There can be no doubt that this is the sentence referred to both by
Dorothy and William Wordsworth. Thomas Wilkinson was the friend, in
whose memory Wordsworth wrote the poem 'To the Spade of a Friend,
composed while we were labouring together in his pleasure-ground'. They
were comparatively near neighbours, as Wilkinson lived near Yanwath on
the Emont; and he had given his MS. to the Wordsworth family to read. I
have received some additional information about this MS., and
Wordsworth's knowledge of it, from Mr. Wilson Robinson, who writes,

  "From all the evidence, I conclude that Wilkinson's 'Tour to the
  Highlands' was shown in manuscript to his friends soon after his
  return;--that he was not only willing to show it, but even to allow it
  to be copied, though reluctant to publish it;--that there was
  sufficient intimacy between him and the Wordsworths to account for his
  showing or lending the manuscript to them, especially as they had
  travelled over much of the same ground, and would therefore be more
  interested in it; and that in fact it was never published till 1824."

When Wordsworth was living at Coleorton during the late autumn of 1806
he wrote to Wilkinson:

  "... What shall I say in apology for your Journal, which is now locked
  up with my manuscripts at Grasmere. As I could not go over to your
  part of the country myself, my intention was to have taken it with me
  to Kendal ... to be carefully transmitted to you; unluckily, most
  unluckily, in the hurry of departure, I forgot it, together with two
  of my own manuscripts which were along with it; and I am afraid you
  will be standing in great need of it.... If you do not want it, it is
  in a place where it can take no injury, and I may have the pleasure of
  delivering it to you myself in the spring...."

Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





ADDRESS TO KILCHURN CASTLE

UPON LOCH AWE


Begun 1803.--Published 1827


  "From the top of the hill a most impressive scene opened upon our
  view,--a ruined Castle on an Island (for an Island the flood had made
  it) [A] at some distance from the shore, backed by a Cove of the
  Mountain Cruachan, down which came a foaming stream. The Castle
  occupied every foot of the Island that was visible to us, appearing to
  rise out of the Water,--mists rested upon the mountain side, with
  spots of sunshine; there was a mild desolation in the low-grounds, a
  solemn grandeur in the mountains, and the Castle was wild, yet
  stately--not dismantled of Turrets--nor the walls broken down, though
  obviously a ruin."

'Extract from the Journal of my Companion.'--W. W. 1827.

[The first three lines were thrown off at the moment I first caught
sight of the Ruin, from a small eminence by the wayside; the rest was
added many years after.--I.F.]




  Child of loud-throated War! the mountain Stream
  Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest
  Is come, and thou art silent in thy age;
  Save when the wind sweeps by and sounds are caught
  Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs.                      5
  Oh! there is life that breathes not; 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. What art Thou, from care
  Cast off--abandoned by thy rugged Sire,                         10
  Nor by soft Peace adopted; though, in place
  And in dimension, such that thou might'st seem
  But a mere footstool to yon sovereign Lord,
  Huge Cruachan, (a thing that meaner hills
  Might crush, nor know that it had suffered harm;)               15
  Yet he, not loth, in favour of thy claims
  To reverence, suspends his own; submitting
  All that the God of Nature hath conferred,
  All that he holds [1] in common with the stars,
  To the memorial majesty of Time                                 20
  Impersonated in thy calm decay!

  Take, then, thy seat, Vicegerent unreproved!
  Now, while a farewell gleam of evening light
  Is fondly lingering on thy shattered front,
  Do thou, in turn, be paramount; and rule                        25
  Over the pomp and beauty of a scene
  Whose mountains, torrents, lake, and woods, unite
  To pay thee homage; and with these are joined,
  In willing admiration and respect,
  Two Hearts, which in thy presence might be called               30
  Youthful as Spring.--Shade of departed Power,
  Skeleton of unfleshed humanity,
  The chronicle were welcome that should call
  Into the compass of distinct regard
  The toils and struggles of thy infant years! [2]                35
  Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice;
  Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,
  Frozen by distance; so, majestic Pile,
  To the perception of this Age, appear
  Thy fierce beginnings, softened and subdued                     40
  And quieted in character--the strife,
  The pride, the fury uncontrollable,
  Lost on the aerial heights of the Crusades!" [B]


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1837.

  ... has ...      1827.]


[Variant 2:

1845.

  ... of thy infancy!      1827.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The clause within brackets was added in 1837.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: The Tradition is, that the Castle was built by a Lady
during the absence of her Lord in Palestine.--W. W. 1827.]



From the following passage in Dorothy Wordsworth's 'Recollections' of
their Tour, it will be seen that the poet altered the text considerably
in making his quotation in 1827: August 31, 1803.

  "When we had ascended half-way up the hill, directed by the man, I
  took a nearer foot-path, and at the top came in view of a most
  impressive scene, a ruined castle on an island almost in the middle of
  the last compartment of the lake, backed by a mountain cove, down
  which came a roaring stream. The castle occupied every foot of the
  island that was visible to us, appearing to rise out of the water;
  mists rested upon the mountain side, with spots of sunshine between;
  there was a mild desolation in the low grounds, a solemn grandeur in
  the mountains, and the castle was wild, yet stately, not dismantled of
  its turrets, nor the walls broken down, though completely in ruin.
  After having stood some minutes I joined William on the highroad, and
  both wishing to stay longer near this place, we requested the man to
  drive his little boy on to Dalmally, about two miles further, and
  leave the car at the inn. He told us the ruin was called Kilchurn
  Castle, that it belonged to Lord Breadalbane, and had been built by
  one of the ladies of that family for her defence, during her lord's
  absence at the Crusades; for which purpose she levied a tax of seven
  years' rent upon her tenants; he said that from that side of the lake
  it did not appear, in very dry weather, to stand upon an island, but
  that it was possible to go over to it without being wet-shod. We were
  very lucky in seeing it after a great flood; for its enchanting effect
  was chiefly owing to its situation in the lake, a decayed palace
  rising out of the plain of waters! I have called it a palace, for such
  feeling it gave me, though having been built as a place of defence, a
  castle or fortress. We turned again and reascended the hill, and sate
  a long time in the middle of it looking on the castle, and the huge
  mountain cove opposite, and William, addressing himself to the ruin,
  poured out these verses."

Compare Wordsworth's description of this ruin in his 'Guide through the
District of the Lakes'.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





ROB ROY'S GRAVE


Composed between 1803 and 1805.--Published 1807


The History of Rob Roy is sufficiently known; his Grave is near the head
of Loch Ketterine, in one of those small Pin-fold-like Burial-grounds,
of neglected and desolate appearance, which the Traveller meets with in
the Highlands of Scotland.--W. W. 1807.

[I have since been told that I was misinformed as to the burial-place of
Rob Roy. If so, I may plead in excuse that I wrote on apparently good
authority, namely, that of a well educated Lady who lived at the head of
the Lake, within a mile or less of the point indicated as containing the
remains of One so famous in the neighbourhood.--I. F.]

In the copy of 'Rob Roy's Grave', transcribed in Dorothy Wordsworth's
'Recollections' of the Tour in Scotland of 1803, there are several
important variations of text, which occur in none of the printed
editions of the poem. These are indicated (to distinguish them from
other readings) by the initials D. W.--Ed.

One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection" in 1815 and 1820.--Ed.




  A famous man is Robin Hood,
  The English ballad-singer's joy!
  And Scotland has a thief as good,
  An outlaw of as daring mood;

  She has her brave ROB ROY! [1]                               5
  Then clear the weeds from off his Grave,
  And let us chant a passing stave,
  In honour of that Hero [2] brave!

  Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless [3] heart
  And wondrous length and strength of arm: [A]                10
  Nor craved he more to quell his foes,
    Or keep his friends from harm.

  Yet was Rob Roy as _wise_ as brave;
  Forgive me if the phrase be strong;--
  A Poet worthy of Rob Roy                                    15
    Must scorn a timid song.

  Say, then, that he was wise as brave;
  As wise in thought as bold in deed:
  For in the principles of things
    _He_ sought his moral creed. [4]                          20

  Said generous Rob, "What need of books?
  Burn all the statutes and their shelves:
  They stir us up against our kind;
    And worse, against ourselves.

  "We have a passion--make a law,                             25
  Too false to guide us or control!
  And for the law itself we fight
    In bitterness of soul.

  "And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose
  Distinctions that are plain and few:                        30
  These find I graven on my heart:
    _That_ tells me what to do.

  "The creatures see of flood and field,
  And those that travel on the wind!
  With them no strife can last; they live                     35
    In peace, and peace of mind.

  "For why?--because the good old rule
  Sufficeth them, the simple plan,
  That they should take, who have the power,
    And they should keep who can.                             40

  "A lesson that [5] is quickly learned,
  A signal this which all can see!
  Thus nothing here provokes the strong
    To wanton [6] cruelty.

  "All freakishness [7] of mind is checked;                   45
  He tamed, who foolishly aspires;
  While to the measure of his might [8]
    Each fashions his desires. [9]

  "All kinds, and creatures, stand and fall
  By strength of prowess or of wit:                           50
  'Tis God's appointment who must sway,
    And who is to submit.

  "Since, then, the rule of right is plain, [10]
  And longest life is but a day;
  To have my ends, maintain my rights,                        55
    I'll take the shortest way."

  And thus among these rocks he lived,
  Through summer heat and winter snow: [11]
  The Eagle, he was lord above,
    And Rob was lord below.                                   60

  So was it--_would_, at least, have been
  But through untowardness of fate;
  For Polity was then too strong--
    He came an age too late;

  Or shall we say an age too soon?                            65
  For, were the bold Man living _now_,
  How might he flourish in his pride,
    With buds on every bough!

  Then rents and factors, rights of chase,
  Sheriffs, and lairds and their domains, [12]                70
  Would all have seemed but paltry things,
    Not worth a moment's pains.

  Rob Roy had never lingered here,
  To these few meagre Vales confined;
  But thought how wide the world, the times                   75
    How fairly to his mind!

  And to his Sword he would have said,
  "Do Thou my sovereign will enact
  From land to land through half the earth!
    Judge thou of law and fact!                               80

  "'Tis fit that we should do our part,
  Becoming, that mankind should learn
  That we are not to be surpassed
    In fatherly concern.

  "Of old things all are over old,                            85
  Of good things none are good enough:--
  We'll show that we can help to frame
    A world of other stuff.

  "I, too, will have my kings that take
  From me the sign of life and death:                         90
  Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds,
    Obedient to my breath."

  And, if the word had been fulfilled,
  As _might_ have been, then, thought of joy!
  France would have had her present Boast,                    95
    And we our own [13] Rob Roy!

  Oh! say not so; compare them not;
  I would not wrong thee, Champion brave!
  Would wrong thee nowhere; least of all
    Here standing by thy grave.                              100

  For Thou, although with some wild thoughts
  Wild Chieftain of a savage Clan!
  Hadst this to boast of; thou didst love
    The _liberty_ of man.

  And, had it been thy lot to live                           105
  With us who now behold the light,
  Thou would'st have nobly stirred thyself,
    And battled for the Right.

  For thou wert still [14] the poor man's stay,
  The poor man's heart, the poor man's hand;                 110
  And all the oppressed, who wanted strength,
    Had thine at their command. [15]

  Bear witness many a pensive sigh
  Of thoughtful Herdsman when he strays
  Alone upon Loch Veol's heights,                            115
    And by Loch Lomond's braes!

  And, far and near, through vale and hill,
  Are faces that attest the same;
  The proud heart flashing through the eyes, [16]
    At sound of ROB ROY'S name.                              120


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1807.

  And Scotland boasts of one as good,
  She has her own Rob Roy.        1803. D.W.]


[Variant 2:

1807.

  ... Outlaw ...      1803. D.W.]


[Variant 3:

1807.

  ... daring ...      1803. D.W.]


[Variant 4:

1807.

Stanzas 3 and 4 are thus combined by D.W., and also in a printed (not
published) version, given in a copy of the 1807 edition.

  Yet Robin was as wise as brave,
  As wise in thought as bold in deed,
  For in the principles of things
    He sought his moral creed.]


[Variant 5:

1827.

  ... which ...      1807.]


[Variant 6:

1807.

  ... tyrannous ...      1803. D. W.]


[Variant 7:

1807.

  And freakishness ...      1803. D. W.]


[Variant 8:

1807.

  ... their ...      MS.]


[Variant 9:

1807.

  All fashion their desires.      1803. D. W.]


[Variant 10:

1815.

  "Since then," said Robin, "right is plain,      1807.]


[Variant 11:

1827.

  Through summer's heat and winter's snow:      1807.]


[Variant 12:

1807.

  The Rents and Land-marks, Rights of Chase,
  Sheriffs and Factors, Lairds and Thanes,      1803. D. W.

  Sheriffs and Factors, rights of chase,
  Their Lairds, and their domains,              MS.]


[Variant 13:

1827.

  ... our brave ...      1807.]


[Variant 14:

1815.

  For Robin was ...    1807.]


[Variant 15:

1815.

  Had Robin's to command.    1807.]


[Variant 16:

1827.

  Kindling with instantaneous joy         1803. D.W.

  And kindle, like a fire new stirr'd,    1807.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The people of the neighbourhood of Loch Ketterine, in order
to prove the extraordinary length of their Hero's arm, tell you that "he
could garter his Tartan Stockings below the knee when standing upright."
According to their account he was a tremendous Swordsman; after having
sought all occasions of proving his prowess, he was never conquered but
once, and this not till he was an Old Man.--W. W. 1807.]


In Dorothy Wordsworth's 'Recollections' of the Scotch Tour the following
occurs:

  "August 27, 1803.--We mentioned Rob Roy, and the eyes of all
  glistened; even the lady of the house, who was very diffident, and no
  great talker, exclaimed, 'He was a good man, Rob Roy! he had been dead
  only about eighty years, had lived in the next farm, which belonged to
  him, and there his bones were laid.' He was a famous swordsman. Having
  an arm much longer than other men, he had a greater command with his
  sword. As a proof of the length of his arm, they told us that he could
  garter his tartan stockings below the knee without stooping, and added
  a dozen different stories of single combats, which he had fought, all
  in perfect good humour, merely to prove his prowess. I daresay they
  had stories of this kind which would hardly have been exhausted in the
  long evenings of a whole December week, Rob Roy being as famous here
  as even Robin Hood was in the forest of Sherwood; _he_ also robbed
  from the rich, giving to the poor, and defending them from oppression.
  They tell of his confining the factor of the Duke of Montrose in one
  of the islands of Loch Ketterine, after having taken his money from
  him--the Duke's rents--in open day, while they were sitting at table.
  He was a formidable enemy of the Duke, but being a small laird against
  a greater, was overcome at last, and forced to resign all his lands on
  the Braes of Loch Lomond, including the caves which we visited, on
  account of the money he had taken from the Duke and could not repay."

September 12:

  "Descended into Glengyle, above Loch Ketterine, and passed through Mr.
  Macfarlane's grounds, that is, through the whole of the glen, where
  there was now no house left but his. We stopped at his door to inquire
  after the family, though with little hope of finding them at home,
  having seen a large company at work in a hay-field, whom we
  conjectured to be his whole household, as it proved, except a
  servant-maid who answered our enquiries. We had sent the ferryman
  forward from the head of the glen to bring the boat round from the
  place where he left it to the other side of the lake. Passed the same
  farm-house we had such good reason to remember, and went up to the
  burying-ground that stood so sweetly near the water-side. The ferryman
  had told us that Rob Roy's grave was there, so we could not pass on
  without going up to the spot. There were several tombstones, but the
  inscriptions were either worn-out or unintelligible to us, and the
  place choked up with nettles and brambles. You will remember the
  description I have given of the spot. I have nothing here to add,
  except the following poem which it suggested to William."

Rob Roy was buried at the Kirkton of Balquhidder, near the outlet of
Loch Voil in Perthshire. There are three sculptured stones in the rude
burial-place of the Macgregors, at the eastern end of the old church.
The one with the long claymore marks the resting-place of Rob Roy's
wife; the one opposite on the other side is the tomb of his eldest son;
and the central stone, more elaborately carved, marks the grave of the
hero himself.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





SONNET COMPOSED AT----CASTLE


Composed September 18, 1803.--Published 1807


[The castle here mentioned was Nidpath near Peebles. The person alluded
to was the then Duke of Queensbury. The fact was told to me by Walter
Scott.--I. F.]

In 1815 and 1820 this was one of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--Ed.




  Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord!
  Whom mere despite of heart could so far please, [1]
  And love of havoc, (for with such disease
  Fame taxes him,) that he could send forth word
  To level with the dust a noble horde,                            5
  A brotherhood of venerable Trees,
  Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these,
  Beggared and outraged!--Many hearts deplored
  The fate of those old Trees; and oft with pain
  The traveller, at this day, will stop and gaze                  10
  On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:
  For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,
  And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,
  And the green silent pastures, yet remain.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANT ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1807.

  Now as I live, I pity that great Lord,
  Whom pure despite ...

                           MS. letter to Sir Walter Scott. Oct. 1803.

  Ill wishes shall attend the unworthy Lord      MS.]



  "Sunday, September 18th.--After breakfast walked up the river to
  Neidpath Castle, about a mile and a half from the town. The castle
  stands upon a green hill, over-looking the Tweed, a strong
  square-towered edifice, neglected and desolate, though not in ruin,
  the garden overgrown with grass, and the high walls that fenced it
  broken down. The Tweed winds between green steeps, upon which, and
  close to the river side, large flocks of sheep pasturing; higher still
  are the grey mountains; but I need not describe the scene, for William
  has done it better than I could do in a sonnet which he wrote the same
  day; the five last lines, at least, of his poem will impart to you
  more of the feeling of the place than it would be possible for me to
  do."

(Dorothy Wordsworth's 'Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland'.)
Writing to Sir Walter Scott (October 16, 1803), Wordsworth enclosed a
copy of this sonnet, with the variation of text which has been quoted.
Lockhart tells us

  "in that original shape Scott always recited it, and few lines in the
  language were more frequently in his mouth."

Compare Burns' 'Verses on the destruction of the Woods near Drumlanrig',
which refer to the same subject.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





YARROW UNVISITED


Composed 1803.--Published 1807


See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon the Banks of the
Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton, beginning:

  "Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride,
  Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow!"

W. W. 1807.


One of the "Poems of the Imagination" in 1815 and 1820.--Ed.




  From Stirling castle we had seen
  The mazy Forth unravelled;
  Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
  And with the Tweed had travelled;
  And when we came to Clovenford,                           5
  Then said my "_winsome Marrow_,"
  "Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
  And see the Braes of Yarrow."

  "Let Yarrow folk, _frae_ Selkirk town,
  Who have been buying, selling,                           10
  Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own;
  Each maiden to her dwelling!
  On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
  Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!
  But we will downward [1] with the Tweed,                 15
  Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

  "There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
  Both lying right before us;
  And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed
  The lintwhites sing in chorus;                           20
  There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land
  Made blithe with plough and harrow:
  Why throw away a needful day
  To go in search of Yarrow?

  "What's Yarrow but a river bare,                         25
  That glides the dark hills under?
  There are a thousand such elsewhere
  As worthy of your wonder."
--Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn;
  My True-love sighed for sorrow;                          30
  And looked me in the face, to think
  I thus could speak of Yarrow!

  "Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms,
  And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
  Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, [A]                  35
  But we will leave it growing.
  O'er hilly path, and open Strath,
  We'll wander Scotland thorough;
  But, though so near, we will not turn
  Into the dale of Yarrow.                                 40

  "Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
  The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;
  The swan on still St. Mary's Lake
  Float double, swan and shadow! [B]
  We will not see them; will not go,                       45
  To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
  Enough if in our hearts we know
  There's such a place as Yarrow.

  "Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!
  It must, or we shall rue it:                             50
  We have a vision of our own;
  Ah! why should we undo it?
  The treasured dreams of times long past,
  We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!
  For when we're there, although 'tis fair,                55
  'Twill be another Yarrow.

  "If Care with freezing years should come,
  And wandering seem but folly,--
  Should we be loth to stir from home,
  And yet be melancholy;                                   60
  Should life be dull, and spirits low,
  'Twill soothe us in our sorrow,
  That earth has something yet to show,
  The bonny holms of Yarrow!"


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANT ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1832.

  ... downwards ...    1807.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: See Hamilton's Ballad as above.--W. W. 1807.]


[Footnote B: In his "Recollections of Wordsworth," Aubrey de Vere
reports a conversation, in which the poet said to him,

  "Scott misquoted in one of his novels my lines on 'Yarrow', He makes
  me write,

    'The swans on sweet St. Mary's Lake
    Float double, swans and shadow;'

  but I wrote,

    'The _swan_ on _still_ St. Mary's Lake.'

  Never could I have written 'swans' in the plural. The scene when I saw
  it, with its still and dim lake, under the dusky hills, was one of
  utter loneliness: there was _one_ swan, and one only, stemming the
  water, and the pathetic loneliness of the region gave importance to
  the one companion of that swan, its own white image in the water. It
  was for that reason that I recorded the Swan and the Shadow. Had there
  been many swans and many shadows, they would have implied nothing as
  regards the character of the place; and I should have said nothing
  about them."

See his 'Essays, chiefly on Poetry', vol. ii. p. 277.

Wordsworth wrote to his friend, Walter Scott, to thank him for a copy of
'The Lay of the Last Minstrel', and in return sent a copy of these
stanzas, 'Yarrow Unvisited'. Scott replied gratefully on the 16th March
1805, and said,

  "... I by no means admit your apology, however ingeniously and
  artfully stated, for not visiting the bonny holms of Yarrow, and
  certainly will not rest till I have prevailed upon you to compare the
  ideal with the real stream."

Wordsworth had asked him if he could suggest any name more true to the
place than Burnmill, in the line, "The sweets of Burn-mill meadow."
Scott replied:

  "We have Broad-meadow upon Yarrow, which with the addition of green or
  fair or any other epithet of one syllable, will give truth to the
  locality, and supply the place of Burnmill meadow, which we have not.
  ... I like your swan upon St. Mary's Lake. How came you to know that
  it is actually frequented by that superb bird?"

(See 'Familiar Letters of Sir Walter Scott', vol. i. pp. 28, 29.)--Ed.]



  "September 18, 1803.--We left the Tweed when we were within about a
  mile and a half or two miles of Clovenford, where we were to lodge.
  Turned up the side of a hill, and went along sheep-grounds till we
  reached the spot--a single stone house, without a tree near it or to
  be seen from it. On our mentioning Mr. Scott's name, the woman of the
  house showed us all possible civility, but her slowness was really
  amusing. I should suppose it a house little frequented, for there is
  no appearance of an inn. Mr. Scott, who she told me was a very clever
  gentleman, 'goes there in the fishing season;' but indeed Mr. Scott is
  respected everywhere; I believe that by favour of his name one might
  be hospitably entertained throughout all the borders of Scotland. We
  dined and drank tea--did not walk out, for there was no temptation; a
  confined barren prospect from the window.

  "At Clovenford, being so near to the Yarrow, we could not but think of
  the possibility of going thither, but came to the conclusion of
  reserving the pleasure for some future time, in consequence of which,
  after our return, William wrote the poem which I shall here
  transcribe."

(From Dorothy Wordsworth's 'Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland',
1803.)--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





THE MATRON OF JEDBOROUGH AND HER HUSBAND


Composed between 1803 and 1805.--Published 1807


At Jedborough we went into private Lodgings for a few days; and the
following Verses were called forth by the character, and domestic
situation, of our Hostess.--W. W. 1807.

One of the "Poems referring to the Period of Old Age" in 1815 and
1820.--Ed.




  Age! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers,
  And call a train of laughing Hours;
  And bid them dance, and bid them sing;
  And thou, too, mingle in the ring!
  Take to thy heart a new delight;                              5
  If not, make merry in despite
  That [1] there is One who scorns thy power:--
  But dance! for under Jedborough Tower,
  A Matron dwells who, though she bears
  The weight of more than seventy years,                       10
  Lives in the light of youthful glee, [2]
  And she will dance and sing with thee.

    Nay! start not at that Figure--there!
  Him who is rooted to his chair!
  Look at him--look again! for he                              15
  Hath long been of thy family.
  With legs that move not, if they can,
  And useless arms, a trunk of man,
  He sits, and with a vacant eye;
  A sight to make a stranger sigh!                             20
  Deaf, drooping, that is now his doom:
  His world is in this single room:
  Is this a place for mirthful cheer? [3]
  Can merry-making enter here? [A]

    The joyous Woman is the Mate                               25
  Of him in that forlorn estate!
  He breathes a subterraneous damp;
  But bright as Vesper shines her lamp:
  He is as mute as Jedborough Tower:
  She jocund as it was of yore,                                30
  With all its bravery on; in times
  When all alive with merry chimes,
  Upon a sun-bright morn of May,
  It roused the Vale to holiday.

    I praise thee, Matron! and thy due                         35
  Is praise, heroic praise, and true!
  With admiration I behold
  Thy gladness unsubdued and bold:
  Thy looks, thy gestures, all present
  The picture of a life well spent:                            40
  This do I see; and something more;
  A strength unthought of heretofore!
  Delighted am I for thy sake;
  And yet a higher joy partake:
  Our Human-nature throws away                                 45
  Its second twilight, and looks gay;
  A land of promise and of pride
  Unfolding, wide as life is wide.

    Ah! see her helpless Charge! enclosed
  Within himself as seems, composed;                           50
  To fear of loss, and hope of gain,
  The strife of happiness and pain,
  Utterly dead! yet in the guise
  Of little infants, when their eyes
  Begin to follow to and fro                                   55
  The persons that before them go,
  He tracks her motions, quick or slow.
  Her buoyant spirit can prevail
  Where common cheerfulness would fail;
  She strikes upon him with the heat                           60
  Of July suns; he feels it sweet;
  An animal delight though dim!
  'Tis all that now remains for him!

    The more I looked, I wondered more--
  And, while I scanned them o'er and o'er, [4]                 65
  Some inward trouble suddenly
  Broke from the Matron's strong black eye--[5]
  A remnant of uneasy light,
  A flash of something over-bright![B]
  Nor long this mystery did detain                             70
  My thoughts;--she told in pensive strain [6]
  That she had borne a heavy yoke,
  Been stricken by a twofold stroke;
  Ill health of body; and had pined
  Beneath worse ailments of the mind.                          75

    So be it!--but let praise ascend
  To Him who is our lord and friend!
  Who from disease and suffering
  [7] Hath called for thee a second spring;
  Repaid thee for that sore distress                           80
  By no untimely joyousness;
  Which makes of thine a blissful state;
  And cheers thy melancholy Mate!


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827.

  For ...     1807.]


[Variant 2:

1837.

  ... under Jedborough Tower
  There liveth in the prime of glee,
  A Woman, whose years are seventy-three,
  And She ...                                 1807.

  There lives a woman of seventy-three,
  And she will dance and sing with thee,      MS.

  A Matron dwells, who though she bears
  Our mortal complement of years,
  Lives in the light of youthful glee,        1827.]


[Variant 3:

1827.

  ... for mirth and cheer?      1807.]


[Variant 4:

1827.

  I look'd, I scann'd her o'er and o'er;
  The more I look'd I wonder'd more:       1807.]


[Variant 5:

1837.

  When suddenly I seem'd to espy
  A trouble in her strong black eye;      1807.

  A moment gave me to espy
  A trouble . . .                         1827.]


[Variant 6:

1827.

  And soon she made this matter plain;
  And told me, in a thoughtful strain,      1807.]


[Variant 7:

  As bad almost as Life can bring,      Added in MS.]



       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare Tennyson's 'Deserted House', stanza iv.:

  'Come away: no more of mirth
  Is here, or merry-making sound.'

Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare stanza xiii. of 'Resolution and Independence', p.
318.--Ed.]



Sept. 20, 1803.

  "We were received with hearty welcome by a good woman, who, though
  above seventy years old, moved about as briskly as if she was only
  seventeen. Those parts of the house which we were to occupy were neat
  and clean; she showed me every corner, and, before I had been ten
  minutes in the house, opened her very drawers that I might see what a
  stock of linen she had; then asked how long we should stay, and said
  she wished we were come for three months. She was a most remarkable
  person; the alacrity with which she ran up-stairs when we rung the
  bell, and guessed at, and strove to prevent, our wants was surprising;
  she had a quick eye, and keen strong features, and a joyousness in her
  motions, like what used to be in old Molly when she was particularly
  elated. I found afterwards that she had been subject to fits of
  dejection and ill-health: we then conjectured that her overflowing
  gaiety and strength might in part be attributed to the same cause as
  her former dejection. Her husband was deaf and infirm, and sate in a
  chair with scarcely the power to move a limb--an affecting contrast!
  The old woman said they had been a very hard-working pair; they had
  wrought like slaves at their trade--her husband had been a currier;
  and she told me how they had portioned off their daughters with money,
  and each a feather bed, and that in their old age they had laid out
  the little they could spare in building and furnishing that house, and
  she added with pride that she had lived in her youth in the family of
  Lady Egerton, who was no high lady, and now was in the habit of coming
  to her house whenever she was at Jedburgh, and a hundred other things;
  for when she once began with Lady Egerton, she did not know how to
  stop, nor did I wish it, for she was very entertaining. Mr. Scott sat
  with us an hour or two, and repeated a part of the 'Lay of the Last
  Minstrel'. When he was gone our hostess came to see if we wanted
  anything, and to wish us good-night. On all occasions her manners were
  governed by the same spirit: there was no withdrawing one's attention
  from her. We were so much interested that William, long afterwards,
  thought it worth while to express in verse the sensations which she
  had excited, and which then remained as vividly in his mind as at the
  moment when we lost sight of Jedburgh."

(From Dorothy Wordsworth's 'Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland',
1803.)--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





"FLY, SOME KIND HARBINGER, TO GRASMERE-DALE" [A]


Composed September 25, 1803.--Published 1815


[This was actually composed the last day of our tour between Dalston and
Grasmere.--I.F.]

One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets" in 1815 and 1820.--Ed.




  Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale! [1]
  Say that we come, and come by this day's light;
  Fly upon swiftest wing round field and height, [2]
  But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale;
  There let a mystery of joy prevail,                         5
  The kitten frolic, like a gamesome sprite, [3]
  And Rover whine, as at a second sight
  Of near-approaching good that shall not fail:
  And from that Infant's face let joy appear;
  Yea, let our Mary's one companion child--10
  That hath her six weeks' solitude beguiled
  With intimations manifold and dear,
  While we have wandered over wood and wild--
  Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1837.

  Fly, some kind Spirit, fly to Grasmere Vale!      1815.

  ... dale,                                         1827.]


[Variant 2:

1837.

  Glad tidings!--spread them over field and height;      1815.]


[Variant 3:

1837.

  The Kitten frolic with unruly might,           1815.

  The happy Kitten bound with frolic might,      1827.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: In the editions of 1815 and 1820, this poem bore the title,
'On approaching Home, after a Tour in Scotland, 1803',--Ed.]



  "Sunday, September 25, 1803.--A beautiful autumnal day. Breakfasted at
  a public-house by the road-side; dined at Threlkeld; arrived at home
  between eight and nine o'clock, where we found Mary in perfect health,
  Joanna Hutchinson with her, and little John asleep in the
  clothes-basket by the fire."

(From Dorothy Wordsworth's 'Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland',
1803.)--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY

A TALE TOLD BY THE FIRE-SIDE, AFTER RETURNING TO THE VALE OF GRASMERE[A]


Date of composition uncertain.--Published 1807


[The story was told me by George Mackereth, for many years parish-clerk
of Grasmere. He had been an eye-witness of the occurrence. The vessel in
reality was a washing-tub, which the little fellow had met with on the
shores of the Loch.--I.F.]

One of the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood" in 1815 and
1820.--Ed.




  Now we are tired of boisterous joy,
  Have [1] romped enough, my little Boy!
  Jane hangs her head upon my breast,
  And you shall bring your stool and rest;
    This corner is your own.                                   5

  There! take your seat, and let me see
  That [2] you can listen quietly:
  And, as I promised, I will tell [3]
  That strange adventure which befel
    A poor blind Highland Boy.                                10

  A _Highland_ Boy!--why call him so?
  Because, my Darlings, ye must know
  That, under hills which rise like towers, [4]
  Far higher hills than these of ours!
    He from his birth had lived.                              15

  He ne'er had seen one earthly sight
  The sun, the day; the stars, the night;
  Or tree, or butterfly, or flower,
  Or fish in stream, or bird in bower,
    Or woman, man, or child.                                  20

  And yet he neither drooped nor pined,
  Nor had a melancholy mind;
  For God took pity on the Boy,
  And was his friend; and gave him joy
    Of which we nothing know.                                 25

  His Mother, too, no doubt, above
  Her other children him did love:
  For, was she here, or was she there,
  She thought of him with constant care,
    And more than mother's love.                              30

  And proud she was of heart, when clad
  In crimson stockings, tartan plaid,
  And bonnet with a feather gay,
  To Kirk he on the sabbath day
    Went hand in hand with her.                               35

  A dog too, had he; not for need,
  But one to play with and to feed;
  Which would [5] have led him, if bereft
  Of company or friends, and left
    Without a better guide.                                   40

  And then the bagpipes he could blow--
  And thus from house to house would go;
  And all were pleased to hear and see,
  For none made sweeter melody
    Than did the poor blind Boy.                              45

  Yet he had many a restless dream;
  Both when he heard the eagles scream,
  And when he heard the torrents roar,
  And heard the water beat the shore
    Near which their cottage stood.                           50

  Beside a lake their cottage stood,
  Not small like ours, a peaceful flood;
  But one of mighty size, and strange;
  That, rough or smooth, is full of change,
    And stirring in its bed.                                  55

  For to this lake, by night and day,
  The great Sea-water finds its way
  Through long, long windings of the hills
  And drinks up all the pretty [B] rills
    And rivers large and strong: [C]                          60

  Then hurries back the road it came--
  Returns, on errand still the same;
  This did it when the earth was new;
  And this for evermore will do,
    As long as earth shall last.                              65

  And, with the coming of the tide,
  Come boats and ships that safely [6] ride
  Between the woods and lofty rocks;
  And to the shepherds with their flocks
  Bring tales of distant lands.                               70

  And of those tales, whate'er they were,
  The blind Boy always had his share;
  Whether of mighty towns, or vales
  With warmer suns and softer gales,
      Or wonders of the Deep.                                 75

  Yet more it pleased him, more it stirred,
  When from the water-side he heard
  The shouting, and the jolly cheers;
  The bustle of the mariners
      In stillness or in storm.                               80

  But what do his desires avail?
  For He must never handle sail;
  Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor float
  In sailor's ship, or fisher's boat,
      Upon the rocking waves.                                 85

  His Mother often thought, and said,
  What sin would be upon her head
  If she should suffer this: "My Son,
  Whate'er you do, leave this undone;
      The danger is so great."                                90

  Thus lived he by Loch-Leven's side
  Still sounding with the sounding tide,
  And heard the billows leap and dance,
  Without a shadow of mischance,
      Till he was ten years old.                              95

  When one day (and now mark me well,
  Ye [7] soon shall know how this befell)
  He in a vessel of his own,
  On the swift flood is hurrying down,
      Down to the mighty Sea. [8]                            100

  In such a vessel never more
  May human creature leave the Shore! [9]
  If this or that way he should stir,
  Woe to the poor blind Mariner!
    For death will be his doom.                              105
  [10]
  But say what bears him?--Ye have seen
  The Indian's bow, his arrows keen,
  Rare beasts, and birds with plumage bright;
  Gifts which, for wonder or delight,
    Are brought in ships from far. [11]                      110

  [D] Such gifts had those seafaring men
  Spread round that haven in the glen;
  Each hut, perchance, might have its own;
  And to the Boy they all were known--
     He knew and prized them all.                            115

  The rarest was a Turtle-shell
  Which he, poor Child, had studied well;
  A shell of ample size, and light
  As the pearly car of Amphitrite,
    That sportive dolphins drew. [12]                        120

  And, as a Coracle that braves
  On Vaga's breast the fretful waves,
  This shell upon the deep would swim,
  And gaily lift its fearless brim
    Above the tossing surge. [13]                            125

  And this the little blind Boy knew:
  And he a story strange yet true
  Had heard, how in a shell like this
  An English Boy, O thought of bliss!
    Had stoutly launched from shore;                         130

  Launched from the margin of a bay
  Among the Indian isles, where lay
  His father's ship, and had sailed far--
  To join that gallant ship of war,
    In his delightful shell.                                 135

  Our Highland Boy oft visited
  'The house that [14] held this prize; and, led
  By choice or chance, did thither come
  One day when no one was at home,
    And found the door unbarred.                             140

  While there he sate, alone and blind,
  That story flashed upon his mind;--
  A bold thought roused him, and he took
  The shell from out its secret nook,
     And bore it on his head. [15]                           145

  He launched his vessel,--and in pride
  Of spirit, from Loch-Leven's side,
  Stepped into it--his thoughts all free
  As the light breezes that with glee
     Sang through the adventurer's hair. [16]                150

  A while he stood upon his feet;
  He felt the motion--took his seat;
  Still better pleased as more and more
  The tide retreated from the shore,
     And sucked, and sucked him in. [17]                     155

  And there he is in face of Heaven.
  How rapidly the Child is driven!
  The fourth part of a mile, I ween,
  He thus had gone, ere he was seen
     By any human eye.                                       160

  But when he was first seen, oh me
  What shrieking and what misery!
  For many saw; among the rest
  His Mother, she who loved him best,
    She saw her poor blind Boy.                              165

  But for the child, the sightless Boy,
  It is the triumph of his joy!
  The bravest traveller in balloon,
  Mounting as if to reach the moon,
    Was never half so blessed.                               170

  And let him, let him go his way,
  Alone, and innocent, and gay!
  For, if good Angels love to wait
  On the forlorn unfortunate,
    This Child will take no harm.                            175

  But now the passionate lament,
  Which from the crowd on shore was sent,
  The cries which broke from old and young
  In Gaelic, or the English tongue,
    Are stifled--all is still.                               180

  And quickly with a silent crew
  A boat is ready to pursue;
  And from the shore their course they take,
  And swiftly down the running lake
    They follow the blind Boy.                               185

  But soon they move with softer pace;
  So have ye seen the fowler chase
  On Grasmere's clear unruffled breast
  A youngling of the wild-duck's nest
    With deftly-lifted oar;                                  190

  Or as the wily sailors crept
  To seize (while on the Deep it slept)
  The hapless creature which did dwell
  Erewhile within the dancing shell,
    They steal upon their prey. [18]                         195

  With sound the least that can be made,
  They follow, more and more afraid,
  More cautious as they draw more near;
  But in his darkness he can hear,
    And guesses their intent.                                200

  "_Lei-gha--Lei-gha_"--he then cried out,
  "_Lei-gha--Lei-gha_"--with eager shout; [19]
  Thus did he cry, and thus did pray,
  And what he meant was, "Keep away,
    And leave me to myself!" [E]                             205

  Alas! and when he felt their hands--
  You've often heard [20] of magic wands,
  That with a motion overthrow
  A palace of the proudest show,
    Or melt it into air:                                     210

  So all his dreams--that inward light
  With which his soul had shone so bright--
  All vanished;--'twas a heartfelt cross
  To him, a heavy, bitter loss,
    As he had ever known.                                    215

  But hark! a gratulating voice,
  With which the very hills rejoice:
  'Tis from the crowd, who tremblingly
  Have [21] watched the event, and now can see
    That he is safe at last.                                 220

  And then, when he was brought to land,
  Full sure they were a happy band,
  Which, gathering round, did on the banks
  Of that great Water give God thanks,
    And welcomed the poor Child.                             225

  And in the general joy of heart
  The blind Boy's little dog took part;
  He leapt about, and oft did kiss
  His master's hands in sign of bliss,
    With sound like lamentation.                             230

  But most of all, his Mother dear,
  She who had fainted with her fear,
  Rejoiced when waking she espies
  The Child; when she can trust her eyes,
    And touches the blind Boy.                               235

  She led him home, and wept amain,
  When he was in the house again:
  Tears flowed in torrents from her eyes;
  She kissed him--how could she chastise? [22]
    She was too happy far.                                   240

  Thus, after he had fondly braved
  The perilous Deep, the Boy was saved;
  And, though his fancies had been wild,
  Yet he was pleased and reconciled
    To live in peace on shore.                               245

  And in the lonely Highland dell
  Still do they keep the Turtle-shell;
  And long the story will repeat
  Of the blind Boy's adventurous feat,
    And how he was preserved. [23]                           250


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827.

  We've ...      1807.]


[Variant 2:

1807.

  How ...      MS.]


[Variant 3:

1807.

  Aye, willingly, and what is more
  One which you never heard before,
  True story this which I shall tell        MS.]


[Variant 4:

1837.

  In land where many a mountain towers,       1807.]


[Variant 5:

1807.

  ... could ...        MS.]


[Variant 6:

1827.

  ... sweetly ...      1807.]


[Variant 7:

1815.

  You ...        1807.]


[Variant 8:

1837.

  He's in a vessel of his own,
  On the swift water hurrying down
  Towards the mighty Sea.                1807.

  He in a vessel of his own,
  On the swift flood is hurrying down    1827.

  Towards the great, great Sea.          MS.]


[Variant 9:

1815.

  ... ne'er before
  Did human Creature ...    1807.]


[Variant 10: The following stanza was only in the edition of 1807:

  Strong is the current; but be mild,
  Ye waves, and spare the helpless Child!
  If ye in anger fret or chafe,
  A Bee-hive would be ship as safe
    As that in which he sails.]


[Variant 11:

1815.

  But say, what was it? Thought of fear!
  Well may ye tremble when ye hear!
--A Household Tub, like one of those,
  Which women use to wash their clothes,
    This carried the blind Boy.    1807.]


[Variant 12:

1820.

  And one, the rarest, was a Shell
  Which he, poor Child, had studied well;
  The Shell of a green Turtle, thin
  And hollow;--you might sit therein.
    It was so wide and deep.    1815.]


[Variant 13:

1820.

  'Twas even the largest of its kind,
  Large, thin, and light as birch-tree rind;
  So light a Shell that it would swim,
  And gaily lift its fearless brim
    Above the tossing waves.    1815.]


[Variant 14:

1837.

  ... which ...    1815.]


[Variant 15:

1827.

  ... in his arms.    1815.]


[Variant 16:

1827.

  Close to the water he had found
  This Vessel, push'd it from dry ground,
  Went into it; and, without dread,
  Following the fancies in his head,
     He paddled up and down.              1807.

  And with the happy burthen hied,
  And pushed it from Loch Levin's side,--
  Stepped into it; and, without dread,    1815.]


[Variant 17:

1827.

  And dallied thus, till from the shore
  The tide retreating more and more
     Had suck'd, and suck'd him in.    1807.]


[Variant 18: The two previous stanzas were added in the edition of 1815.]


[Variant 19:

1837.

  ... then did he cry
  ... most eagerly;      1807.]


[Variant 20:

1807.

  ... read ...      MS.]


[Variant 21:

1837.

  Had ...      1807.]


[Variant 22:

1832.

  She could not blame him, or chastise;       1807.]


[Variant 23: This stanza was added in the edition of 1815.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The title in the editions of 1807 to 1820 was 'The Blind
Highland Boy. (A Tale told by the Fireside.)'

This poem gave its title to a separate division in the second volume of
the edition of 1807, viz. "The Blind Highland Boy; with other
Poems."--Ed.]


[Footnote B: This reading occurs in all the editions. But Wordsworth,
whose MS. was not specially clear, may have written, or meant to write
"petty," (a much better word), and not perceived the mistake when
revising the sheets. If he really wrote "petty," he may have meant
either small rills (rillets), or used the word as Shakespeare used it,
for "pelting" rills.--Ed.]


[Footnote C: Compare Tennyson's 'In Memoriam', stanza xix.:

  'There twice a day the Severn fills;
    The salt sea-water passes by,
    And hushes half the babbling Wye,
  And makes a silence in the hills, etc.'

Ed.]


[Footnote D: This and the following six stanzas were added in 1815.--Ed.]


[Footnote E: Writing to Walter Scott, from Coleorton, on Jan. 20, 1807,
Wordsworth sent him this stanza of the poem, and asked

  "Could you furnish me, by application to any of your Gaelic friends, a
  phrase in that language which could take its place in the following
  verse of eight syllables, and have the following meaning."

He adds,

  "The above is part of a little poem which I have written on a Highland
  story told me by an eye-witness ..."

This is the nearest clue we have to the date of the composition of the
poem.--Ed.]



It is recorded in Dampier's Voyages that a Boy, the Son of a Captain of
a Man of War, seated himself in a Turtle-shell and floated in it from
the shore to his Father's Ship, which lay at anchor at the distance of
half a mile. Upon the suggestion of a Friend, I have substituted such a
Shell for that less elegant vessel in which my blind voyager did
actually intrust himself to the dangerous current of Loch Levin, as was
related to me by an Eye-witness.--W. W. 1815.

This note varies slightly in later editions.

The Loch Leven referred to is a sea-loch in Argyllshire, into which the
tidal water flows with some force from Loch Linnhe at Ballachulish.

            'By night and day
  The great Sea-water finds its way
  Through long, long windings of the hills.'

The friend referred to in the note of 1815, who urged Wordsworth to give
his blind voyager a Shell, instead of a washing-tub to sail in, was
Coleridge. The original tale of the tub was not more unfortunate than
the lines in praise of Wilkinson's spade, and several of Wordsworth's
friends, notably Charles Lamb and Barren Field, objected to the change.
Lamb wrote to Wordsworth in 1815,

  "I am afraid lest that substitution of a shell (a flat falsification
  of the history) for the household implement, as it stood at first, was
  a kind of tub thrown out to the beast" [_i. e._ the reviewer!] "or
  rather thrown out for him. The tub was a good honest tub in its place,
  and nothing could fairly be said against it. You say you made the
  alteration for the 'friendly reader,' but the 'malicious' will take it
  to himself."

('The Letters of Charles Lamb', edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i. p.
283.) Wordsworth could not be induced to "undo his work," and go back to
his own original; although he evidently agreed with what Lamb had said
(as is seen in a letter to Barren Field, Oct. 24, 1828).--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





OCTOBER, 1803


Composed October 1803.--Published 1807


Included among the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty"; renamed in 1845,
"Poems dedicated to National Independence and Liberty."--Ed.




  One might believe that natural miseries
  Had blasted France, and made of it a land
  Unfit for men; and that in one great band
  Her sons were bursting forth, to dwell at ease.
  But 'tis a chosen soil, where sun and breeze                   5
  Shed gentle favours: rural works are there,
  And ordinary business without care;
  Spot rich in all things that can soothe and please!
  How piteous then that there should be such dearth
  Of knowledge; that whole myriads should unite                 10
  To work against themselves such fell despite:
  Should come in phrensy and in drunken mirth,
  Impatient to put out the only light
  Of Liberty that yet remains on earth!





       *       *       *       *       *





"THERE IS A BONDAGE WORSE, FAR WORSE, TO BEAR"


Composed possibly in 1803.--Published 1807


Included among the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty"; renamed in 1845,
"Poems dedicated to National Independence and Liberty."--Ed.




  There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear [1]
  Than his who breathes, by roof, and floor, and wall,
  Pent in, a Tyrant's solitary Thrall:
  'Tis his who walks about in the open air,
  One of a Nation who, henceforth, must wear                      5
  Their fetters in their souls. For who could be,
  Who, even the best, in such condition, free
  From self-reproach, reproach that [2] he must share
  With Human-nature? Never be it ours
  To see the sun how brightly it will shine,                     10
  And know that noble feelings, manly powers,
  Instead of gathering strength, must droop and pine;
  And earth with all her pleasant fruits and flowers
  Fade, and participate in man's decline.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827.

  ... which is worse to bear       1807.]


[Variant 2:

1837.

  ... which ...      1807.]





       *       *       *       *       *





OCTOBER, 1803 (#2)


Composed October 1803.--Published 1807


This was one of the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty"; afterwards called,
"Poems dedicated to National Independence and Liberty."--Ed.




  These times strike [1] monied worldlings with dismay:
  Even rich men, brave by nature, taint the air
  With words of apprehension and despair:
  While tens of thousands, thinking on the affray,
  Men unto whom sufficient for the day                              5
  And minds not stinted or unfilled are given,
  Sound, healthy, children of the God of heaven,
  Are cheerful as the rising sun in May.
  What do we gather hence but firmer faith
  That every gift of noble origin                                  10
  Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath;
  That virtue and the faculties within
  Are vital,--and that riches are akin
  To fear, to change, to cowardice, and death?


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANT ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1837.

  ... touch ...       1807.]





       *       *       *       *       *





"ENGLAND! THE TIME IS COME WHEN THOU SHOULD'ST WEAN"


Composed possibly in 1803.--Published 1807


This was one of the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty"; afterwards called,
"Poems dedicated to National Independence and Liberty."--Ed.




  England! the time is come when thou should'st wean
  Thy heart from its emasculating food;
  The truth should now be better understood;
  Old things have been unsettled; we have seen
  Fair seed-time, better harvest might have been                    5
  But for thy trespasses; and, at this day,
  If for Greece, Egypt, India, Africa,
  Aught good were destined, thou would'st step between.
  England! all nations in this charge agree:
  But worse, more ignorant in love and hate,                       10
  Far--far more abject, is thine Enemy:
  Therefore the wise pray for thee, though the freight
  Of thy offences be a heavy weight:
  Oh grief that Earth's best hopes rest all with Thee!





       *       *       *       *       *





OCTOBER, 1803 (#3)


Composed October 1803.--Published 1807


Included among the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty"; afterwards called,
"Poems dedicated to National Independence and Liberty."--Ed.




  When, looking on the present face of things,
  I see one man, of men the meanest too!
  Raised up to sway the world, to do, undo,
  With mighty Nations for his underlings,
  The great events with which old story rings                      5
  Seem vain and hollow; I find nothing great:
  Nothing is left which I can venerate;
  So that a doubt almost [1] within me springs
  Of Providence, such emptiness at length
  Seems at the heart of all things. But, great God!               10
  I measure back the steps which I have trod;
  And tremble, seeing whence proceeds the strength [2]
  Of such poor Instruments, with thoughts sublime
  I tremble at the sorrow of the time.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

  ... almost a doubt ...      1807.]


[Variant 2:

1827.

  ... seeing, as I do, the strength      1807.]



The reference is, of course, to Napoleon.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





TO THE MEN OF KENT. OCTOBER, 1803


Composed October 1803.--Published 1807


One of the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty"; re-named in 1845, "Poems
dedicated to National Independence and Liberty."--Ed.




  Vanguard of Liberty, ye men of Kent, [A]
  Ye children of a Soil that doth advance
  Her [1] haughty brow against the coast of France,
  Now is the time to prove your hardiment!
  To France be words of invitation sent!                          5
  They from their fields can see the countenance
  Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering lance
  And hear you shouting forth your brave intent.
  Left single, in bold parley, ye, of yore,
  Did from the Norman win a gallant wreath;                      10
  Confirmed the charters that were yours before;--
  No parleying now! In Britain is one breath;
  We all are with you now from shore to shore:--
  Ye men of Kent, 'tis victory or death!


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANT ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827.

  It's ...                               1807.

  It's haughty forehead 'gainst ...      MS.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare Michael Drayton's 'Barons' Wars', book i.:

  'Then those of Kent, unconquered of the rest,
  That to this day maintain their ancient right.'

Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





IN THE PASS OF KILLICRANKY,

An invasion being expected, October 1803


Composed October 1803.--Published 1807

From 1807 to 1820 this sonnet was one of those "dedicated to Liberty."
In 1827 it was included among the "Memorials of a Tour in Scotland,
1803." From 1807 to 1820 the title was simply October, 1803.--Ed.




  Six thousand veterans practised in war's game,
  Tried men, at Killicranky were arrayed
  Against an equal host that wore the plaid,
  Shepherds and herdsmen.--Like a whirlwind came
  The Highlanders, the slaughter spread like flame;                 5
  And Garry, thundering down his mountain-road,
  Was stopped, and could not breathe beneath the load
  Of the dead bodies.--'Twas a day of shame
  For them whom precept and the pedantry
  Of cold mechanic battle do enslave.                              10
  O for a single hour of that Dundee, [A]
  Who on that day the word of onset gave!
  Like conquest would the Men of England see;
  And her Foes find a like inglorious grave.


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: See an anecdote related in Mr. Scott's Border Minstrelsy.
--W. W. 1807.

"Oh for an hour of Dundee" was an exclamation of Gordon of Glenbucket at
Sheriffmuir.--Ed.]


The following is from Dorothy Wordsworth's 'Recollections of a Tour made
in Scotland', 1803:

  "Thursday, September 8th.--Before breakfast we walked to the Pass of
  Killicrankie. A very fine scene; the river Garry forcing its way down
  a deep chasm between rocks, at the foot of high rugged hills covered
  with wood, to a great height. The pass did not, however, impress us
  with awe, or a sensation of difficulty or danger, according to our
  expectations; but, the road being at a considerable height on the side
  of the hill, we at first only looked into the dell or chasm. It is
  much grander seen from below, near the river's bed. Everybody knows
  that this Pass is famous in military history. When we were travelling
  in Scotland, an invasion was hourly looked for, and one could not but
  think with some regret of the times when, from the now depopulated
  Highlands forty or fifty thousand men might have been poured down for
  the defence of the country, under such leaders as the Marquis of
  Montrose or the brave man who had so distinguished himself upon the
  ground where we were standing. I will transcribe a sonnet suggested to
  William by this place, and written in Oct. 1803."

Ed.



       *       *       *       *       *



ANTICIPATION. OCTOBER, 1803


Composed October 1803.--Published 1807 [A]


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




  Shout, for a mighty Victory is won!
  On British ground the Invaders are laid low;
  The breath of Heaven has drifted them like snow,
  And left them lying in the silent sun,
  Never to rise again!--the work is done.                          5
  Come forth, ye old men, now in peaceful show
  And greet your sons! drums beat and trumpets blow!
  Make merry, wives! ye little children, stun
  Your grandame's ears with pleasure of your noise! [1]
  Clap, infants, clap your hands! Divine must be                  10
  That triumph, when the very worst, the pain,
  And even the prospect of our brethren slain, [2]
  Hath something in it which the heart enjoys:--
  In glory will they sleep and endless sanctity. [3]


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1807.

  ... with transports of your own.       C.

  ... with transport of your noise!      1838.

The edition of 1840 returns to the text of 1807.]


[Variant 2:

1807.

  The loss and e'en the prospect of the slain,      MS. 1803.

And in 'The Poetical Register', 1803.

  And prospect of our Brethren to be slain,         MS. 1803.]


[Variant 3:

1807.

  True glory, everlasting sanctity.        MS. 1803.

And in 'The Poetical Register', 1803.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: _i. e._ in the edition of 1807, but this sonnet was
previously printed in 1803 in 'The Poetical Register', vol. iii. p. 340,
in the 'Anti-Gallican' (1804), and in the 'Poetical Repository'
(1805).--Ed.]


This sonnet, as the title indicates, does not refer to an actual
victory; because, since the Norman conquest, no "Invaders" have ever set
foot "on British ground." It was written--like the two preceding
sonnets, and the one that follows it--"in anticipation" of Napoleon's
project for the invasion of England being actually carried out; a
project never realised. The assembling of the immense French army
destined for this purpose--one of the finest brought together since the
days of the Roman legions--between the mouths of the Seine and the
Texel, roused the spirit of English patriotism as it had never been
roused before. Three hundred thousand volunteers were enlisted in Great
Britain by the 10th of August 1803;

  "all the male population of the kingdom from seventeen years of age to
  fifty-five were divided into classes to be successively armed and
  exercised" (Dyer).

The story of the failure of Napoleon's scheme is too well known to be
repeated in this note. Wordsworth seems to have written his sonnet in
anticipation of what he believed would have been the inevitable issue of
events, had the French army actually landed on British soil.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





LINES ON THE EXPECTED INVASION

1803


Composed 1803.--Published 1842


Included among the "Poems dedicated to National Independence and
Liberty."--Ed.




  Come ye--who, if (which Heaven avert!) the Land
  Were with herself at strife, would take your stand,
  Like gallant Falkland, by the Monarch's side,
  And, like Montrose, make Loyalty your pride--
  Come ye--who, not less zealous, might display                   5
  Banners at enmity with regal sway,
  And, like the Pyms and Miltons of that day,
  Think that a State would live in sounder health
  If Kingship bowed its head to Commonwealth--
  Ye too--whom no discreditable fear                             10
  Would keep, perhaps with many a fruitless tear,
  Uncertain what to choose and how to steer--
  And ye--who might mistake for sober sense
  And wise reserve the plea of indolence--
  Come ye--whate'er your creed--O waken all,                     15
  Whate'er your temper, at your Country's call;
  Resolving (this a free-born Nation can)
  To have one Soul, and perish to a man,
  Or save this honoured Land from every Lord
  But British reason and the British sword.                      20




       *       *       *       *       *



                       END OF VOLUME II (OF EIGHT)





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poetical Works of William
Wordsworth, Vol. II., by William Wordsworth

*** 