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THE    POEMS    OF 
WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


KHOM    A  CHALK 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH    IN   1798 

)KA\VIN(,    IIV    KOHKKT    HANCOCK    IN    THF    NATIONAL    PORTRAIT   OAI.LKKV 


THE  POEMS  OF 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


NOWELL  CHARLES  SMITH,  M.A. 

LATE    FELLOW    OF    NEW    COLLEGE,    AND    FORMERLY 
FELLOW    OF    MAGDALEN    COLLEGE,    OXFORD 


IN    THREE    VOLUMES 

VOL.    I 
WITH  A  FRONTISPIECE 


METHUEN    AND    CO. 

36  ESSEX  STREET  W.C. 
LONDON 


First  Published  in  this  Edition  1908 


TO   THE   PRESIDENT   AND    FELLOWS 

OF     MAGDALEN     COLLEGE,    OXFORD 

WHO    BY    ELECTING    ME    TO    THEIR    SOCIETY 

ENABLED   ME   TO    UNDERTAKE   THIS  EDITION 

I   DEDICATE   THESE   BELATED   FRUITS   OF 

MUCH    PLEASANT   LABOUR 


PREFACE 

THE  activity  of  the  modern  book-market  is  so  great  that 
no  apology  seems  to  be  necessary  for  adding  one  to  the 
large  number  of  editions  of  Wordsworth  already  in  existence. 
A  short  explanation  of  the  scope  of  the  present  edition  is, 
however,  desirable.  It  is,  as  far  as  I  know,  the  first  complete 
edition  of  the  poetry  which  has  attempted  to  supply,  within 
moderate  compass,  answers  to  such  questions  as  the  text  may 
naturally  raise  in  the  reader's  mind.  The  other  modern 
English  editions,  apart  from  mere  reprints,  are  those  of 
Professor  William  Knight,  of  Professor  Dowden,  and  of 
Mr.  Hutchinson.  Students  of  Wordsworth  must  always 
acknowledge  the  abundance  of  material  which  Professor 
Knight  collected  for  the  elucidation  of  Wordsworth's  life  and 
thought,  the  history  of  his  text,  the  topography  of  his  poems 
and  their  allusions,  and  I  for  my  part  am  cordially  grateful  to 
him  for  the  kind  words  with  which  he  gave  me  permission,  so 
far  as  it  rested  with  him,  to  make  use  of  matter  published  for 
the  first  time  by  himself;  and  my  notes  will  show  how  far  I 
am  indebted  to  his  editorial  labours,  as  well  as  to  the  Life 
which  fills  vols.  ix.,  x.,  xi.  of  his  Edinburgh  edition.  The 
distinctive  feature  of  his  edition,  which  should  have  made  it 
final  for  textual  purposes,  was  the  exhibition,  on  the  same 
page  as  the  text,  of  all  the  various  readings  adopted  by 
Wordsworth  in  the  many  editions  of  his  own  lifetime — not  to 
mention  a  large  number,  rescued  from  MS.,  which  never  saw 
the  light.  I  am  forced  to  say  '  should  have  made  it  final,'  for 
unfortunately  there  are  so  many  errors  of  one  kind  and 
another  even  in  the  later  of  Professor  Knight's  two  editions, 


viii  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

that  no  student  can  venture  to  take  anything  in  it  on  trust. 
A  few  of  these  errors  I  have  mentioned  in  my  notes,  others  I 
have  corrected  silently,  either  from  my  own  observation  or 
from  the  searching  and  severe  criticisms  of  Mr.  Hutchinson  in 
the  Academy  (vol.  1.,  1896),  and  other  sources.  To  any  one 
accustomed  to  the  accuracy  of  modern  standard  editions  of 
Latin  and  Greek  classics,  the  inaccuracy  and  the  diffuseness  of 
too  many  editions  of  English  classics  is  so  irritating  that  one 
fears  to  become  unjust,  and  to  forget  the  enthusiasm  and  the 
desire  to  spread  light  and  happiness  which  alone  could  enable 
a  man  to  carry  through  so  laborious,  and,  from  the  material 
point  of  view,  so  un remunerative  a  task  as  an  annotated 
edition  of  a  voluminous  poet.  But,  apart  from  this  question 
of  accuracy,  my  edition  does  not  aim  at  the  exhaustiveness  of 
Professor  Knight's.  I  have  not  consciously  left  any  difficulty 
without  an  attempt  to  remove  it,  or  the  confession  that  I 
cannot  do  so ;  and  I  have  given  a  considerable  number  of 
various  readings,  where  they  throw  light  upon  Wordsworth's 
art  or  have  some  other  special  interest,  as  well  as  such  illus- 
trative notes  and  quotations  from  other  writers  as  I  thought 
too  valuable  or  too  interesting  to  omit.  But  I  have  studied 
compression  throughout,  and  have  written  more  for  the  ordi- 
nary reader  or  the  comparatively  inexperienced  student  than 
for  the  expert  in  Wordsworthian  or  other  English  literature. 
Of  the  other  two  editors  mentioned  above,  Professor  Dowden 
gives  a  very  copious  selection  of  various  readings  and  many 
valuable  chronological  notes,  Mr.  Hutchinson  only  a  very  few, 
though  admirable,  notes,  together  with  the  results  of  his 
unequalled  knowledge  of  Wordsworthian  chronology  in  the 
dates  prefixed  to  the  poems.  Both  are  models  of  accuracy, 
but  neither  aims  at  giving  the  same  sort  of  assistance  which 
this  edition  attempts. 

I  cannot  speak  too  warmly  of  my  gratitude  to  Mr.  Hutchin- 
son for  his  sympathy  and  helpfulness.  His  published  work 
on  Wordsworth  makes  him  facile  princeps  in  Wordsworthian 
historical  criticism,  i.e.  in  knowledge  of  the  text,  of  the 


PREFACE  ix 

chronology,  of  the  contemporary  criticism  of  the  poet,  and  of 
the  poet's  own  methods  and  phases  in  his  art.  But  besides 
making  use  of  his  published  work,  I  have  frequently  beset 
Mr.  Hutchinson  with  epistolary  inquiries,  and  never  without 
most  generous  and  valuable  results.  My  thanks  are  also  due 
to  Mr.  R.  A.  Potts  for  kindly  supplying  me  with  the  sources  of 
some  quotations ;  to  Mr.  T.  Norton  Longman  for  his  courtesy 
in  allowing  me  to  print,  for  the  first  time  in  a  complete 
edition  of  Wordsworth's  poetry,  the  doggerel  but  spirited 
verses  called  The  Tinker,  as  well  as  some  copyright  matter 
which  first  appeared  in  Professor  Knight's  edition;  to  Mr. 
Gordon  G.  Wordsworth,  the  poet's  grandson,  for  his  kind 
consent  with  Professor  Knight  to  my  printing  verses  first 
published  by  the  latter ;  and  to  all  friends  who  have  answered 
or  attempted  to  answer  questions  which  I  have  put  to  them. 
Finally,  to  my  wife  I  owe  gratitude  for  much  tedious  clerical 
work,  and  to  my  sister,  Miss  Janet  Horace  Smith,  for  the 
task,  perhaps  even  more  trying,  of  reading  the  proofs  of  the 
whole  text.  As  I  have  also,  as  well  as  the  printer's  reader, 
read  all  the  proofs  with  care,  I  hope  (especially  in  view  of  my 
previous  strictures  !)  that  I  shall  be  found  to  have  kept '  within 
the  margin  of  inevitable  error.' 

My  text  is  that  of  the  last  edition  of  Wordsworth's  lifetime, 
published  by  Moxon,  6  vols.  12mo,  1849-50,  for  all  the  poems 
which  that  edition  contains.  In  the  very  rare  cases  where  I 
have  departed  from  that  text,  even  in  punctuation,  except  in 
the  most  trivial  displacement  of  commas,  I  have  called  atten- 
tion to  the  fact  in  a  note.  The  Prelude  rests  upon  two 
editions,  both  posthumous,  of  1850  and  1857;  these  are 
identical  except  for  a  few  variations  in  punctuation  and  one 
curious  variation  of  text  (Book  in.  11.  104  foil.).  The  original 
versions  of  An  Evening  Walk  and  Descriptive  Sketches  I  have 
printed  from  Mr.  Hutchinson's  reprint  in  the  Oxford  Words- 
worth. The  other  poems  not  appearing  in  the  edition  of 
1849-50,  except  The  Tinker,  I  have  printed  from  Mr.  Hutchin- 
son's and  Professor  Knight's  texts,  comparing,  wherever  it  was 


x  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

possible,  their  texts  with  the  sources  from  which  they  were 
derived.  I  have  not  been  able  to  print  The  Recluse,  the  copy- 
right of  which  belongs  to  Messrs.  Macmillan. 

I  have  adopted  Wordsworth's  own  arrangement  of  his 
poems — a  course  which  is  to  my  mind  quite  conclusively 
vindicated  in  Professor  Dowden's  preface  to  the  Aldine 
edition.  Wordsworth's  classification  is  perhaps  pedantic, 
certainly  only  half-scientific,  often  irritating  and  confusing  to 
the  memory.  But  it  is,  in  the  main,  characteristic,  a  not 
unimportant  element  in  the  complex  of  his  art  and  thought. 
The  only  other  possible  arrangement  would  be  the  chrono- 
logical. This  is  the  right  one  for  such  an  edition  as  Professor 
Knight's,  which  proposes  primarily  to  give  a  full  critical 
apparatus,  but  not  for  an  edition  which  aims  first  of  all  at 
giving  the  reader  Wordsworth's  poems  as  he  wished  them  to 
be  read.  Moreover,  the  chronological  order  is  impossible  to 
be  given  completely.  Many  of  the  poems  are  undated,  and 
almost  certain  to  remain  so ;  to  many  Wordsworth  accidentally 
gave  dates  that  are  demonstrably  wrong.  In  appending  dates 
to  the  poems  I  have  made  the  best  use  that  I  could  of  the 
materials  gradually  collected  by  Wordsworthian  critics,  par- 
ticularly the  three  editors  already  mentioned ;  and  I  have 
added  a  Chronological  Index  for  the  convenience  of  students. 

The  Introduction  is  the  same  as  I  published  in  a  volume  of 
Selections  from  Wordsworth  (1901),  with  some  additions  and 
small  alterations.  I  would  gladly  have  made  the  additions 
more,  but  the  book  is  bulky  enough  already  ;  Mr.  D.  W. 
Rannie's  Wordsworth  and  his  Circle,  published  within  the  last 
few  months  (Methuen,  1907),  is  itself  a  more  detailed  intro- 
duction to  the  poems,  containing  much  thoughtful  and  sym- 
pathetic criticism  ;  and  although  I  hope  for  other  opportunities 
of  helping  to  start  others  on  the  enjoyment  of  a  poet  who  has 
been  one  of  my  chief  sources  of  strength,  delight,  and  con- 
solation, my  main  purpose  here  is  to  present  an  accurate  text 
with  such  elucidations  as  are  necessary.  To  have  merely 
rewritten  what  I  wrote  in  1901  would  have  been  insincere ; 


PREFACE  xi 

and  I  had  the  less  temptation  to  do  so  because  it  met  with 
the  approval  of  some  very  good  judges. 

Finally  I  must  apologise  to  some  of  those  and  to  others 
who  may  be  aware  how  long  this  edition  has  been  announced. 
I  have  indeed  made  use  of  the  delay,  which,  as  far  as  I 
am  concerned,  was  unavoidable,  to  add  such  information  as 
I  could  from  time  to  time ;  and  I  hope  I  have  kept  abreast 
of  Wordsworthian  criticism.  But  I  cannot  help  fearing  that 
the  period  of  incubation  may  suggest  the  mountain  in 
labour,  and  may  have  aroused  expectations  of  novelty  or 
of  quantity  of  illustrative  matter  which  it  was  never  part 
of  my  purpose  to  offer.  My  hope  is  that  any  one  reading 
Wordsworth  in  this  edition  will  find  himself  adequately 
equipped  for  the  intelligent  study  of  the  poet.  For  more 
minute  study,  and  for  further  assistance  in  questions  of  bio- 
graphy and  in  appreciation  of  Wordsworth's  poetry,  besides 
the  editions  already  mentioned,  the  following  books  may  be 
specially  recommended : — Mr.  Hutchinson's  edition  of  the 
Lyrical  Ballads  (Duckworth,  1898),  and  his  edition  of  the 
Poems  in  Two  Volumes  (Nutt,  1897),  La  Jeunesse  de  W. 
Wordsworth,  by  Professor  E.  Legouis  (Paris,  Masson,  1896 ; 
translation  by  A.  Matthews,  Dent,  1897) ;  F.  W.  H.  Myers1 
Wordsworth  in  the  'English  Men  of  Letters'  series  (Mac- 
millan,  1880) ;  Professor  Walter  Raleigh's  Wordsworth  (Arnold, 
1903) ;  Leslie  Stephen's  article  in  the  Dictionary  of  National 
Biography ;  Matthew  Arnold's  Introduction  to  his  Select 
Poems  of  Wordsworth  (Macmillan,  '  Golden  Treasury '  series). 
The  list  might  be  almost  indefinitely  lengthened ;  a  full 
bibliography  up  to  the  dates  of  their  respective  publications 
will  be  found  in  Professor  Knight's  Eversley  edition,  and  in  a 
useful  Wordsworth  Primer  by  Mr.  Laurie  Magnus  (Methuen, 
1897). 

N.  C.  S. 

WINCHESTER,  January  1908 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION .  xxi 

CHRONOLOGICAL  TABLE lv 

POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH— 

I.  Extract  from   the  Conclusion   of  a  Poem,  composed   in 

anticipation  of  leaving  School        .....  1 

II.   Written  in  very  Early  Youth 1 

III.  An  Evening  Walk.     Addressed  to  a  Young  Lady      .         .  2 

IV.  Lines  written  while  sailing  in  a  Boat  at  Evening       .         .  11 
V.  Remembrance  of  Collins,  composed  upon  the  Thames  near 

Richmond     .........  12 

VI.  Descriptive   Sketches  taken   during   a   Pedestrian  Tour 

among  the  Alps 12 

VII.  Lines  left  upon  a  Seat  in  a  Yew-tree,  which  stands  near 
the  lake  of  Esthwaite,  on  a  desolate  part  of  the  shore, 

commanding  a  beautiful  prospect 29 

VIII.  Guilt  and  Sorrow  ;  or,  Incidents  upon  Salisbury  Plain      .  31 

THE  BORDERERS 51 

POEMS  REFERRING  TO  THE  PERIOD  OF  CHILDHOOD— 

I.  My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 115 

II.  To  a  Butterfly  .         . 115 

III.  The  Sparrow's  Nest 116 

IV.  Foresight 116 

V.  Characteristics  of  a  Child  three  years  old  ....  117 

VI.  Address  to  a  Child  during  a  boisterous  Winter  Evening    .  118 

VII.  The  Mother's  Return 119 

VIII.  Alice  Fell ;  or,  Poverty 120 

IX.  Lucy  Gray ;  or,  Solitude  .......  122 

X.  We  are  Seven   .........  124 

XL  The  Idle  Shepherd-Boys  ;  or  Dungeon-Ghyll  Force  .         .  126 

XII.  Anecdote  for  Fathers 128 

XIII.  Rural  Architecture 130 

XIV.  The  Pet-Lamb  .  131 


xiv  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

PAGE 

POEMS  REFERRING  TO  THE  PERIOD  OF  CHILDHOOD— 
continued 

XV.  To  H.  C.,  six  years  old 133 

XVI.  Influence   of   Natural    Objects    in    calling   forth    and 

strengthening  the  Imagination  in  Boyhood  and  Early 

Youth 134 

XVII.  The  Longest  Day 135 

XVIII.  The  Norman  Boy 137 

XIX.  The  Poet's  Dream 139 

XX.  The  Westmoreland  Girl 142 

POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS— 

I.  The  Brothers 145 

II.  Artegal  and  Elidure 155 

III.  To  a  Butterfly 161 

IV.  A  Farewell 162 

V.  Stanzas   written   in   my    Pocket-Copy   of  Thomson's 

Castle  of  Indolence 163 

VI.   Louisa,    after    accompanying    her    on    a    Mountain 

Excursion 165 

VII.  Strange  fits  of  passion  have  I  known    ....  166 

VIII.  She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways  ....  167 

IX.  I  travelled  among  unknown  men          ....  167 

X.  Ere  with  cold  beads  of  midnight  dew  ....  168 

XL  To — 168 

XII.  The  Forsaken 169 

XIII.  'Tis  said  that  some  have  died  for  love  ....  169 

XIV.  A  Complaint 171 

XV.  To 171 

XVI.  Yes  !  thou  art  fair,  yet  be  not  moved  ....  172 

XVII.  How  rich  that  forehead's  calm  expanse  !       .         .         .  172 
XVIII.  What  heavenly  smiles  !  O  Lady  mine  ....  172 

XIX.  To  —                   .                          173 

XX.  Lament  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  on  the  Eve  of  a  New 

Year 173 

XXL  The  Complaint  of  a  Forsaken  Indian  Woman       .         .  176 

XXII.  The  Last  of  the  Flock 178 

XXIII.  Repentance 180 

XXIV.  The  Affliction  of  Margaret 181 

XXV.  The  Cottager  to  her  Infant 184 

XXVI.  Maternal  Grief    ....                 ...  184 

XXVII.  The  Sailor's  Mother     .                                     ...  186 

XXVIII.  The  Childless  Father  .         .                            ...  187 

XXIX.  The  Emigrant  Mother 188 


CONTENTS  xv 

PAGE 

POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS— continued 

XXX.  Vaudracour  and  Julia 190 

XXXI.  The  Idiot  Boy .197 

XXXII.  Michael .209 

XXXIII.  The  Widow  on  Windermere  Side      ....  219 

XXXIV.  The  Armenian  Lady's  Love 221 

XXXV.  Loving  and  Liking 225 

XXXVI.  Farewell  Lines 227 

XXXVII.  The  Redbreast 228 

XXXVIII.  Her  Eyes  are  Wild 230 

POEMS  ON  THE  NAMING  OF  PLACES— 

I.  It  was  an  April  morning  :  fresh  and  clear          .         .         .  233 

II.  To  Joanna 234 

III.  There  is  an  Eminence, — of  these  our  hills         .         .         •  236 

IV.  A  narrow  girdle  of  rough  stones  and  crags        .         .         .  237 
V.  To  M.  H 238 

VI.  When,  to  the  attractions  of  the  busy  world       .         .         .  239 

VII.  Forth  from  a  jutting  ridge,  around  whose  base.         .         .  242 

POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY— 

I.  A  Morning  Exercise 243 

II.  A  Flower  Garden,  at  Coleorton  Hall,  Leicestershire      .  244 

III.  A  whirl-blast  from  behind  the  hill          ....  246 

IV.  The  Waterfall  and  the  Eglantine 246 

V.  The  Oak  and  the  Broom         .         .         .         .         .         .248 

VI.  To  a  Sexton 261 

VII.  To  the  Daisy 252 

VIII.  To  the  same  Flower       .         .         .         .         .         .         .  254 

IX.  The  Green  Linnet 255 

X.  To  a  Sky-lark 256 

XI.  To  the  Small  Celandine 257 

XII.  To  the  same  Flower 259 

XIII.  The  Seven  Sisters  ;  or,  the  Solitude  of  Binnorie    .         .  260 

XIV.  Who  fancied  what  a  pretty  sight 262 

XV.  The  Redbreast  chasing  the  Butterfly     .         .         .         .263 

XVI.  Song  for  the  Spinning  Wheel 264 

XVII.  Hint  from  the  Mountains 264 

XVIII.  On  seeing  a  Needlecase  in  the  Form  of  a  Harp      .         .  266 

XIX.  To  a  Lady 266 

XX.  Glad  Sight  wherever  new  with  old          ....  267 

XXI.  The  Contrast 268 

XXII.  The  Danish  Boy 269 

XXIII.  Song 271 


xvi  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

PAGE 

POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY— continued 

XXIV.  Stray  Pleasures 271 

XXV.  The  Pilgrim's  Dream  ;  or,  the  Star  and  the  Glow-worm       272 
XXVI.  The  Poet  and  the  Caged  Turtledove      .         .         .         .274 

XXVII.  A  Wren's  Nest 275 

XXVIII.  Love  lies  Bleeding 277 

XXIX.  Companion  to  the  Foregoing          .         .         .         .         .       278 

XXX.   Rural  Illusions 278 

XXXI.  The  Kitten  and  Falling  Leaves 279 

XXXII.  Address  to  my  Infant  Daughter,  Dora  .         .         .         .282 
XXXIII.  The  Waggoner 284 

POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION— 

I.  There  was  a  Boy          ....... 

II.  To  the  Cuckoo 

III.  A  Night-piece     . 

IV.  Airey-Force  Valley      ....... 

V.  Yew-trees   ......... 

VI.  Nutting 

VII.  The  Simplon  Pass 

VIII.  She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight 

IX.  O  Nightingale  !  thou  surely  art  ..... 
X.  Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower 
XI.  A  Slumber  did  my  spirit  seal       ..... 
XII.  I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 

XIII.  The  Reverie  of  Poor  Susan 

XIV.  Power  of  Music 

XV.  Star-Gazers 

XVI.  Written  in  March 

XVII.  Lyre  !  though  such  power  do  in  thy  magic  live    . 

XVIII.  Beggars 

XIX.  Sequel  to  the  Foregoing      .  .         . 

XX.  Gipsies        ......         ... 

XXI.  Ruth 

XXII.  Resolution  and  Independence 

XXIII.  The  Thorn 

XXIV.  Hart-Leap  Well 

XXV.  Song  at  the  Feast  of  Brougham  Castle 

XXVI.  Lines 

XXVII.  It  is  no  Spirit  who  from  heaven  hath  flown 

XXVIII.  French  Revolution 

XXIX.  Yes,  it  was  the  mountain  Echo    ..... 

XXX.  To  a  Skylark 

XXXI.  Laodamia ... 


CONTENTS  xvii 

PAGE 

POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION— continued 

XXXII.  Dion 358 

XXXIII.  The  Pass  of  Kirkstone 361 

XXXIV.  To  Enterprise 363 

XXXV.  To- .367 

XXXVI.  To  a  Young  Lady 368 

XXXVII.  Water  Fowl 369 

XXXVIII.  View  from  the  Top  of  Black  Comb      ....  370 

XXXIX.  The  Haunted  Tree 371 

XL.  The  Triad 372 

XLI.  The  Wishing-Gate 377 

XLII.  The  Wishing-Gate  Destroyed 379 

XLIII.  The  Primrose  of  the  Rock 380 

XLIV.  Presentiments    .         . 382 

XLV.   Vernal  Ode 384 

XLVI.  Devotional  Incitements 387 

XLVII.  The  Cuckoo-Clock 389 

XLVIII.  To  the  Clouds 390 

XLIX.  Suggested  by  a  Picture  of  the  Bird  of  Paradise   .         .  392 

L.  A  Jewish  Family 393 

LI.   On  the  Power  of  Sound 394 

PETER  BELL 401 

MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS- 
PART  I. 

I.  Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow  room          .         .  431 

II.  Admonition 432 

III.  '  Beloved  Vale  ! '  I  said,  '  when  I  shall  con     .         .         . .  432 

IV.  At  Applethwaite,  near  Keswick      .....  433 
V.  Pelion  and  Ossa  nourish  side  by  side       .         .         .         .  433 

VI.  There  is  a  little  unpretending  Rill          ....  433 

VII.  Her  only  pilot  the  soft  breeze,  the  boat ....  434 

VIII.  The  fairest,  brightest,  hues  of  ether  fade        .         .         .  434 

IX.  Upon  the  Sight  of  a  Beautiful  Picture    ....  435 

X.  Why,  Minstrel,  these  untuneful  murmurings          .         .  435 

XI.   Aerial  Rock — whose  solitary  brow .....  435 

XII.  To  Sleep 436 

XIII.  To  Sleep 436 

XIV.  To  Sleep 437 

XV.  The  Wild  Duck's  Nest 437 

XVI.  Written  upon  a  Blank  Leaf  in  The  Complete  Angler     . I  ..  437 

XVII.  To  the  Poet,  John  Dyer 438 

XVIII.  On  the  Detraction  which  followed  the  Publication  of  a 

certain  Poem 438 

\—b 


xviii  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

PAGE 

MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS— continued 

XIX.  Grief,  thou  hast  lost  an  ever-ready  friend     .         .         .  439 

XX.  To  S.  H 439 

XXI.  Composed  in  one  of  the  Valleys  of  Westmoreland,  on 

Easter  Sunday 440 

XXII.  Decay  of  Piety 440 

XXIII.  Composed  on  the  Eve  of  the  Marriage  of  a  Friend  in 

the  Vale  of  Grasmere,  1812 440 

XXIV.  From  the  Italian  of  Michael  Angelo     ....  441 
XXV.  From  the  Same 441 

XXVI.  From  the  Same.     To  the  Supreme  Being     ...  442 

XXVII.  Surprised  by  joy — impatient  as  the  Wind     .         .         .  442 

XXVIII.  Methought  I  saw  the  footsteps  of  a  throne  .         .         .  443 

XXIX.  November,  1836 443 

XXX.   It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free       .         .         .  443 

XXXI.  Where  lies  the  Land  to  which  yon  Ship  must  go  ?         .  444 

XXXII.   With  Ships  the  sea  was  sprinkled  far  and  nigh    .         .  444 

XXXIII.  The  world  is  too  much  with  us  ;  late  and  soon     .         .  445 

XXXIV.  A  volant  Tribe  of  Bards  on  earth  are  found          .         .  446 
XXXV.  Weak  is  the  will  of  Man,  his  judgment  blind       .         .  445 

XXXVI.  To  the  Memory  of  Raisley  Calvert       ....  446 

PART  II. 

I.  Scorn  not  the  Sonnet ;  Critic,  you  have  frowned      .         .  446 

II.  How  sweet  it  is,  when  mother  Fancy  rocks      .         .         .  447 

III.  To  B.  R.  Haydon 447 

IV.  From  the  dark  chambers  of  dejection  freed      .         .         .  447 
V.  Fair  Prime  of  Life  !  were  it  enough  to  gild      .         .         .  448 

VI.  I  watch,  and  long  have  watched,  with  calm  regret  .         .  448 

VII.  I  heard  (alas  !  'twas  only  in  a  dream)       ....  448 

VIII.  Retirement 449 

IX.  Not  Love,  not  War,  nor  the  tumultuous  swell          .         .  449 

X.  Mark  the  concentred  hazels  that  enclose  ....  450 
XI.  Composed  after  a  Journey  across  the  Hambleton  Hills, 

Yorkshire >         .         .  450 

XII.  Those  words  were  uttered  as  in  pensive  mood  .         .         .  450 

XIII.  September,  1815 451 

XIV.  November  1 .451 

XV.  Composed  during  a  Storm        ......  452 

XVI.  To  a  Snowdrop 452 

XVII.  To  the  Lady  Mary  Lowther      ...."..  452 

XVIII.  To  Lady  Beaumont 463 

XIX.  There  is  a  pleasure  in  poetic  pains 453 

XX.  The  Shepherd,  looking  eastward,  softly  said     .         .        .  454 


CONTENTS  xix 

PAGE 

MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS— continued 

XXI.   When  haughty  expectations  prostrate  lie               .         .  454 

XXII.  Hail,  Twilight,  sovereign  of  one  peaceful  hour  !  .         .  454 

XXIII.  <  With  how  sad  Steps,  O  Moon,  Thou  climb'st  the  sky  455 

XXIV.  Even  as  a  dragon's  eye  that  feels  the  stress  .         .         .  455 
XXV.  The  stars  are  mansions  built  by  Nature's  hand     .         .  455 

XXVI.  Desponding  Father  !  mark  this  altered  bough       .         .  456 

XXVII.  Captivity— Mary  Queen  of  Scots 456 

XXVIII.  St.  Catherine  of  Ledbury 457 

XXIX.  Though  narrow  be  that  old  Man's  cares,  and  near         .  467 

XXX.  Four  fiery  steeds  impatient  of  the  rein          .         .         .  457 

XXXI.  Brook  !  whose  society  the  Poet  seeks  ....  458 

XXXII.  Composed  on  the  Banks  of  a  Rocky  Stream           .         .  458 

XXXIII.  Pure  element  of  waters  !  wheresoe'er  ....  459 

XXXIV.  Malham  Cove 459 

XXXV.  Gordale 459 

XXXVI.  Composed   upon    Westminster   Bridge,    September  3, 

1802 460 

XXXVII.  Conclusion.     To 460 

PART  III. 

I.  Though  the  bold  wings  of  Poesy  affect     ....  461 

II.  Oxford,  May  30,  1820 461 

III.  Oxford,  May  30,  1820 462 

IV.  Recollection  of  the  Portrait  of  King  Henry  the  Eighth, 

Trinity  Lodge,  Cambridge     ......  462 

V.  On  the  Death  of  His  Majesty  (George  the  Third)     .         .  462 

VI.  June,  1820 463 

VII.  A  Parsonage  in  Oxfordshire "    .  463 

VIII.  Composed  among  the  Ruins  of  a  Castle  in  North  Wales  .  464 

IX.  To  the  Lady  E.  B.  and  the  Hon.  Miss  P.         ...  464 

X.  To  the  Torrent  at  the  Devil's  Bridge,  North  Wales,  1824  465 

XI.  In  the  Woods  of  Rydal 465 

XII.  When  Philoctetes  in  the  Lemnian  Isle     ....  465 

XIII.  While  Anna's  peers  and  early  playmates  tread         .         .  466 

XIV.  To  the  Cuckoo 466 

XV.  To 467 

XVI.  The  Infant  M M 467 

XVII.  To ,  in  her  Seventieth  Year 468 

XVIII.  ToRothaQ 468 

XIX.  A  Gravestone  upon  the  Floor  in  the  Cloisters  of  Worcester 

Cathedral 468 

XX.  Roman  Antiquities  discovered  at  Bishopstone,  Hereford- 
shire       469 


xx  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

PAGE 

MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS— continued 

XXI.  1830 469 

XXII.  A  Tradition  of  Oker  Hill  in  Darley  Dale,  Derbyshire  470 

XXIII.  Filial  Piety 470 

XXIV.  To  the  Author's  Portrait 470 

XXV.   Why  art  thou  silent !     Is  thy  love  a  plant  .         .         .  471 

XXVI.  To  B.  R.  Haydon,  on  seeing  his  Picture  of  Napoleon 

Buonaparte  on  the  Island  of  St.  Helena    .         .         .  471 
XXVII.  A  Poet!— He  hath  put  his  heart  to  school    .         .         .472 

XXVIII.  The  most  alluring  clouds  that  mount  the  sky      .         .  472 
XXIX    On  a  Portrait  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  upon  the 

Field  of  Waterloo,  by  Haydon          ....  472 

XXX.  Composed  on  a  May  Morning,  1838    ....  473 

XXXI.  Lo  !  where  she  stands  fixed  in  a  saint-like  trance        .  473 

XXXII.  To  a  Painter 474 

XXXIII.  On  the  same  Subject 474 

XXXIV.  Hark  !  'tis  the  Thrush,  undaunted,  undeprest    .         .  474 
XXXV.  'Tis  He  whose  yester-evening's  high  disdain        .         .  475 

XXXVI.  Oh  what  a  Wreck  !  how  changed  in  mien  and  speech  !  476 

XXXVII.  Intent  on  gathering  wool  from  hedge  and  brake          .  475 

XXXVIII.  A  Plea  for  Authors,  May,  1838 476 

XXXIX.   Valedictory  Sonnet "476 

XL.  To  the  Rev.  Christopher  Wordsworth,  D.D.,  Master 

of  Harrow  School 477 

XLI.  To  the  Planet  Venus 477 

XLII.  Wansfell  !  this  Household  has  a  favoured  lot      .         .  477 

XLI  1 1.  While  beams  of  orient  light  shoot  wide  and  high         .  478 

XLIV.  In  my  mind's  eye  a  Temple,  like  a  cloud     .         .         .  478 

XLV.  On  the  projected  Kendal  and  Windermere  Railway     .  479 

XLVI.  Proud  were  ye,  Mountains,  when,  in  times  of  old        .  479 

XLVII.  At  Furness  Abbey 480 

XLVIII.  At  Furness  Abbey 480 

NOTES 481 

NOTE 

THE  Frontispiece  to  this  Volume  represents  WORDSWORTH  at  the  age  of 
twenty-eight,  from  a  drawing  in  black  chalk  by  ROBERT  HANCOCK  in  the 
National  Portrait  Gallery.  It  is  reproduced  from  a  photograph  by 
Messrs.  WALKER  AND  COCKERELL. 


INTRODUCTION 

\  T  7  ORDS WORTH'S  life,  even  for  that  of  a  poet,  was 
•  »  singularly  devoid  of  romantic  or  uncommon  in- 
cidents ;  and  yet  no  poet  has  been  more  constantly  inspired 
by  his  immediate  surroundings  or  even  more  minutely  auto- 
biographical. The  second  of  these  two  facts  renders  a  long 
descriptive  account  of  his  life  unnecessary ;  the  first  would 
make  it  tedious  unless  treated  with  that  fullness  of  detail 
and  of  first-hand  evidence,  which  is  beyond  the  scope  of  an 
Introduction,  but  which  alone  could  make  the  familiar  matter 
of  a  quiet  life  live  again  before  the  mind's  eye.  As  the 
Solitary  says — 

What  special  record  can,  or  need,  be  given 
To  rules  and  habits,  whereby  much  was  done, 
But  all  within  the  sphere  of  little  things ; 
Of  humble,  though,  to  us,  important  cares, 
And  precious  interests  ? 1 

But,  illuminated  by  the  intense  glow  of  the  poet's  imagina- 
tion, the  very  ordinariness  of  his  lot  is  one  of  the  surest 
charms  to  draw  and  hold  his  readers.  Some  poets  move 
almost  wholly  among  supersensible  abstractions,  whither 
they  are  not  able  to  lift  more  earthly  natures.  Others  are 
roused  only  by  the  strange,  the  violent,  the  terrible,  the  law- 
less, elements  or  possibilities  of  human  life ;  and  their  spell 
is  like  their  inspiration,  potent  but  not  abiding.  In  others 
the  senses  are  like  the  strings  of  an  JEolian  lute,  trembling 
into  melody  at  each  touch  of  the  wandering  breezes,  but 
uncontrolled  by  the  will  of  a  conscious  minstrel  :  we  listen 

1  Excursion,  Book  iii.  607. 

xxi 


xxii  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

awhile  to  the  witching  sounds,  but  soon  we  tire  of  them — 
or  become  enervated.  Each  of  these  three  kinds  of  poet, 
and  many  another  kind,  appeals  to  certain  desires  or 
tendencies  of  human  nature.  But  not  many  men  are 
capable  of  maintaining  a  lively  interest  in  abstractions  or 
purely  spiritual  beings ;  most  men,  sufficiently  educated 
to  care  for  poetry,  become  easily  tired  of  the  merely 
abnormal  or  unfamiliar,  of  witches,  brigands,  Peris,  poison, 
scimitars,  and  Vengeance ;  men  whose  blood  is  not  as  thin  as 
water  are  often  minded,  like  Ulysses,  to  stop  their  ears 
against  mere  Sirens'  voices.  That  poet  is  surest  of  a  place 
in  '  the  general  heart  of  man,1  whose  imagination  is  the  inter- 
preter, not  of  the  remote,  but  of  the  near,  of  '  familiar  matter 
of  to-day '  and  every  day ;  who,  by  his  clearer  vision  and 
readier  utterance,  vivifies  the  emotions  which  the  sights  and 
sounds  and  manifold  experience  of  life  awaken  in  most  of  us 
in  a  vague  unsettled  way,  and  while  he  hears  and  repeats  '  the 
still,  sad  music  of  humanity,1  still  joys  himself,  and  strengthens 
us,  in  that 

sense  sublime 

Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man. 

It  is  to  this  class  of  poets  that  Wordsworth  belongs.  He  is 
not  the  poet  of  the  lover  particularly,  or  of  the  poet,  or  of 
the  student,  or  of  the  young,  or  the  adventurous,  or  the 
hypochondriacal,  or  of  any  one  type  of  man,  particularly. 
He  is  the  poet  of  the  more  widespread  characteristics  of 
humanity;  of  strong  personal  interests  and  affections;  of 
sensibility,  almost  universal  though  commonly  inarticulate,  to 
the  influences  of  natural  objects,  brooks  and  trees,  mountain 
and  field,  earth  and  sky,  air  and  light ;  of  an  emotional  rather 
than  speculative  desire  to  read  the  riddle  of  the  universe, 
controlled  by  the  dictates  of  the  practical  reason  and  an  in- 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

stinctive  grasp  of  the  reality  of  duty ;  finally,  of  the  not 
uncheerful  seriousness  which  is  the  outcome  of  these  qualities. 

Thus  Wordsworth  is  one  of  the  most  universal  of  our 
poets ;  not  because  he  takes  '  all  knowledge  for  his  province,1 
for  his  range  has  not  the  variety  of  a  student  like  Browning  ; 
nor  because  of  dramatic  power,  for  few  poets  have  had  less  of 
the  dramatist;  but  just  because  of  the  sincerity  and  truth 
with  which  he  declares  to  us  that  which  he  has  seen  and 
known,  and  because  it  is  that  in  the  main  which  we,  without 
special  experience  of  abstruse  study,  distant  travel,  strange 
adventures,  eccentric  imaginations,  can  'to  the  measure  of 
the  light  vouchsafed '  see  and  know  for  ourselves. 

Wordsworth^  poetic  material,  then,  lay  close  at  hand.  His 
poems  form  his  life,  and  from  them  we  get  a  far  more  intimate 
picture  of  the  man  than  a  detailed  narrative  could  give  us. 
He  has,  moreover,  fully  and  faithfully  recorded  his  history 
during  the  first  thirty-five  years  of  his  life  (the  most  impor- 
tant years  for  a  biography)  in  The  Prelude;  or,  Growth  of 
a  Poefs  Mind;  a  poem  for  unity  of  purpose,  right  perspec- 
tive, essential  truthfulness,  unique  in  the  age  of  confidences 
which  was  ushered  in  by  the  Confessions  of  Rousseau.1 

1  It  may  be  added,  in  passing,  that  The  Prelude  rises  from  time  to  time  to  the 
very  heights  of  inspired  verse :  cp.  Book  i.  11.  401  foil :  '  Wisdom  and  Spirit  of  the 
Universe  !  .  .  .'  ii.  396 :  'Thus  while  the  days  flew  by,  and  years  passed  on  .  .  .' 
iv.  142:  'The  sun  was  set,  or  setting,  when  I  left  .  .  .'  Some  people  may  be 
inclined  to  distrust  a  grown  man's  reminiscences  of  the  minuticB  of  his  early  child- 
hood. Women  will  be  less  sceptical,  perhaps,  than  men,  as  they  usually  retain 
more  vivid  and  minute  impressions  of  early  days.  But  Wordsworth  from  his 
youth  trained  his  memory,  partly  by  close  attention  to  his  observations  and 
emotions  at  the  time  when  he  experienced  them,  partly  by  constant  brooding  over 
the  recollection  of  them.  Professor  Raleigh,  in  his  recent  study  of  Wordsworth 
(1903),  pp.  25-28,  has  some  excellent  remarks  on  this  subject :  among  others  this : — 
'  He  indulged  his  memory  with  long  periods  of  reverie,  set  it  to  travel  to  and  fro 
among  the  past  experiences  of  his  life,  and  loved  solitude  and  indolence  chiefly 
because  during  the  lulls  of  social  intercourse  and  intellectual  labour  lost  impres- 
sions were  recaptured.'  Wordsworth's  poems,  and  his  notes,  dictated  late  in  life 
to  Miss  Fenwick,  amply  attest  the  power  of  his  memory  for  anything  that  had 
affected  his  emotions :  for  mere  dates,  as  his  editors  know  to  their  cost,  he  had  no 
memory ;  he  gave  dates  to  his  poems  in  the  edition  of  1815  and  subsequently,  but 
the  dates  are  frequently  proved  to  be  wrong  by  unimpeachable  evidence. 


xxiv  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Guided,  therefore,  by  the  poet  himself,  and  adding  the 
merest  outline  of  dates  and  names,  we  may  present  such  a 
short  sketch  of  Wordsworth's  life  as  will  serve  as  an  intro- 
duction to  his  poems  for  those  who  are  unfamiliar  with  the 
subject. 

He  was  born  on  April  7,  1770,  in  the  year  of  Chatterton's 
death  and  of  the  publication  of  Goldsmith's  Deserted  Village, 
the  year  before  the  death  of  Gray.  Scott,  Coleridge,  Southey, 
Lamb,  Landor,  Campbell,  Hazlitt,  Moore,  De  Quincey,  were 
all  born  in  the  next  fifteen  years  ;  Byron  and  Shelley,  Keats 
and  Carlyle,  within  another  decade. 

Wordsworth's  father,  John  Wordsworth,  of  Yorkshire  de- 
scent, was  an  attorney  at  Cockermouth,  and  agent  to  Sir 
James  Lowther,  the  first  Lord  Lonsdale;  his  mother  was 
daughter  of  William  Cookson,  mercer,  of  Penrith,  and  of 
Dorothy  Crackanthorp :  from  these  two  grandparents  the 
two  most  gifted  of  John  Wordsworth's  children,  the  two 
to  be  inseparably  linked  in  life  and  fame,  were  named ; 
William  being  the  second  child  and  Dorothy  the  third. 

The  Derwent,  which  flowed,  as  Wordsworth  tells  us,1 

Along  the  margin  of  our  terrace  walk, 

was  one  of  the  first  and  fairest  of  the  influences  that  formed 
the  poet's  soul,  with  its 

ceaseless  music  that  composed  my  thoughts 
To  more  than  infant  softness,  giving  me 
Amid  the  fretful  dwellings  of  mankind 
A  foretaste,  a  dim  earnest,  of  the  calm 
That  Nature  breathes  among  the  hills  and  groves.2 


Thus- 


Fair  seed-time  had  my  soul,  and  I  grew  up 
Fostered  alike  by  beauty  and  by  fear  :  3 


and  both  in  the  passage  from  which  these  lines  are  taken, 

1  Prelude,  i.  286.  2  Ibid.  277.  3  Ibid.  301. 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

by  implication,  and  in  the  Fifth  Book  of  the  same  poem, 
directly,  Wordsworth  pays  tribute  to  the  mother,  her 

who  was  the  heart 
And  hinge  of  all  our  learnings  and  our  loves,1 

to  whose  wise  simple-mindedness  he  owed  the  free  range 
of  his  childish  days  among  the  sights  and  sounds,  fancies 
and  fairy  tales,  that  nourished  his  imaginative  sympathy 
with  nature. 

His  mother  died  in  1778,  his  father  in  1783.  The  greater 
part  of  his  boyhood  was  spent  in  the  '  beloved  Vale '  of 
Esthwaite,  near  Winder-mere,  where  he  was  a  pupil  at  the 
old  grammar-school  of  Hawkshead,2  living  the  while  in  the 
cottage  of  Anne  Tyson, '  my  old  Dame,  so  kind  and  motherly,' 
whose  memory  he  affectionately  celebrates  in  The  Prelude? 

All  this  period  Wordsworth  has  brought  before  us  with 
a  loving  carefulness  and  a  zest  that  give  the  first  two  books 
of  The  Prelude  a  charm  and  freshness  beyond  the  rest.  And 
these  two  books  deserve  to  stand  out  most  clearly;  for  not 
only  was  the  most  celebrated  of  Wordsworth's  poems,  along 
with  many  others  in  their  varying  degrees,  inspired  by 
'  recollections  of  childhood ' ;  not  only  was  childhood  always 
a  subject  of  the  deepest  interest  to  him ;  but  in  his  case,  if 
ever,  it  was  true  that  '  the  child  is  father  of  the  man ' ;  it 
was  in  these  impressionable  early  years  that  his  'fostering' 
surroundings,  and,  above  all,  the  mystery  of  mountains,  en- 
dowed him  with  that  strong  hold  on  the  actual,  and  that 
equally  strong  mysticism,  which  together  make  up  the  very 
fabric  of  his  poetry. 

One  passage,  though  of  little  effect  compared  with  the 
whole  of  the  two  books,  will  illustrate  this  far  better  than 
pages  of  analysis  and  comment : — 

1  Prelude,  v.  257. 

8  See  the  'Matthew'  poems,  vol  ii.  pp.  337  foil.  3  iv.  25  foil. 


xxvi  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

One  summer  evening  (led  by  her l)  I  found 
A  little  boat  tied  to  a  willow  tree 
Within  a  rocky  cave,  its  usual  home. 
Straight  I  unloosed  her  chain,  and  stepping  in 
Pushed  from  the  shore.     It  was  an  act  of  stealth 
And  troubled  pleasure,  nor  without  the  voice 
Of  mountain-echoes  did  my  boat  move  on ; 
Leaving  behind  her  still,  on  either  side, 
Small  circles  glittering  idly  in  the  moon, 
Until  they  melted  all  into  one  track 
Of  sparkling  light.     But  now,  like  one  who  rows, 
Proud  of  his  skill,  to  reach  a  chosen  point 
With  an  unswerving  line,  I  fixed  my  view 
Upon  the  summit  of  a  craggy  ridge, 
The  horizon's  utmost  boundary  ;  far  above 
Was  nothing  but  the  stars  and  the  grey  sky. 
She  was  an  elfin  pinnace  ;  lustily 
I  dipped  my  oars  into  the  silent  lake, 
And,  as  I  rose  upon  the  stroke,  my  boat 
Went  heaving  through  the  water  like  a  swan  ; 
When,  from  behind  that  craggy  steep  till  then 
The  horizon's  bound,  a  huge  peak,  black  and  huge, 
As  if  with  voluntary  power  instinct, 
Upreared  its  head.     I  struck  and  struck  again, 
And  growing  still  in  stature  the  grim  shape 
Towered  up  between  me  and  the  stars,  and  still, 
For  so  it  seemed,  with  purpose  of  its  own 
And  measured  motion  like  a  living  thing, 
Strode  after  me.     With  trembling  oars  I  turned, 
And  through  the  silent  water  stole  my  way 
Back  to  the  covert  of  the  willow  tree  ; 
There  in  her  mooring-place  I  left  my  bark, — 
And  through  the  meadows  homeward  went,  in  grave 
And  serious  mood  ;  but  after  I  had  seen 
That  spectacle,  for  many  days,  my  brain 
Worked  with  a  dim  and  undetermined  sense 
Of  unknown  modes  of  being ;  o'er  my  thoughts 
There  hung  a  darkness,  call  it  solitude 
Or  blank  desertion.     No  familiar  shapes 
Remained,  no  pleasant  images  of  trees, 
Of  sea  or  sky,  no  colours  of  green  fields ; 
But  huge  and  mighty  forms,  that  do  not  live 
Like  living  men,  moved  slowly  through  the  mind 
By  day,  and  were  a  trouble  to  my  dreams. 

1  i.e.  Nature :  i.  357  foil. 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

Wordsworth  spoke  more  than  once  in  later  years  of  the 
vividness,  the  over-mastering  power,  of  the  spiritual  ex- 
periences of  his  boyhood.  '  I  used  to  brood  over  the  stories 
of  Enoch  and  Elijah,  and  almost  to  persuade  myself  that, 
whatever  might  become  of  others,  I  should  be  translated,  in 
something  of  the  same  way,  to  heaven.  With  a  feeling 
congenial  to  this,  I  was  often  unable  to  think  of  external 
things  as  having  external  existence,  and  I  communed  with 
all  that  I  saw  as  something  not  apart  from,  but  inherent 
in,  my  own  immaterial  nature.  Many  times  while  going 
to  school  have  I  grasped  at  a  wall  or  tree  to  recall  myself 
from  this  abyss  of  idealism  to  the  reality.' l 

But  with  all  this  he  was  neither  an  infant  prodigy  nor 
a  morbid  or  solitary  child.  The  simplicity  of  his  social 
surroundings  and  his  out-of-doors  life  co-operated  with  his 
strong  limbs  and  vigorous  nature  to  keep  him  unspoilt. 
He  describes  his  delight  in  skating  and  adventurous  climbing, 
his  birds'-nesting  and  nutting  expeditions,  his  riding  and 
rowing.  Just  as  in  later  life  he  was  a  man  of  strong  common 
sense  and  shrewdness  as  well  as  a  '  dedicated  spirit,'  so  in  his 
school-days  he  was  a  boy  among  his  fellows  as  well  as  a 
dreamer  of  dreams. 

At  the  age  of  seventeen,  he  was  sent  by  his  two  uncles 
and  guardians,  Richard  Wordsworth  and  Christopher  Crack- 
anthorp,  to  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge,  where  he  resided 
during  the  usual  three  years,  taking  his  degree  in  January 
1791.  His  university  career  was  in  no  way  conspicuous. 
Duty  to  his  benefactors,  as  well  as  his  own  common  sense, 
prevented  him  from  rebelling  against  a  good  deal  that  was 
uncongenial  to  him ;  the  plunge  into  a  busier,  gayer  society — 
if  engaged  mainly  upon  'strenuous  idleness'2 — afforded  him 

1  Fen  wick   note  to  Intimations  of  Immortality  from   Recollections  of   Early 
Childhood. 

2  Prelude,  iv.  378.    The  phrase  is  repeated  in  the  poem,  'This  Lawn,  a  carpet 
all  alive,'  composed  1829.     See  vol.  ii.  p.  363. 


rxviii  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

much  enjoyment  and  some  youthful  dissatisfaction.  In  after 
years,  as  his  strong  feeling  for  the  past  became  developed, 
he  felt  a  certain  regret  at  the  rather  slight  hold  that  an 
ancient  university  had  taken  of  his  imagination.  Poets  have 
rarely  been  quite  at  home  at  Oxford  or  Cambridge,  where 
the  standard  of  the  mean  asserts  itself  with  tyrannous  excess. 
Wordsworth,  though  his  fancy  could  picture  a  place  of  learn- 
ing, —  such  as,  fortunately  for  his  genius,  did  not  exist,  — 

Whose  studious  aspect  should  have  bent  me  down 
To  instantaneous  service,1 

was  free  from  the  censorious  self-complacency  of  more  vulgar 
minds.  '  Nor  was  this,'  he  says,  —  namely,  the  lack  of  a  *  high 
emotion,'  — 

Nor  was  this  the  blame 
Of  others  but  ray  own  ;  I  should,  in  truth, 
As  far  as  doth  concern  my  single  self, 
Misdeem  most  widely,  lodging  it  elsewhere  : 
For  I,  bred  up  'mid  Nature's  luxuries, 
Was  a  spoiled  child,  and,  rambling  like  the  wind, 
As  I  had  done  in  daily  intercourse 
With  those  crystalline  rivers,  solemn  heights, 
And  mountains,  ranging  like  a  fowl  of  the  air, 
I  was  ill-tutored  for  captivity  ; 
To  quit  my  pleasure,  and,  from  month  to  month, 
Take  up  a  station  calmly  on  the  perch 
Of  sedentary  peace.* 

The  most  interesting  point  about  Wordsworth's  university 
life  is,  and  was,  one  might  almost  say,  to  him,3  the  curious 
accident  which  brought  Coleridge  up  to  Cambridge  just  after 
he  himself  had  gone  down.  Very  different  indeed  might  have 
been  the  college  life  of  each  of  the  two  poets  had  they  met  as 
Freshmen,  the  one  from  his  breeding  *  "mid  Nature's  luxuries,' 
the  other  *  from  the  heart  of  London,'  but  in  *  all  the  strength 
and  plumage  of  his  youth,'  and 


m.  373.  »  Ibid.  m.  347. 

»  See  the  fine  poange  in  Prelude,  vi.  237-318,  »nd  contact  it  with  the 
Iftttltm  rtyle  of  moat  of  Book  iiL 


INTRODUCTION  xxix 

unrelentingly  possessed  by  thirst 
Of  greatness,  love,  and  beauty. l 

As  it  happened,  this  most  fruitful  of  all  friendships  between 
English  men  of  letters  could  not  begin  until  some  years  after 
Wordsworth  had  left  Cambridge. 

In  his  summer  vacations  Wordsworth  reverted  to  his 
beloved  mountains,  to  those  of  his  own  home,  to  the  York- 
shire dales,  finally  to  the  Alps  of  Switzerland.  From  these 
returns  to  his  natural  surroundings, 

a  comfort  seemed  to  touch 

A  heart  that  had  not  been  disconsolate : 

Strength  came  where  weakness  was  not  known  to  be, 

At  least  not  felt ;  and  restoration  came 

Like  an  intruder  knocking  at  the  door 

Of  unacknowledged  weariness.8 

One  of  these  vacations  he  spent  partly  at  Penrith,  where 
his  sister  Dorothy  and  Mary  Hutchinson  were  the  comrades 
of  his  rambles.  The  latter  was  connected  by  marriage  with 
the  Cooksons,  and  had  been  at  the  same  infant  school  with 
Wordsworth  at  Penrith ;  she  was  now 

By  her  exulting  outside  look  of  youth 

And  placid  under-countenance,  first  endeared  3 

to  him,  and  was  afterwards  to  become  his  wife.  His  sister 
Dorothy  was  from  the  first  even  more  completely  wrapped  up 
in  his  spiritual  life.  There  never  can  have  been  a  more 
complete  community  of  sentiment  than  between  these  two. 
Dorothy  shared  the  poet's  passion  for  open  air  life  and  wander- 
ing, his  sensitiveness  to  the  play  of  Nature's  countenance  and 
Nature"^  voice,  his  sense  of  language,  his  quick  and  strong 
emotions.  In  childhood  she  exercised  such  influence  as  a  sister 
may  upon  her  brother's  coarser  animal  spirits : — 

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.4 

*  Prelude,  vi.  304.  »  Ibid.  iv.  153.  »  Ibid.  vL  426. 

*  The  Sparrow's  Nett,  below,  p.  116. 


xxx  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

To  her  was  appropriately  addressed  Wordsworth's  first  pub- 
lished poem,  An  Evening  Walk,  which  was  partly  composed 
during  the  vacation  just  mentioned. 

So  completely  did  the  brother  and  sister  see  with  the  same 
eyes  that  Wordsworth  habitually  made  use  of  Dorothy's 
Journals  as  the  groundwork  of  his  poems,  and  that  not  only 
in  his  uninspired  hours.  In  mental  quality  they  were  extra- 
ordinarily similar ;  it  was  the  greater  force  and  grasp  of  the 
man's  mind  that  enabled  him  to  absorb,  as  it  were,  her  gifts 
into  his  own  creative  power. 

The  visit  to  Switzerland  in  his  third  Long  Vacation  was 
prompted  in  the  first  instance  by  the  sovereignty  of  Nature  in 
Wordsworth's  mind  ;x  but  the  journey  on  foot  through  France 
promised  something  more  than  the  anticipation  of  the  first 
sight  of  the  Alps.  For 

Europe  at  that  time  was  thrilled  with  joy, 
France  standing  on  the  top  of  golden  hours, 
And  human  nature  seeming  born  again.2 

This  joy  the  travellers  (for  Wordsworth  was  walking  with  a 
college  friend)  found  at  its  height,  still  unshadowed  by  the 
Terror.  Yet  even  then  such  an  incident  as  a  domiciliary  visit 
of  soldiers  to  the  monastery  of  the  Grande  Chartreuse,  which 
they  happened  to  witness,  and  mistook  for  the  expulsion  of 
the  monks,  jarred  upon  a  contemplative  and  reverential 
nature.  And,  as  was  natural  enough,  the  French  Revolution 
was  of  much  less  intimate  importance  to  the  young  poet  than 
the  glories  of  Chamouni  and  the  Simplon,  of 

Locarno  !  spreading  out  in  width  like  Heaven,3 
and 

Como,  bosomed  deep  in  chestnut  groves.4 

In  January  1791  Wordsworth  took  his  degree  and  left 
Cambridge.  He  was  uncertain  what  to  do  next,  and  doubt 

i  Prelude,  vi.  333.  3  Ibid.  vi.  339. 

3  Ibid.  vi.  657.  *  Descriptive  Sketches,  78. 


INTRODUCTION  xxxi 

drew  him,  like  most  Englishmen,  to  London.  He  never 
became  a  part  of  the  life  of  the  '  vast  metropolis ' ;  but  the 
visit  helped  to  widen  his  imaginative  vision.  It  was  no  longer 
inanimate  Nature  but  the  life  of  man  that  was  thrust  perforce 
before  his  eyes — 

And  oft  amid  the  '  busy  hum '  I  seemed 

To  travel  independent  of  her  help, 

As  if  I  had  forgotten  her  ;  but  no, 

The  world  of  human-kind  outweighed  not  hers 

In  my  habitual  thoughts  ;  the  scale  of  love, 

Though  filling  daily,  still  was  light,  compared 

With  that  in  which  her  mighty  objects  lay.1 

If  Wordsworth  had  been  born  at  a  different  time,  he  might 
have  returned  at  once  to  his  '  native  regions,"  and  become  the 
poet  merely  of  mountains,  streams,  and  trees.  But  he  was  to 
have  his  period  of  '  storm  and  stress,1  and  to  come  out  of  it  the 
poet  also  of  the  human  heart.  In  November  1791  he  crossed 
over  to  France  for  a  lengthened  stay.  During  a  few  days1 
sojourn  in  Paris  he  visited  such  places  of  interest  as  the  ruins 
of  the  Bastille ; 

And  from  the  rubbish  gathered  up  a  stone, 
And  pocketed  the  relic,  in  the  guise 
Of  an  enthusiast ;  yet,  in  honest  truth, 
I  looked  for  something  that  I  could  not  find, 
Affecting  more  emotion  than  I  felt. 2 

It  was  only  some  time  after  he  had  been  in  the  country, 
first  at  Orleans  and  afterwards  at  Blois,  and  after  the  mere 

novelties  in  speech, 
Domestic  manners,  customs,  gestures,  looks,3 

had  ceased  to  be  novelties,  that  he  gradually  became  engrossed 
in  the  Revolution.  His  companions  at  Blois  were  chiefly 
officers  of  the  army,  all  of  them,  except  one,  only  anxious  for 
an  opportunity  to  restore  the  past.  Wordsworth  felt  no 
sympathy  with  their  rage  or  their  royalism.  In  his  own 
boyhood  he  had  scarcely  set  eyes  on  any  one  who  claimed 
i  Prelude,  viii.  680.  a  Ibid,  ix,  69.  3  /^.  32. 


xxxii  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

respect  on  the  score  of  either  wealth  or  blood  ; l  the  university 
as  a  Republic  of  '  scholars  and  gentlemen ' 2  was  not  a  place  to 
foster  sentimental  loyalty ;  nor  was  Wordsworth  at  any  time 
more  inclined  than  the  average  dalesman  to  pay  to  the 
trappings  of  conventional  power  that  homage  of  awe  which 
was,  as  it  were,  claimed  beforehand  by  the  forces  of  Nature. 
He  was  thus  drawn  into  intimacy  with  the  one  '  patriot ' 
amongst  these  officers,  Michel  Beaupuy,  a  disinterested  lover 
of  mankind  and  a  gallant  soldier,  who  was  killed  while  com- 
manding a  division  at  the  battle  of  Emmendingen  in  1796,3 
Long  discussions  with  Beaupuy  and  the  influence  of  his  pure 
enthusiasm  gave  reality  to  Wordsworth's  political  speculations, 
and  fired  him  with  a  belief  in  the  success  of  the  Revolution. 
He  came  to  Paris,  therefore,  on  his  way  home, '  with  ardour 
heretofore  unfelt,'*  almost  sufficient  to  make  him  an  actor  in 
the  drama.  In  spite  of  his  faith  in  the  cause  of  Liberty,  such 
panicstricken  blunders  of  its  sons  as  the  September  massacres, 
which  had  taken  place  only  a  month  earlier,  and  the  growing 
violence  of  extreme  leaders  like  Robespierre,  showed  him, 
what  history  was  afterwards  to  show  all  of  us,  that  one  single 
brain  and  will  was  needed  to  recover  the  ship  of  the  State 
from  mere  weltering  in  the  trough  of  the  waves.  Since 
Napoleon  had  not  yet  appeared,  a  young  poet  may  be  par- 
doned for  having  suffered  a  dream5  of  being  perchance  the 
instrument  of  Heaven  for  rallying  and  revivifying  the  Gironde. 
But  France  was  to  wait  for  her  Napoleon ;  and  England  was 
not  to  lose  her  poet  by  the  guillotine. 

Wordsworth  returned  to  England,  to  be  met  with  a  blow 
that  struck  him  in  a  more  vital  part  than  anything  he  had 
seen  or  heard  of  in  France.  His  '  own  beloved  country ' 
joined  the  league  of  France's  enemies,  of  the  enemies  of  the 
cause  of  liberty.  Wordsworth's  excitability  was  controlled 

1  Prelude,  ix.  215  foil.       2  Ibid.  229.      3  For  Beaupuy  see  below,  vol.  iii.  p.  577. 
*  Prelude,  x.  49.  5  Ibid.  x.  120-236. 


INTRODUCTION  xxxiii 

by  strong  common  sense  ;  and  he  never  possessed  the  strange 
power  of  horror-striking  fascination  which  made  Coleridge's 
Fire,  Famine,  and  Slaughter  the  rarest  of  curiosities,  a  living 
political  lampoon.  One  can  scarcely  imagine,  then,  the  dis- 
turbance of  his  feelings  that  must  have  taken  place  when  he 
actually  felt  a  dreadful  exultation  in  the  defeat  of  English 
soldiers  — 

It  was  a  grief,  — 

Grief  call  it  not,  'twas  anything  but  that,  — 
A  conflict  of  sensations  without  name, 
Of  which  he  only,  who  may  love  the  sight 
Of  a  village  steeple,  as  I  do,  can  judge, 
When,  in  the  congregation  bending  all 
To  their  great  Father,  prayers  were  offered  up, 
Or  praises  for  our  country's  victories  ; 
And,  'mid  the  simple  worshippers,  perchance 
I  only,  like  an  uninvited  guest 
Whom  no  one  owned,  sate  silent,  —  shall  I  add, 
Fed  on  the  day  of  vengeance  yet  to  come.1 

It  is  difficult  now  not  to  feel  even  a  certain  abhorrence  at 
this  state  of  mind,  but  it  is  perhaps  rather  dullness  of  imagina- 
tion than  any  moral  superiority  that  makes  it  impossible  to 
sympathise  with  Charles  James  Fox  and  Wordsworth. 

For  some  time  things  went  from  bad  to  worse.  The  action 
of  England  only  goaded  France  to  madness  :2  and  the  madness 
of  France  destroyed  the  faith  of  lovers  of  liberty.3 

Most  melancholy  at  that  time,  O  Friend  ! 

Were  my  day-thoughts,  —  my  nights  were  miserable  ; 

Through  months,  through  years,  long  after  the  last  beat 

Of  those  atrocities,  the  hour  of  sleep 

To  me  came  rarely  charged  with  natural  gifts  : 

Such  ghastly  visions  had  I  of  despair 

And  tyranny,  and  implements  of  death  ; 

And  innocent  victims  sinking  under  fear, 

And  momentary  hope,  and  worn-out  prayer, 

Each  in  his  separate  cell,  or  penned  in  crowds 


1  Prelude,  i.  288.  a  Ibid.  331  foil.  »  jnn.  374  foil. 

l—  o 


xxxiv  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

For  sacrifice,  and  struggling  with  fond  mirth 
And  levity  in  dungeons,  where  the  dust 
Was  laid  with  tears.     Then  suddenly  the  scene 
Changed,  and  the  unbroken  dream  entangled  me 
In  long  orations,  which  I  strove  to  plead 
Before  unjust  tribunals, — with  a  voice 
Labouring,  a  brain  confounded,  and  a  sense, 
Death-like,  of  treacherous  desertion,  felt 
In  the  last  place  of  refuge — my  own  soul.1 

The  force  of  a  pure  heart  and  of  a  poet's  faith2  kept 
Wordsworth  from  falling  into  the  ranks  of  the  scoffers3  and 
the  timid  ;  and  the  fall  of  Robespierre  came  like  a  burst  of 
sunshine  through  the  clouds.  Wordsworth  was  riding  one 
day  over  the  sands  '  of  Leven's  ample  estuary,'  when  he  met 
a  troop  of  tourists,  the  foremost  of  whom,  instead  of  any 
other  salutation,  cried  to  him,  '  Robespierre  is  dead  ! ' 4 

But  though 

From  that  time  forth,  Authority  in  France 
Put  on  a  milder  face  ;  Terror  had  ceased,5 

yet  the  darkest  hour  of  trial  had  not  yet  come.  It  was 
when, 

become  oppressors  in  their  turn, 
Frenchmen  had  changed  a  war  of  self-defence 
For  one  of  conquest,6 

that  Wordsworth's  mind,  driven  in  upon  itself  for  its  only 
support,  attempted  to  build  out  of  abstract  principles  and 
the  philosophy  of  Godwin  a  place  to  hide  it  in. 

So  I  fared, 

Dragging  all  precepts,  judgments,  maxims,  creeds, 
Like  culprits  to  the  bar ;  .  .  . 
.  .  .  till,  demanding  formal  proof, 
And  seeking  it  in  everything,  I  lost 
All  feeling  of  conviction,  and,  in  fine, 
Sick,  wearied  out  with  contrarieties, 
Yielded  up  moral  questions  in  despair.7 

*  Prelude,  x.  397.  2  Ibid.  437  folL  »  Ibid.  470  foil. 

*  Ibid.  573.  B  Ibid.  xi.  1.  «  Ibid.  206.  '  Ibid.  293. 


INTRODUCTION  xxxv 

The  poets  were  no  help.  Their  conceptions  and  ideals  were 
exposed  to  the  same  withering  criticism.  The  '  visible 
Universe,'  instead  of  being  watched  and  honoured  and  loved 
as  of  old,  was  scanned  'with  microscopic  view,'1  and  judged 
'  by  rules  of  mimic  art.'  2  Even  the  mere  excitement  of  the 
past  months  had  temporarily  impaired  the  poet's  true  sense 
of  beauty.3 

So  at  least  it  seemed  to  Wordsworth  as  he  looked  back  ten 
years  later.  It  is  worth  while  to  follow  with  some  care  these 

perturbations  of  a  youthful  mind 
Under  a  long-lived  storm  of  great  events,4 

for  the  very  reason  that  they  left  slight  traces  on  the  surface 
of  his  poetry,  other  than  The  Prelude.  But  in  fact  they 
were  the  pangs  of  travail  to  bring  forth  that  poetry.  They 
gave  it  humanity,  depth,  force.  They  peopled  the  beloved 
landscape  of  the  poet  neither  with  the  nymphs  and  swains 
nor  with  the  frigid  abstractions  of  the  mere  sentimentalist, 
but  with  real  men  and  women. 

Wordsworth  has  told  us,  in  lines  instinct  with  feeling,  to 
whom  before  any  other  human  being  he  owed  his  recovery 
from  *  that  strong  disease  '  5  which  beset  him  — 

Then  it  was  — 

Thanks  to  the  bounteous  Giver  of  all  good  !  — 
That  the  beloved  Sister  in  whose  sight 
Those  days  were  passed,  now  speaking  in  a  voice 
Of  sudden  admonition  —  like  a  brook 
That  did  but  cross  a  lonely  road,  and  now 
Is  seen,  heard,  felt,  and  caught  at  every  turn, 
Companion  never  lost  through  many  a  league  — 
Maintained  for  me  a  saving  intercourse 
With  my  true  self  ;  for,  though  bedimmed  and  changed 
Much,  as  it  seemed,  I  was  no  further  changed 
Than  as  a  clouded  and  a  waning  moon  : 
She  whispered  still  that  brightness  would  return  ; 


i  Prelude,  xii.  91.  2  jbid.  111.  »  Ibid.  198-201. 

<  Ibid.  xi.  372.  *  Ibid.  306. 


xxxvi  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

She,  in  the  midst  of  all,  preserved  me  still 

A  Poet,  made  me  seek  beneath  that  name, 

And  that  alone,  my  office  upon  earth  ; 

And  lastly,  as  hereafter  will  be  shown, 

If  willing  audience  fail  not,  Nature's  self, 

By  all  varieties  of  human  love 

Assisted,  led  me  back  through  opening  day 

To  those  sweet  counsels  between  head  and  heart 

Whence  grew  that  genuine  knowledge,  fraught  with  peace, 

Which,  through  the  later  sinkings  of  this  cause, 

Hath  still  upheld  me,  and  upholds  me  now l  .  .  . 

In  the  later  lines  of  this  passage  one  can  scarcely  fail  to  be 
reminded  of  Coleridge.  If  the  influence  of  his  sister  Dorothy, 
and  to  some  extent  that  of  their  friend  from  childhood  who 
was  afterwards,  in  1802,  to  become  his  wife,2  were  the  chief 
sanative3  powers  of  Wordsworth's  troubled  days,  it  was 
Coleridge,  before  any  one  else,  who  opened  the  poetic  sources 
of  his  mind,  and  bade  the  streams  to  flow.  After  his  return 
from  France,  Wordsworth  made  London  his  home,  or  rather 
the  starting-point  from  which  he  made  many  of  those  excur- 
sions, which  always  delighted  him  and  gave  the  stimulus,  as 
they  often  gave  the  titles,  to  his  poems.  His  pleasure  even 
in  travelling,  however,  was  at  this  period  clouded  over,  not 
only  by  the  spiritual  crisis  just  described,  but  by  financial 
straits  and  anxiety  for  the  future.  The  choice  of  a  career 
had  always  been  a  difficulty  to  him.  The  law,  in  which  his 
uncle,  Richard  Cookson,  could  give  him  a  start,  repelled  him. 
He  had  thought  much  of  becoming  a  clergyman,  but  it  had 
become  increasingly  plain  that  that  was  not  his  vocation. 
He  was  equally  unfitted  to  become  a  soldier  or  a  journalist, 
though  both  careers  were  considered.  In  spite  of  his  period 
of  scepticism  and  revolt,  he  never  really  lost  hold  of  the 
purpose  which  he  had  early  formed,  of  being  a  poet,  a 
'  dedicated  spirit.'  In  the  meantime,  such  a  purpose,  in  a 

i  Prelude,  xi.  333.  »  Ibid.  xiv.  266  foil. 

8  The  word  is  Wordsworth's :  Prelude,  xi.  396. 


INTRODUCTION  xxxvii 

poor  man,  inevitably  seems  unreasonable  to  his  older,  if  not 
to  his  younger,  relatives ;  and  Wordsworth  suffered  some- 
thing from  the  displeasure  of  his  uncles.  In  1795,  however, 
one  of  his  friends,  Raisley  Calvert,  died,  leaving  him  a  legacy 
of  £900,  with  the  express  purpose  of  enabling  him  to  adopt 
the  life  of  a  poet,  freed  for  the  present  from  the  necessity  of 
seeking  a  more  remunerative  employment.  The  gift,  com- 
parable to  that  bestowed  by  the  Wedgwoods  upon  Coleridge, 
is  recorded  in  The  Prelude.1  During  the  same  year,  Words- 
worth, coming  with  his  sister  Dorothy  to  settle  in  the  west 
country,  first  made  the  acquaintance  of  Coleridge,  who  had 
already  conceived  a  great  admiration  for  him  from  reading 
the  Descriptive  Sketches  published  two  years  before.  The 
acquaintance  fast  ripened  into  close  friendship  and  ardent 
partnership  in  poetry, — a  partnership  in  which  Coleridge 
gave  even  more  than  he  got,  and  perhaps  the  more  so 
because  neither  of  the  friends  would  have  dreamt  that  this 
was  the  case.  Wordsworth  was  a  couple  of  years  the  elder 
of  the  two,  at  a  time  of  life  when  a  small  difference  of  age 
goes  for  a  good  deal.  He  had,  besides,  that  independence  or 
self-dependence  of  character  which  often  accompanies  other 
fine  and  enduring  qualities,  but  which  is  apt  to  be  blind  to 
obligations  under  which  it  would  chafe  if  they  were  recognised. 
Coleridge  said  of  him  in  words  that  give  one  an  impression  of 
both  their  characters  :  '  Wordsworth  is  the  only  man  to  whom 
at  all  times  and  in  all  modes  of  excellence  I  feel  myself  inferior.' 2 
The  quick  impressionable  mind  and  emotions  of  Coleridge 
did  indeed  promptly  respond  to  the  contact  of  Wordsworth's 
strong  personality.  Not  content  with  insisting  among  his 
own  admirers,  like  Charles  Lamb,  on  the  superiority  of  Words- 
worth's poetry  to  his  own,  he,  consciously  or  unconsciously, 

*  Prelude,  xi.  348  foil. 

2  Letter  to  Southey,  July  1797.    Letters  of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  edited  by 
Ernest  Hartley  Coleridge,  vol.  i.  p.  224. 


xxxviii  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

imitated  it.1  But  no  one  can  be  familiar  with  the  lives  and 
works  of  the  two  men  and  not  feel  how  deeply  Wordsworth 
was  penetrated  with  the  fine  and  subtle  quicksilver,  as  it 
were,  of  that  extraordinary  intellect.  Wordsworth,  though 
his  retentive  memory  was  familiar  with  English  poetry,  and 
he  was  well  read  in  history,  and  some  Italian  poets,  and 
acquainted  with  French  and  Spanish,  was  scarcely  more  than 
the  average  man  compared  with  Coleridge's  vast  range  of 
reading.  In  philosophy,  especially,  whether  applied  to  the 
principles  of  poetry  or  to  those  of  religion  and  metaphysics, 
Coleridge  was  the  master,  Wordsworth  the  disciple : — a 
disciple,  it  is  true,  whose  strong  character  exercised  a 
natural  selection  in  assimilating  what  he  learnt,  and  who 
probably  never  sympathised  with  the  more  subtle  processes 
of  abstract  thought ;  but  one  who,  nevertheless,  owed  to  Cole- 
ridge much  of  the  armour  with  which  he  fought  his  literary 
battle  and  the  semi-philosophical  mysticism  in  which  his 
love  of  nature  and  faith  in  its  blessed  intercommunion  with 
man  and  with  God  were  expressed.  But,  above  all,  the 
ebullience  and  generosity  of  Coleridge's  mind  and  heart,  his 
swift  apprehension  and  sympathy,  his  irrepressible  affection 
and  hopefulness  and  life,  these  things,  together  with  the 
influences  of  Dorothy  Wordsworth  and  Mary  Hutchinson, 
were  of  immense,  though  quite  incalculable,  importance 
to  Wordsworth's  development.  Nothing  in  Wordsworth's 
eloquent  recognition  of  these  three  nourishers  of  his  genius 
is  more  true  or  more  eloquent  than  this  apostrophe  to 
Coleridge  : — 

1  This  is  well  brought  out  by  Professor  Legouis,  La  Jcunesse  de  W.  Words- 
worth, pp.  363  and  365,  where  he  points  out  the  indebtedness  of  Coleridge's  The 
Destiny  of  Nations,  11.  172-245  to  Wordsworth's  Guilt  and,  Sorrow,  stanzas  LX. 
LXIII.,  and  of  Osorio  to  The  Borderers.  '  C'est  alors  que  Coleridge  entendit  lire  les 
Borderers  et  s'en  engoua  au  point  de  les  imiter  dans  la  seconde  partie  d'une 
trage"die,  Osorio,  dont  il  avait  ddja  e"crit  deux  actes  et  demi.  Frappe"  par  le 
caractere  du  traitre  Oswald,  il  lui  prit  son  orgueil  et  sa  philosophic  cynique  pour 
le  propre  traitre  de  sa  piece.  Imitation  flagrante  et  qui  commence  juste  &  1'endroit 
de  sa  tragedie  oil  Coleridge  s'etait  arrete  avant  do  connaitre  les  Borderers.' 


INTRODUCTION  xxxix 

O  capacious  Soul ! 

Placed  on  this  earth  to  love  and  understand, 
And  from  thy  presence  shed  the  light  of  love.1 

Coleridge,  all  through  his  life,  was  not  content  with  giving ; 
he  must  lavish  himself,  his  love,  his  knowledge,  and  powers 
of  all  sorts  on  whomsoever  happened  to  come  in  his  way. 
That  is  why,  notwithstanding  his  weakness,  nobody  can  long 
avoid  loving  Coleridge;  while  of  Wordsworth,  even  when 
we  have  come  to  love  him  as  we  could  only  love  one  of  the 
chief  brighteners,  helpers,  consolers  of  our  life,  we  scarcely 
venture  to  speak  of  our  love,  lest  it  seem  in  some  measure 
disrespectful. 

Wordsworth  and  his  sister  had  been  lent  a  farmhouse  at 
Racedown,  and  took  up  their  abode  in  October  1795.  Cole- 
ridge settled  in  the  now  famous  little  cottage  at  Nether 
Stowey,  on  the  Minehead  and  Bridgewater  road,  at  the  end 
of  1796.  In  July  1797,  after  an  exchange  of  visits,2  the 
Wordsworths  moved  to  Alfoxden,  about  three  miles  from 
Nether  Stowey,  where  they  lived  for  very  nearly  a  year.  It 
was  during  this  period — 

That  summer,  under  whose  indulgent  skies, 
Upon  smooth  Quantock's  airy  ridge  we  roved 
Unchecked,  or  loitered  'mid  her  sylvan  combs,3 

that  the  Lyrical  Ballads  were  planned  and  in  the  main  com- 
posed. A  story  is  told  by  Coleridge,  with  his  usual  good- 
humoured  diffuseness,4  how  a  Government  spy  was  sent  down 
to  Nether  Stowey  to  watch  the  motions  of  Coleridge  and 
Wordsworth,  suspected  of  Jacobin  principles  and  seditious 
purposes.  The  spy,  'a  very  honest  fellow,'  says  Coleridge, 
could  make  out  nothing  from  his  eavesdropping  but  a  great 

1  Prelude,  xiv.  277. 

2  It  was  while  visiting  Coleridge  (July  2nd  to  16th)  that  Wordsworth  first  met 
Charles  Lamb,  who  also  stayed  at  Nether  Stowey  from  July  9th  to  16th. 

3  Prelude,  xiv.  395. 

4  Biographia  Literaria,  c.  x.  ad  med. 


xl  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

deal  of  talking  and  reading  about  poetry  and  philosophy. 
Little  did  he  or  the  ingenious  authors  of  the  Anti-Jacobin 
understand  that  the  two  '  suspects '  were  indeed  revolution- 
aries to  much  greater  effect  than  if  their  efforts  had  been 
directed  towards  the  landing  of  a  French  fleet  in  Porlock 
Bay. 

The  Lyrical  Ballads  appeared  anonymously  'on  or  about'1 
the  1st  September  1798.  Coleridge's  share  in  the  venture 
consisted  of  two  passages  taken  from  his  tragedy  Osorio 
(afterwards  re-named  Remorse),  The  Nightingale.,  and  The 
Rime  of  the  Ancyent  Marinere.  Wordsworth  contributed 
nineteen  poems,  in  styles  as  various  as  those  of  Expostulation 
and  Reply,  Goody  Blake  and  Harry  Gill,  Lines  written  in  Early 
Spring,  and  Lines  written  a  few  miles  above  Tintern  Abbey. 
Volumes  have  been  written  about  the  poetical  principles  in 
illustration  of  which  these  experiments,  as  the  majority  of  the 
poems  were  called  in  the  Advertisement,  were  launched  into 
the  world.  One  short  word  must  here  suffice  for  the  benefit 
of  those  who  have  not  read  those  volumes. 

One  chief  aim,  then,  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  in  so  far  as 
they  were  experiments,  was  to  prove  by  example  that  there 
neither  is  nor  should  be  any  distinction  between  the  words 
suitable  for  poetry  and  those  suitable  for  prose.  This  is 
the  aim  set  out  in  the  Advertisement  prefixed  to  the  first 
edition.  Ever  since  the  Restoration,  Society  had  bound 
itself  more  and  more  with  the  shackles  of  an  artificial  code 
of  idle  manners;  and  verse-writing,  which  was  mainly  no 
more  than  an  amusement  of  society,  had  become  more  and 
more  a  matter  of  conventional  phraseology  and  so-called 
'  poetic  diction.' 2  The  most  cherished  ambition  of  an 

1  Lyrical  Ballads,  edited  by  Thomas    Hutchinson   (London:   Duckworth  and 
Co.,  1898).    Introd.  p.  ix. 

2  It  is  impossible  in  so  short  a  summary  of  the  poetical  tendency  of  a  century 
and  a  half  not  to  seem  to  do  injustice  to  the  men  of  force  and  genius  who  wrote  in 
that  period :  but  perhaps  I  may  avoid  misconception  by  adding  that  I  read  much 


INTRODUCTION  xli 

Erasmus  Darwin,  so  far  as  style  was  concerned,  was  to  call 
a  spade  by  the  periphrasis  which  would  most  remotely 
suggest  so  vulgar  an  object.  The  artificiality  of  the  age  had 
affected  genuine  poets  like  Gray  and  Collins;  but  to  under- 
stand that  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  had  a  battle  to  win, 
one  must  remember  the  hundred  poetasters,  male  and  female, 
whose  very  names  have  long  been  forgotten,  because  they 
had  not  even  the  vitality  of  a  Darwin  nor  the  laureateship 
of  a  Pye.  Wordsworth's  own  earliest  published  poems,  An 
Evening  Walk,  and  Descriptive  Sketches,  though  they  con- 
tained many  felicities  of  expression  and  abundant  promise 
of  genuine  poetic  insight  and  truth,  are  bespangled  with 
gew-gaws  of  that  'gaudiness  and  inane  phraseology'  which 
he  was  afterwards  to  denounce  so  strongly ;  indeed  the  length 
to  which  he  went  in  the  naked  simplicity  of  some  of  his 
Lyrical  Ballads  is  partly  to  be  explained  as  the  reaction  of 
one  who  had  not  only  observed,  but  in  his  own  person 
experienced,  the  glamour  of  the  false  ideal  of  poetic 
diction. 

The  other  principal  aim,  stated  in  the  Preface  to  the 
second,  enlarged,  edition,  'was  to  make  the  incidents  of 
common  life  interesting  by  tracing  in  them,  truly  though 
not  ostentatiously,  the  primary  laws  of  our  nature.1 1  Here 
Wordsworth  was  combating  quite  a  different,  and  a  much 
more  modern,  evil  than  conventional  poetic  diction — the 
'  degrading  thirst  after  outrageous  stimulation,'  which  was 
catered  for  by  '  frantic  novels,  sickly  and  stupid  German 
tragedies,  and  deluges  of  idle  and  extravagant  stories  in 
verse.'2  This  extract  from  the  Preface  is  enough  to  dispel 
the  old  illusion,  if  it  anywhere  survives,  that  Wordsworth 
was  a  pioneer  of  the  Romantic  movement.  That  movement 

of  the  work  of  the  so-called  Augustan  age  of  English  poetry  with  pleasure,  and 
am,  in  particular,  a  hearty  admirer  of  Pope.     Still  I  do  not  think  that  I  mis-state 
in  the  text  the  morbid  symptoms  of  the  poetry  of  that  age. 
i  P.  x.  of  the  original  ed.  (1800).  2  Ibid.  p.  xix. 


xlii  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

had  been  afoot  for  at  least  half  a  century  when  the  Lyrical 
Ballads  were  published.  He  himself  in  his  half-fledged  efforts, 
referred  to  above,  had  indulged  in  a  romantic  melancholy, 
adopted,  no  doubt  unconsciously,  as  part  of  the  conventional 
trappings  of  a  poet,  and  sufficiently  belied  by  his  letters 
of  the  same  period.  But  the  mawkish  sentimentality  and 
disorderliness  of  the  prevalent  romantic  style,  he  could 
not  abide ;  and  its  more  legitimate  appeal  to  the  spirit  of 
adventure,  even  when  controlled  by  the  manly  sense  of  a 
Walter  Scott,  always  seemed  to  him  somewhat  too  trivial  to 
be  the  function  of  so  high  a  power  as  poetry.1  One  character- 
istic of  his  own  poems  which  in  his  opinion  distinguished 
them  from  'the  popular  poetry  of  the  day,1  was  'that  the 
feeling  therein  developed  gives  importance  to  the  action  and 
situation,  and  not  the  action  and  situation  to  the  feeling."1 2 

Out  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads  and  their  short  Advertisement, 
which  was  written  by  Wordsworth,  grew  the  larger  Preface 
and  Essay,  in  which  at  a  later  date  the  poet  maintained  and 
developed  his  theory  of  poetry.  That  strain  of  obstinacy, 
which  was  a  part  of  his  self-dependence,  made  him  undaunted 
but  not  always  perfectly  judicious  in  polemics.  Coleridge, 
who  was  both  the  surer  and  the  subtler  critic,  modified  for 
himself,  and  attempted  to  explain  away  in  some  measure  for 
his  friend,  so  much  as  seemed  exaggerated  in  the  new  doctrine, 
or  gave  any  handle  to  such  mockery  as  Byron's  description  of 
the  poet — 

Who  both  by  precept  and  example  shows 
That  prose  is  verse,  and  verse  is  merely  prose. 

The  Lyrical  Ballads  obtained  a  somewhat  mixed  reception, 
in  which  disfavour  predominated.  Southey,  who  was  ac- 
quainted with  Wordsworth  and  brother-in-law  to  Coleridge, 
younger  than  both,  and  far  more  self-satisfied  than  either, 

1  Cp.  his  letter  to  Scott  in  Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott,  ch.  ivi. 

2  Preface,  p.  xvii. 


INTRODUCTION  xliii 

reviewed  them  with  all  the  superiority  of  a  clever  but  some- 
what commonplace  young  man.  The  Ancyent  Marinere  is 
called  '  a  Dutch  attempt  at  German  sublimity.1 1  There 
seems  little  doubt  but  that  there  was  a  spice  of  malice  in 
Southey's  criticism ;  and,  estimable  as  was  his  character  in 
many  respects,  he  was  both  young  and  vain :  but  the  limita- 
tions of  the  author  of  Madoc  would  perhaps  scarcely  have 
left  room  for  appreciation  of  a  work  of  genius,  which  even 
now  that  it  has  become  '  familiar  in  our  mouths  as  household 
words,1  is  perhaps  the  most  startling  poem  in  the  English 
language.  It  should  in  fairness  be  added  that  Wordsworth 
himself  was  not  very  much  less  in  -the  dark  than  Southey  and 
the  rest  of  the  critics,  and  spent  some  pains,  in  a  note  to  the 
second  edition  of  the  Ballads,  to  point  out  the  four  '  great 
defects '  of  the  poem.2 

But  whatever  may  have  been  the  importance  of  the  Lyrical 
Ballads  in  the  history  of  English  literature,  they  are  the  first- 
fruits  of  Wordsworth's  own  true  harvest.  From  this  time 
onwards  his  life  never  suffers  from  unsteadiness  of  aim. 
Without  neglecting  everyday  interests  and  duties,  he  lived  the 
life  of  a  poet  as  completely  as  any  other  who  has  borne  the 
name.  And,  as  was  natural,  he  soon  reverted  to  the  original 
home  and  nursery  of  his  genius.  After  a  visit  of  some  seven 
months  to  Germany,  mainly  remarkable  for  the  excellence  and 
the  essentially  English  character  of  the  poems 3  which  he 
wrote  during  a  cold  and  dull  winter  at  Goslar,  he  returned 
with  Dorothy  to  England,  and  at  the  end  of  the  same  year, 
1799,  settled  with  her  in  that  little  cottage4  in  the  vale  of 

1  Quoted  by  Mr.  Hutchinson :  op.  cit.  p.  xviii. 

2  Mr.  Hutchinaon :  op.  cit.  p.  xxvi.  note. 

3  E.g.  Lucy  Gray,  the  '  Lucy '  set  of  poems,  Ruth. 

4  Dove  Cottage,  in  Wordsworth's  time  known  as  Town-End,  was  originally  a 
small  public-house,  with  the  sign  of  the  Dove  and  Olive  Bough,  standing  at  the  foot 
of  the  high  road  from  Ambleside  to  Grasmere  where  it  came  close  down  to  the  lake. 
The  more  modern  road,  made  in  "Wordsworth's  time,  is  lower  down,  between  Dove 
Cottage  and  the  lake.     For  the  Dove  and  Olive  Bough  cp.  The  Waggoner,  Canto  i. 
11.  52-60,  below,  vol.  i.  p.  285. 


xliv  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Grasmere  which  has  within  the  last  few  years  been  secured  and 
restored  as  the  Mecca  of  Wordsworthians.  Here  for  the 
greater  part  of  eight  years  he  lived  with  the  frugality  of  a 
peasant,  but  rich  in  thoughts  and  affections,  free  of  Nature's 
most  exquisite  and  noblest  territories.  Here  in  1802  he 
brought  Mary  Hutchinson,  his  wife — 

no  more  a  phantom  to  adorn 
A  moment,  but  an  inmate  of  the  heart. 
And  yet  a  spirit,  there  for  me  enshrined 
To  penetrate  the  lofty  and  the  low  ; 
Even  as  one  essence  of  pervading  light 
Shines,  in  the  brightest  of  ten  thousand  stars, 
And  the  meek  worm  that  feeds  her  lonely  lamp 
Couched  in  the  dewy  grass. 1 

Here  three  of  their  children  were  born.  Here  he  was  visited 
by  Walter  Scott,  after  first  visiting  him  on  that  tour  in 
Scotland  which  produced  among  others  the  poems  about 
Burns,  The  Solitary  Reaper,  and  Yarrow  Unvisited.  Here  the 
intimacy  with  Coleridge  was  continued,  and  Book  I.  of  The 
Recluse,  a  large  part  of  The  Excursion,  practically  all  The 
Prelude,  and  many  of  the  best  of  the  shorter  poems,  were 
written.  Here,  too,  '  the  discipline  and  consummation  of  a 
Poet's  mind1  were,  so  far  as  it  is  possible  to  mark  off  distinct 
stages  in  the  life  of  the  mind,  completed  by  the  first  great 
personal  grief  which  Wordsworth  was  called  upon  to  suffer. 
In  1805  his  brother  John,  nearest  and  dearest  of  his  family 
after  Dorothy,  went  down  in  the  East  Indiaman,  Earl  ofAber- 
gavenny,  of  which  he  was  captain,  off  the  Bill  of  Portland.2 

The  years  at  Dove  Cottage  will  always  be  that  part  of 
Wordsworth's  life  upon  which  imagination  most  fondly  lingers. 
That  '  little  Nook  of  mountain-ground,'  so  tiny  that  it  is  filled 
to  overflowing  with  the  memories  that  haunt  it,  seems  to 
shine  with  the  very  radiance  of  love  and  joy.  Nor  is  this 

1  Prelude,  xiv.  268.     Of.  '  She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight,'  vol.  i.  p.  310. 

2  See  vol.  in.  p.  13. 


INTRODUCTION  xlv 

merely  the  work  of  fancy,  the  contrast  of  the  peasant's  cottage 
and  the  poet's  life.  Although  the  gift  of  the  many  years  that 
followed1  was  rich  in  beauty  and  strength  and  consolation, 
there  are  both  an  exuberance  and  a  reserve  of  power  which 
mark,  as  is  only  natural,  the  poetry  of  the  prime  of  the  poet's 
manhood.  The  period  between  Wordsworth's  beginning  of 
friendship  with  Coleridge  and  his  removal  from  Dove  Cottage 
— the  second  of  which  dates  is  of  course  merely  convenient 
where  accuracy  is  impossible — has  been  truly  enough  called 
'  the  spring-time  of  his  genius ' ; 2  and  although  each  season 
has  its  proper  honours,  none  can  stir  us  with  the  joy  of  life 
and  the  mystery  of  promise,  the  '  part  seen,  imagined  part,'  so 
subtly  as  the  spring.  At  the  same  time  it  is  as  true  of 
Wordsworth  as  of  Walter  Scott,  that,  for  a  poet,  '  his  genius 
flowered  late.'  There  is  therefore  a  fullness  of  thought  and  a 
strength  about  the  poems  of  this  great  decade  which  are 
sometimes  wanting  in  poets  whose  genius  is  full-fledged  before 
their  manhood. 

Few  words  need  be  said  of  Wordsworth's  later  life  in  an 
essay  which  pretends  only  to  serve  as  an  introduction  to  his 
poetry.  His  growing  family,  of  which  his  wife's  sister,  Sara 
Hutchinson,  became  an  almost  constant  member  in  1805, 
compelled  him  to  find  a  larger  home  than  Dove  Cottage. 
Accordingly  he  moved  in  1808  to  Allan  Bank,  a  new  house, 
less  than  half  a  mile  from  Grasmere,  on  the  way  to  Easedale ; 
and  in  1811  to  the  Rectory,  close  by  the  church,  where  two  of 
his  children,  Catherine  and  Thomas,  died  within  six  months, 
in  1812. 

This  was  a  time  of  much  care  to  Wordsworth.  For  some 
years  past  Coleridge's  unhappy  malady,  his  inability  to  settle 
down  to  steady  work  or  to  domestic  contentment,  had  given 

1  E.g.  Laodamia,  Dion,  the  later  Skylark,   Yarrow  Visited  and  Revisited,  the 
Evening  Voluntaries,  and  a  great  quantity  of  the  sonnets. 

2  By  Principal  Shairp :  quoted  by  Prof.  Dowden  in  Aldine  Edition  of  Words . 
worth,  vol.  i.  p.  Ixxii. 


xlvi  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

increasing  anxiety  to  the  Wordsworth  circle.  In  the  autumn 
of  1810  some  well-meant  remarks  of  Wordsworth  to  Basil 
Montagu,  with  whom  Coleridge  was  intending  to  stay,  were 
indiscreetly,  and,  beyond  doubt,  inaccurately,  repeated  to 
Coleridge.  The  result  was  a  misunderstanding  and  a  breach 
in  the  relations  of  the  two  friends  for  upwards  of  a  year  and 
a  half.  In  May  1812,  when  Wordsworth  was  in  London, 
they  were  reconciled  through  the  good  offices  of  Henry 
Crabb  Robinson,  an  admirer  of  Wordsworth,  and  from  about 
this  time  one  of  his  most  constant  correspondents  and  visitors. 
But  although  the  mutual  affection  of  two  such  men  was  too 
deeply  founded  to  be  uprooted  by  any  shock,  their  ideas  and 
opinions,  as  well  as  their  ways  of  life,  had  developed  in  direc- 
tions too  widely  apart,  and  their  natural  differences  of  character 
had  become  too  stereotyped,  for  any  complete  recovery  of  the 
'  glad,  confident  morning '  of  their  intimacy.  Wordsworth,  like 
Southey,  continued  to  show  unstinted  kindness  to  Coleridge's 
family ;  and  Coleridge  continued  to  feel  and  express  his  old  ven- 
eration and  love  of  Wordsworth.  But  with  his  perfect  loyalty 
and  his  tenacity  of  character,  Wordsworth  had  a  certain  lack 
of  sympathy,  a  certain  aloofness  in  his  self-dependence,  which 
in  this  middle  period  of  his  life  was  in  danger  of  becoming  a 
somewhat  Puritanical  self-esteem,  owing,  as  his  friends  saw,  to 
the  remoteness  of  his  daily  life  from  the  give-and-take  of 
ordinary  society,  and,  we  may  add,  to  his  struggle  with 
poverty  and  the  slow  progress  of  his  poetry  in  the  estimation 
of  the  public.1  In  his  later  years,  while  retaining  the  austerity 

1  Space  forbids  me  to  enter  into  details,  but  among  the  many  indications  upon 
which  the  above  passage  is  founded  I  will  refer  the  reader  to  the  following  passages 
quoted  in  Prof.  Knight's  Life  of  Wordsworth,  vol.  n.  (x.) : — p.  178  (from  Crabb 
Robinson's  Diary,  May  9,  1812: — 'A  call  on  C.  Lamb.  .  .  .  He  is  of  opinion  that 
any  attempt  to  bring  W.  and  C.  together  must  prove  ineffectual.  Perhaps  he 
thinks  it  mischievous.  He  thinks  \V.  cold.  It  may  be  so.  Healthful  coolness  is 
preferable  to  the  heat  of  disease.'  Ibid.  p.  186.  Letter  of  Mrs.  Clarkson,  March  29, 
1813 : — '  .  .  .  Indeed,  I  see  in  the  effects  of  these  losses  [of  the  two  children]  upon 
them  [the  "Wordsworths]  the  evil  of  living  so  entirely  out  of  the  world,  especially  in 
that  country.  .  .  .  Those  mountains  give  a  character  of  permanency  to  everything 


INTRODUCTION  xlvii 

of  his  inmost  character,  Wordsworth  was  sensibly  mellowed 
by  a  peaceful  and  honoured  life. 

His  release  from  financial  anxiety  came  in  March  1813, 
when  through  the  kindness  of  Lord  Lonsdale  he  was  appointed 
Distributor  of  Stamps  for  Westmoreland.  He  was  never 
wealthy,  or  even  what  most  people  of  his  rank  in  society  would 
consider  'comfortably  oft'1;  but  both  he  and  his  family  were 
completely  indifferent  to  luxury.  His  official  work  was  light, 
though  to  the  poet,  when  he  undertook  it,  the  responsibility 
seemed  sufficiently  serious ; l  it  was  lightened  too  by  the 
services  of  his  devoted  clerk,  John  Carter,  who  soon  shared  the 
labours  of  other  members  of  the  household  as  the  poet's 
amanuensis,  who  read  the  proofs  of  his  later  publications, 
and  finally  became  his  literary  executor  and  editor  of  the 
posthumous  Prelude.  About  the  time  of  his  obtaining  the 
Distributorship,  Wordsworth  settled  at  Rydal  Mount,  which 
was  his  home  for  the  remaining  thirty-seven  years  of  his  life. 

These  years  were  marked  by  no  striking  events.  The  great 
poem,  which  The  Recluse  was  to  have  been,  was  never  com- 
pleted. As  Wordsworth's  reputation  gradually  established 
itself  not  only  among  a  few  enlightened  men  of  letters,  like 
Leigh  Hunt,  Hazlitt,  and  de  Quincey,  but  among  the  in- 
telligent part  of  the  younger  generation  at  large,  so  his 

else.  .  .  .  Our  friends  have  no  acquaintances.  They  have  neighbours,  but  in 
their  present  circumstances  they  need  the  sight  of  equals  who  are  not  intimate 
friends.  ...  In  the  end,  no  doubt,  this  acquisition  to  their  income  will  be  a  great 
good — it  will  enable  them  to  obey  the  generous  impulses  of  their  nature.  It  will 
relieve  the  females  from  a  great  deal  of  hard  work,  which  they  have  performed 
most  cheerfully,  but  which  has  certainly  at  times  been  prejudicial  to  them.  It  will 
raise  them  in  the  opinion  of  the  world,  and  increase  their  usefulness,  and  what  is 
the  greatest  good  of  all,  it  will  release  Wordsworth's  mind  from  all  anxiety  about 
money.'  Ibid.  212,  C.  R.'s  Diary,  March  24,  1813:— 'W.  will  now  be  independent 
of  the  world,  and  may  devote  himself  to  poetry  without  any  of  the  cares  and 
anxieties  of  penury,  and  I  have  no  doubt  his  moral  feelings  will  be  improved  by  the 
improvement  of  his  condition.  He  will  now  move  with  the  world,  and  lose  those 
peculiarities  of  feeling  which  solitude  and  discontent  engender ;  while  all  that  is 
beautifully  individual  and  original,  in  the  frame  of  his  mind  and  character,  will 
display  itself  with  ease  and  grace.' 
i  Knight's  Life,  vol.  n.  (x.)  pp.  210,  211. 


xlviii  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

creative  power  gradually  waned.  With  exceptions  numerous 
and  brilliant  enough  to  furnish  a  second-rate  poet  with 
title-deeds  to  a  holding  on  England's  Parnassus,  his  poetry 
becomes  more  critical  and  didactic,  less  original,  less  powerful, 
less  compelling.  His  interest  in  large  political  questions 
increased  rather  than  abated,  and  he  maintained  throughout 
his  absolute  sincerity  and  high  ideals.  But  when  his  early 
hopes,  engendered  by  the  French  Revolution,  had  been  killed 
by  the  Reign  of  Terror  and  the  Napoleonic  Military  Empire, 
the  reaction  of  his  moral  sense  threw  him  into  a  strong 
distrust  of  reform.  And  he  had  as  much  as  any  poet  an 
imaginative  sympathy  with  the  past,  which  strengthened 
this  political  timidity.  Thus  a  large  part  of  his  later 
writings,  both  poems  and  letters,  is  devoted  to  solemn  warn- 
ings, sometimes  wise,  always  sensible,  but  often  prejudiced, 
against  such  measures  as  the  Reform  Bill  of  1832  or  the 
proposed  abolition  of  capital  punishment,  or  to  the  support 
of  historic  institutions  like  the  Church  of  England,  the 
history  of  which  he  traced  with  loving  ardour,  but  with 
seldom  -  inspired  verse,  in  the  long  series  of  Ecclesiastical 
Sonnets. 

As  the  years  went  on,  Wordsworth's  acquaintances  and 
admirers  grew  to  a  large  number.  He  had  never  been  a 
recluse,  but  he  became  more  sociable.  His  nature  was  not 
one,  however,  to  expand  readily  into  new  intimacies,  or  even 
to  maintain  a  constant  communication  with  the  old.  He 
hated  the  manual  labour  of  writing.  His  letters  are  not 
numerous,  nor,  for  the  most  part,  intimate  in  tone.  They 
are  long  and  devoid  of  sparkle,  but  full  of  strong  sense  and 
nobility  of  thought,  expressed  in  deliberate  but  unaffected 
language.  His  published  prose  works  are  marked  by  the 
same  characteristics,  heightened  on  occasion  to  impassioned 
eloquence.  As  a  rule  he  preferred  the  society  of  women 
to  that  of  men.  This  was  partly  due  to  habit,  partly,  no 


INTRODUCTION  xlix 

doubt,  to  the  greater  readiness  of  women  to  appreciate  with- 
out criticism,  but  chiefly,  perhaps,  to  a  certain  austerity 
and  unblemished  simplicity  of  heart  which  are  rarely  at 
home  in  men's  companies.  His  closest  friends,  outside  his 
immediate  family  circle,  were  Sir  George  and  Lady  Beaumont. 
Sir  George  was  a  cultivated  and  amiable  patron  of  the  arts, 
himself  considered  one  of  the  best  amateur  landscape  painters 
of  his  day,  who  was  first  attracted  to  Wordsworth  by  his 
poetry,  and  played  the  Ma?cenas  in  a  most  practical  way 
by  giving  Wordsworth  a  small  property  at  the  foot  of 
Skiddaw,  lending  him  a  farmhouse  on  his  property  at 
Coleorton  in  Leicestershire,  and  finally  at  his  death  in  1827 
leaving  him  an  annuity  of  £WO  :  both  he  and  his  wife  became 
much  attached  to  the  Wordsworths,  who  reciprocated  their 
affectionate  esteem.1  Henry  Crabb  Robinson,  mentioned 
above,  and  Miss  Ida  Fen  wick,  to  whom  the  garrulous  but 
invaluable  Fenwick  Notes  were  dictated,  were  most  intimate 
with  Wordsworth  in  later  years.  For  Southey  he  felt  an 
increasing  regard  as  common  anxieties  and  similar  religious 
and  political  views  drew  them  together;  he  never  thought 
very  highly  of  Southey's  poetry.  Scott's  poetry  was  in  much 
the  same  case,  and  the  novels,  though  he  acknowledged  their 
fertility  and  ease,  interested  him  little  more  than,  in  mature 
life,  did  other  works  of  mere  observation  and  romance :  but 
Scott's  manly  and  generous  character  charmed  him  and 
evoked  two  of  the  most  beautiful  of  his  later  poems.2  For 

1  To  Lady  Beaumont  was  addressed  the  long  letter  (Memoirs  of  William  Words- 
worth, by  Christopher  Wordsworth,  vol.  i.  p.  331)  which  gives  the  best  account 
of  "Wordsworth's  lofty  conception  of  his  calling  and  his  self-confidence  in  the 
face  of  detraction.      Hearing  of  Sir  George  Beaumont's  death,  Scott  wrote  of 
him  in  his  diary  : — '  By  far  the  most  sensible  and  pleasing  man  I  ever  knew — kind, 
too,  in  his  nature,  and  generous — gentle  in  society,  and  of  those  mild  manners 
which  tend  to  soften  the  causticity  of  the  general  London  tone  of  persiflage  and 
personal  satire.  .  .  .  He  was  the  great  friend  of  "Wordsworth,  and  understood  his 
poetry,  which  is  a  rare  thing,  for  it  is  more  easy  to  see  his  peculiarities  than  to 
feel  his  great  merit,  or  follow  his  abstract  ideas.' — Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott,  ch.  Ixxiii. 

2  Yarrow  Revisited  and  Sonnet  on  the  Departure  of  Sir   Walter  Scott  from 
Abbotsford,  for  Naples.    See  vol.  n.  pp.  166-169. 

l—d 


1  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

his  old  friends  of  Quantock  days,  Tom  Poole  and  Charles 
Lamb,  he  retained  a  constant  regard ;  and  among  younger 
men  who  enjoyed  his  intimacy  may  be  mentioned  John  Wilson, 
who  under  his  pseudonym  of  Christopher  North  was  one  of 
the  first  to  praise  him  in  the  press  as  well  as  to  imitate 
him  in  his  own  verses,  Edward  Quillinan,  who  married  his 
daughter  Dora  in  1841,  Thomas  Arnold,  the  famous  Head- 
master of  Rugby,  and  Christopher  Wordsworth,  afterwards 
Bishop  of  Lincoln,  his  nephew  and  first  biographer. 

In  1842  he  resigned  his  post  as  Distributor  of  Stamps 
in  favour  of  his  son  William,  who  had  for  eleven  years  acted 
as  his  deputy,  and  in  the  same  year,  on  the  recommendation 
of  Sir  Robert  Peel,  prompted  by  Gladstone,  he  was  granted 
a  pension  of  £300  a  year  on  the  Civil  List.  Three  years 
before,  he  had  received  the  degree  of  D.C.L.  at  the  University 
of  Oxford,  amid  the  acclamations  of  the  theatre ;  and  in 
1843,  on  the  death  of  Southey,  he  accepted  the  Laureateship, 
on  the  understanding  that  he  should  not  be  called  upon 
to  harness  himself  to  the  work  of  writing  Odes  to  order. 
The  death  of  his  daughter,  Dora  Quillinan,  in  1847,  was  a 
blow  from  which  he  never  recovered ;  for  though  to  the 
world  in  general  he  seemed,  and  was,  somewhat  self-centred 
and  reserved,  his  affection  for  the  inmates  of  his  heart  was 
deep  and  even  passionate.1  In  March  1850,  just  before  his 
eightieth  birthday,  he  took  a  chill  from  sitting  on  a  stone 
seat  to  watch  the  sun  set ;  on  April  23rd  he  quietly  passed 
away.  He  was  buried  in  a  corner — the  '  PoeVs  Corner ' — 
of  Grasmere  churchyard,  close  to  the  Rotha,  which  flows 
through  his  well-loved  Grasmere  and  Rydal  Water. 

1  Cp.  a  letter  of  Dorothy  Wordsworth  to  Miss  Pollard  in  1793  (Knight's  Life, 
vol.  i.  (ix.)  p.  80.  '[Christopher]  is  steady  and  sincere  in  his  attachments. 
William  has  both  these  virtues  in  an  eminent  degree ;  and  a  sort  of  violence  of 
affection,  if  I  may  so  term  it,  which  demonstrates  itself  every  moment  of  the  day, 
when  the  objects  of  his  affection  are  present  with  him,  in  a  thousand  almost 
imperceptible  attentions  to  their  wishes,  in  a  sort  of  restless  watchfulness  which  I 
know  not  how  to  describe,  a  tenderness  that  never  sleeps,  and  at  the  same  time 
such  a  delicacy  of  manners  as  I  have  observed  in  few  men.' 


INTRODUCTION  li 

The  principal   incidents   of  the   poet's  quiet   life,  besides 
those  already  mentioned,  were  his  wanderings  with  his  wife, 
his  sister,  and  at  times  his  daughter  or  a  friend  like  Coleridge, 
in   Scotland,   England,   Italy,   or  by   the   Rhine.     His   own 
passion  for  wandering  is  easily  felt,  not  merely  in  the  great 
quantity  of  f  itinerary '  poems  which  he  has  left,  but  in  the 
sympathetic    and    somewhat    idealising    way   in    which   such 
characters   as   the   'Wanderer'   of   The   Excursion  and   the 
'Old  Cumberland  Beggar1  are  drawn.1     At  the  outset  of  this 
essay,  attention  was  drawn  to  the  combination  of  matter-of- 
factness^   and  of  imaginative  insight,  which  seemed  to  con- 
stitute the  greatest  of  all  his  powers  to  draw  and  to  hold 
readers  whom  dullness  or  shallowness   would   weary,  and  a 
marked  aloofness  or  eccentricity  might  very  probably  repel. 
Another  combination  of  only  second  value,  and  perhaps  even 
more  easily  appreciated,  at  least  by  those  to  whom  Words- 
worth's mysticism  is  a  drawback,  is  one  which  is  peculiarly 
characteristic  of  the   English  temperament.      Vagrancy  and 
domesticity — how  few  Englishmen  with  health  and  strength 
and  opportunity  do  not  show  these  two  qualities  at  every 
turn  ?     Wordsworth  possessed  them  both  in  the  high  degree 
of  a  poet,  and  gave  them  both  a  poet's  clearest  utterance. 
The  essence  of  vagrancy  appears   to   be  a   passion  for  free 
motion  among  the  myriad  seemingly  untrammelled  lives  of 
bird  and  beast  and  stream  and  plant,  under  no  narrower  roof 
than  the  universal  sky.     It  can  be  summed  up  as  effectually 
as  need  be  in  the  phrase  that  is  always  on  our  tongue — *  the 
open   air.1     And   no   poet    more   freely   or   vividly   gives   us 
the  sensations  of  this  '  open  air '  than  Wordsworth.     At  the 
same  time,  from  no  other  poet  do  we  get  a  stronger  impression 
of  tenacity  in  clinging   to   that  little  spot   of  earth  which 


1  Cp.  also  The  Prelude,  xiii.  120-185. 

2  The  expression  is  Hazlitt's ;    but  he  is  quoting  or  giving  the  meaning  of 
words  of  Coleridge. 


lii  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

happens  to  be  '  home,'  and  to  the  small  circle  of  activities 
and  affections  which  mark  off  by  an  indefinable  but  un- 
deniable boundary  the  '  own '  peculiar  interest  of  each  separate 
man  or  woman.  This  it  is  which  more  perhaps  than  any 
other  quality  gives  Wordsworth's  poetry  its  direct  appeal 
to  the  '  general  heart  of  man,'  which  is  in  nothing  so  universal 
as  in  the  consciousness  of  personality. 

Much  more  might  be  said,  and  much  has  been  well  said  by 
good  critics,  on  various  aspects  of  Wordsworth's  poetry.  In 
spite  of  the  bitter  antagonism  which  it  provoked,  especially 
in  Jeffrey,  the  pungent  but  narrow  Johnson  of  Edinburgh 
criticism,  it  was  not  exceptionally  slow  in  winning  its  way 
into  the  front  rank  of  public  estimation :  and  '  Time,  who 
brings  all  things  to  the  proof,'  shows  no  disposition,  and  is  not 
likely,  to  destroy  a  reputation  which  never  owed  anything 
to  sensational  tricks  or  happy  accidents.  By  this  time,  in 
fact,  there  is  scarcely  any  one  of  catholic  taste  and  competent 
knowledge  who  would  not  name  Wordsworth  among  the  six 
or  seven  greatest  of  English  poets.  Enough  has,  however, 
been  said,  if  it  has  been  rightly  said,  by  way  of  an  intro- 
duction to  his  poetry  for  those  who  are  intending  for  the 
first  time  to  give  that  poetry  the  keen  and  receptive  attention 
which  is  the  condition  of  obtaining  a  real  and  permanent 
enjoyment  from  all  great  literature.  But  as  it  is  the  privilege 
of  poetry  to  say  in  a  few  words  what  prose  often  fails  to 
express  in  many,  may  I  end  with  two  quotations  ?  The 
first,  from  Matthew  Arnold's  well-known  Memorial  Verses, 
records  the  debt  of  those  for  whom  the  most  precious  gift 
of  the  poet  is  to  lighten  '  the  burthen  of  the  mystery  .  .  . 
of  all  this  unintelligible  world ' — 

He  laid  us,  as  we  lay  at  birth, 
On  the  cool,  flowery  lap  of  earth ; 
Smiles  broke  from  us,  and  we  had  ease ; 
The  hills  were  round  us,  and  the  breeze 


INTRODUCTION  liii 

Went  o'er  the  sun-lit  fields  again  ; 
Our  foreheads  felt  the  wind  and  rain. 
Our  youth  return'd  ;  for  there  was  shed 
On  spirits  that  had  long  been  dead, 
Spirits  dried  up  and  closely  furl'd, 
The  freshness  of  the  early  world. 

The  second,  the  closing  lines  of  The  Prelude,  shall  give  us 
the  stronger  and  more  buoyant  spirit  of  Wordsworth  himself. 
He  is  addressing  Coleridge,  the  'friend  and  brother  of  his 
soul,1  and  speaking  of  their  joint  labours  for  the  happiness 
of  their  fellow-men — 

Prophets  of  Nature,  we  to  them  will  speak 

A  lasting  inspiration,  sanctified 

By  reason,  blest  by  faith  :  what  we  have  loved, 

Others  will  love,  and  we  will  teach  them  how ; 

Instruct  them  how  the  mind  of  man  becomes 

A  thousand  times  more  beautiful  than  the  earth 

On  which  he  dwells,  above  this  frame  of  things 

(Which,  'mid  all  revolution  in  the  hopes 

And  fears  of  men,  doth  still  remain  unchanged) 

In  beauty  exalted,  as  it  is  itself 

Of  quality  and  fabric  more  divine. 


CHRONOLOGICAL  TABLE 


1784 

COMPOSED  PUBLISHBD 

1784-85  1851    Written  as  a  School  Exercise  at  Hawkshead. 


1786 
(?)  1786 


1786 

1815  -f  Extract  from  the  Conclusion  of  a  Poem  composed  in 

\     anticipation  of  leaving  School. 
1802    Written  in  very  Early  Youth. 


1787 

1787  1787    Sonnet  on  seeing  Miss  H.  M.  Williams  weep. 

1787-89  1793    An  Evening  Walk. 


1789 
1789 


1789 

1798    Lines  written  while  sailing  in  a  Boat  at  Evening. 
1798    Remembrance  of  Collins. 


1791 

1791-92  1793    Descriptive  Sketches. 

(        1842^| 
1791-94  i  Part  in    }-  Guilt  and  Sorrow. 

I        1798J 


Before  May  1792 


1792 

1883    Sonnet  ( '  Sweet  was  the  walk '). 


Begun  before      "\ 
Oct.  1787  I 
Finished  not        f 
before  1795  J 
(?)  1795 
1795-96 


1795 


1798    Lines  left  upon  a  Seat  in  a  Yew-tree. 

1795    The  Birth  of  Love. 
1842    The  Borderers. 


lv 


Ivi 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


1797 


PUBLISHED 

1800    The  Reverie  of  Poor  Susan. 


COMPOSED 

1797 

Probably  1797 114  Dgg7  JThe  Convict. 

1797-98  1800    The  Old  Cumberland  Beggar. 


25  Jan.  1798 
1798 
1798 

March  1798 
18  March  1798 
Begun  19  Mar.^J 

Begun  20  Apr     I 

iiao  ) 

1798 
1798 
1798 
1798 
1798 

1798 
1798 
1798 

13  July  1798 
1798 
1798 
1798 


1798 

1815  A  Night  Piece. 

1798  We  are  Seven. 

1798  Anecdote  for  Fathers. 

1798  To  my  Sister. 

1800  '  A  whirl-blast  from  behind  the  hill.' 

im  The  Thom. 

Igl9  Peter  Bell.     A  Tale. 

1798  Lines  written  in  Early  Spring. 

1798  Her  Eyes  are  Wild. 

1798  Goody  Blake  and  Harry  Gill. 

1798  Simon  Lee. 

1798  Expostulation  and  Reply. 

The  Tables  Turned. 

1798  The  Complaint  of  a  Forsaken  Indian  AVoman. 

1798  The  Last  of  the  Flock. 

1798  The  Idiot  Boy. 

1798  Lines  composed  a  few  miles  above  Tintera  Abbey. 

1798  Animal  Tranquillity  and  Decay. 

1800  There  was  a  Boy. 

1842  Address  to  the  Scholars  of  the  Village  School  of  - 


1799 

iTon  iQAftf  Written  in  Germany,  on  one  of  the  coldest  days  of 

W  \     the  Century. 

1799  1800     '  Strange  fits  of  passion  have  I  known.' 

1799  1800     'She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways.' 

(?)  1799  1807     'I  travelled  among  unknown  men.' 

1799  1800     'Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower.' 

1799  1800     'A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal.' 

1799  1800    A  Poet's  Epitaph. 

1799  1800    To  a  Sexton. 

1799  1800    The  Danish  Boy.     A  Fragment. 

1799  1800    Lucy  Gray ;  or,  Solitude. 

1799  1800    Ruth. 

1799  1850    The  Prelude  (begun). 

1799  1800    Nutting. 

f  Influence  of    Natural  Objects  in  calling  forth  and 

1799  1809  <     strengthening   the   Imagination    in    Boyhood   and 

L     Early  Youth. 

1799  1800    Matthew. 

1799  1800    The  Two  April  Mornings. 

1799  1800    The  Fountain.    A  Conversation. 

Dec.  1799  1800    To  M.  H. 

(?)  1799  1845    The  Simplon  Pass. 

1799  or  1800  1800    Ellen  Irwin ;  or,  the  Braes  of  Kirtle. 


CHRONOLOGICAL  TABLE 


Ivii 


1800 


COMPOSED 

Probably  in  or    \ 
before  1800  J 

PUBLISHED 

1807    The  Affliction  of  Margaret  . 

Probably  in  or    \ 
before  1800  J 

1842    The  Forsaken. 

J  ,n.  or  Feb.  1800 

1800    Hart-Leap  Well. 

About  Feb.  1800 

1800    The  Brothers. 

iflfln 

1  800  {  ^^e  *°^e  Shepherd-boys  ;  or,  Dungeon-Ghyll  Force. 

J.OUU 

\     A  Pastoral. 

1800  | 

21  J180o)  The  Farmer  of  Til8bur7  Vale. 

1800 

1800     '  It  was  an  April  morning  :  fresh  and  clear.' 

Before  17  Aug.   \ 
1800  / 

1807    The  Seven  Sisters. 

Aug.  1800 

1800    To  Joanna. 

29,  30  Aug.  1800-1 
1802  J 

1815     '  When,  to  the  attractions  of  the  busy  world.' 

1800 

1800     'There  is  an  Eminence,  —  of  these  our  hills.' 

1800 

1800    The  Waterfall  and  the  Eglantine. 

1800 

1800    The  Oak  and  the  Broom.     A  Pastoral. 

1800 

1800     '  'Tis  said  that  some  have  died  for  love.' 

1800 

1800    The  Childless  Father. 

1800 

1800    The  Pet  Lamb.     A  Pastoral. 

1800 

1800    Song  for  the  Wandering  Jew. 

Probably  1800 

1800    Rural  Architecture. 

Probably  1800 

1800    Andrew  Jones. 

1800 

1800    The  Two  Thieves  ;  or,  The  Last  Stage  of  Avarice. 

1800 

1800    A  Character. 

1800 

18nn  /Inscription  for  the  spot  where  the  Hermitage  stood  on 
\     St.  Herbert's  Island,  Derwent-water. 

1800 

1800  /  Written  with  a  Pencil  upon  a  Stone  in  the  Wall  of  the 
\     House  (an  Out-house)  on  the  Island  of  Grasmere. 

fWritten   with    a    Slate    Pencil   upon  a   Stone,   the 

1800 

1800  -!     largest  of  a  heap  lying  near  a  deserted  Quarry  upon 

t    one  of  the  Islands  at  Rydal. 

10  Oct.  1800 

1800     '  A  narrow  girdle  of  rough  stones  and  crags.' 

Oct.  -Dec.  1800 

1800    Michael.     A  Pastoral  Poem. 

(?)  1800 

1888    The  Recluse.    Book  I. 

"Dwy-vK      Vv*\+i«T/5*^v^  "\ 

J  rOiJ.   QcCWctJD.  1 

Dec.  1800  and  \ 
Oct.  1801  J 

1807    Louisa.     After    accompanying   her    on   a    mountain 
Excursion. 

Prob.  between"] 
Dec.  1800  and  }- 
Oct.  1801  J 

1807  /  TO  a  Young  Lady,   who  had  been   reproached   for 
\     taking  Long  Walks  in  the  Country. 

Probably  1800 

1851     '  On  nature's  invitation  do  I  come.' 

Probably  1800 

1851     'Bleak  season  was  it,  turbulent  and  bleak.' 

1801 

1801 

1807    The  Sparrow's  nest. 

1801 

1815     'Pelion  and  Ossa  flourish  side  by  side.' 

Finished  5  Dec.  \ 
1801  J 

1820    The  Prioress'  Tale  (from  Chaucer). 

Dec  1801 

1841    The  Cuckoo  and  the  Nightingale  (from  Chaucer). 

1801 

1841    Troilus  and  Cresida  (from  Chaucer). 

22  Dec.  1801-  1 

9  March  1802  J 

1814    The  Excursion.    Part  of  Books  I.  and  II. 

26  Dec.  1801 

1850    Part  of  The  Prelude. 

1801  or  1806 

1820    '  There  is  a  little  unpretending  Rill.' 

Iviii 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


1802 


COMPOSED 

11. 12  March  1802 

12. 13  March  1802 

13. 14  March  1802 
14  March  1802 

16, 17  March  1802 

23-26  March  1802 

26  March  1802 

12  April  1802 

16  April  1802 

18  April  1802 
20  April  1802 
27,  28  April  1802 
28  April  1802 
30  April  1802 
1  May  1802 
3  May-4  July      \ 
1802  / 

9-11  May  1802 

21  May  1802 
Finished  29  May) 
1802  / 

8  June  1802 
31  July  1802 
August  1802 
August  1802 

7  August  1802 

15  August  1802 

August  1802 

Prob.  Aug.  1802 

Prob.  Aug.  1802 

Prob.  Aug.  1802 

30  Aug.  1802 

September  1802 

September  1802 

September  1802 

1802 

Probably  1802 
Probably  1802 
Probably  1802 

4  Oct.  1802 

1802 
1802 
1802 
1802 
Perhaps  1802 


PUBLISHED 

1807    The  Sailor's  Mother. 


1807 
1807 
1807 
1807 
1807 
1807 
1807 


Alice  Fell ;  or,  Poverty. 


To  a  Butterfly  ( '  Stay  near  me '). 

The  Emigrant  Mother. 

To  the  Cuckoo  ('O  blithe  new-comer'). 

'  My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold.' 

'  Among  all  lovely  things  my  Love  had  been.' 


i  an-7  /  Written  in  March,  while  resting  on  the  Bridge  at  the 
-8U'  \     foot  of  Brother's  Water. 
1807    The  Redbreast  chasing  the  Butterfly. 
1807    To  a  butterfly  ('  I  've  watched  you  now '). 
1897    The  Tinker. 
1807    Foresight. 

1807    To  the  Small  Celandine  ( '  Pansies,  lilies '). 
1807    To  the  same  Flower  ('Pleasures  newly  found'). 

1807    Resolution  and  Independence. 

i  ei  K  /  Stanzas    written  in  my  Pocket-copy    of   Thomson's 

LD\     'Castle  of  Indolence.' 
1807     'I  grieved  for  Buonaparte,  with  a  vain.' 

1815    A  Farewell. 

1807  '  The  Sun  has  long  been  set.' 

1807  Composed  upon  Westminster  Bridge. 

1807  Composed  by  the  Sea-side,  near  Calais. 

1807  Calais,  August,  1802. 

i  an7  /  Composed  near  Calais,  on  the  Road  leading  to  Ardres, 
18U'  \    August  7,  1802. 

1803  Calais,  August  15,  1802. 

1807  '  It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free. ' 

1807  On  the  Extinction  of  the  Venetian  Republic. 

1807  The  King  of  Sweden. 

1803  To  Toussaint  L'Ouverture. 

1807  Composed  in  the  Valley  near  Dover. 

1803  September  1,  1802. 

1807  September,  1802,  near  Dover. 

1807  Written  in  London,  September,  1802. 

1807  London,  1802. 

1807  '  Great  men  have  been  among  us ;  hands  that  penned. ' 

1803  '  It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  Flood.' 

1803  '  When  I  have  borne  in  memory.' 
i  SAT  /  Composed  after  a  Journey  across  the  Hambleton  Hills, 
-8UY  \     Yorkshire. 

1807  To  H.  C.    Six  years  old. 

1807  To  the  Daisy  ( '  In  youth  from  rock  to  rock  I  went '). 

1807  To  the  same  Flower  ('With  little  here  to  do  or  see '). 

1807  To  the  Daisy  ( '  Bright  Flower ' ). 

1807  'With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  climb'st  the  sky.' 


1803 

Jan.  1803  1850  Part  of  The  Prelude. 

1803  1807  The  Green  Linnet. 

1803  1807  '  It  is  no  Spirit  who  from  heaven  hath  flown .' 

1803  1807  '  Who  fancied  what  a  pretty  sight. ' 

1803  1815  Yew-trees. 

18  Sept.  1803  1807  Sonnet.     Composed  at Castle. 

25  Sept.  1803  1815  'Fly,  some  kind  Harbinger,  to  Grasmere-dale.' 


CHRONOLOGICAL  TABLE 


lix 


COMPOSED 

Oct.  1803 
Oct.  1803 

Oct.  1803 

Oct.  1803 
Oct.  1803 
Oct.  1803 


PUBLISHED 

IQAT  /October,    1803    ('One    might    believe    that    natural 

lb"7\     miseries'). 

1807  /October,  1803  ('These  times  strike  monied  worldlings 

\     with  dismay '). 

i  arw  /  October,  1803  ( '  When  looking  on  the  present  face  of 
•8U7\     things'). 
1807    To  the  Men  of  Kent. 
1807    In  the  Pass  of  Killicranky. 
1803    Anticipation.     October,  1803. 
10  Oct.     )  Sonnet    ('I  find  it  written  of  Simonides').    Probably 


1842 
1807 
1807 


1803 
1803 

Nov.  1803 
Between  Sept.     "\ 
1803V 

and  11  Apr.  1805  J 

Between  Sept.     \ 

1803V 

and  May  1805  J 

Between  Sept.     \ 

1803V 

and  May  1805J 

Between  1803  \ 

and  1805  / 

Between  1803  \ 

and  1805  J 

(Partly 
1807 
Partly 


Lines  on  the  expected  Invasion. 
To  a  Highland  Girl. 
Yarrow  Unvisited. 


1807    Rob  Roy's  Grave. 


1807    Stepping  Westward. 


1807 


1807 
1807 


I 

Begun  probably  \ 
1803  / 

Begun  1803^ 

Finished  long     V 

after    J 

Probably  1803 

Probably  1803 
Before  1804 


1827 
1842 

1827 

1807 

1807 
1807 


The  Matron  of  Jedborough  and  her  Husband. 

Glen  Almain. 

The  Solitary  Reaper. 

To  the  Sons  of  Burns,  after  visiting  the  Grave  of  their 
Father. 

At  the  Grave  of  Burns,  1803. 

Address  to  Kilchurn  Castle. 

' '  England !   the   time  is  come  when   thou  shouldst 

wean.' 

'There  is  a  bondage  worse,  far  worse,  to  bear.' 
The  Affliction  of  Margaret 


Feb. -April  1804 

16  Sept.  1804 

Oct. -Dec.  1804 

1804 

1804  J 


1804 
1804 
1804 
1804 

1804 


1804 

1850    The  Prelude.    Books  m.-vii. 

1815    Address  to  my  Infant  Daughter,  Dora. 

1850    The  Prelude.     Books  viir.-xi. 

1842    At  Applethwaite,  near  Keswick,  1804. 
26  Oct.     \  French  Revolution,  as  it  appeared  to  Enthusiasts  at 

1809  /     its  Commencement. 
1804  1887    Inscription  for  a  Summer  House. 

1807    '  I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud.' 

1820    Repentance.    A  Pastoral  Ballad. 

1807     '  She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight. ' 

1807    The  Kitten  and  the  Falling  Leaves. 

1Qft7 /The  Small  Celandine  ('There  is  a  flower,  the  lesser 

8U'\     Celandine'). 
1804  1820    Vaudracour  and  Julia. 


April-May  1805 
After  July  20,     \ 
in  1805 J 


1805 

1850    The  Prelude.     Books 
1807    Fidelity. 


lx 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


COMPOSED                  PUBLISHED 

i  QAK            i  OAT  /  Elegiac  Stanzas,  suggested  by  a  Picture  of  Peele  Castle 
-807  I     in  a  Storm. 

1805 

1Q.    /Elegiac  Verses    in    memory  of    my    Brother,   John 
12  (.     Wordsworth. 

1805 

1807    From  the  Italian  of  Michael  Angelo  —  i. 

Probably  1805 

1807    From  the  Italian  of  Michael  Angelo  —  n. 

1805 

1807    From  the  Italian  of  Michael  Angelo  —  in. 

1805 

1807    Incident  characteristic  of  a  Favourite  Dog. 

1805 

1807    Tribute  to  the  Memory  of  the  same  Dog. 

1805 

1807    Ode  to  Duty. 

1805 

1815    The  Cottager  to  her  Infant.     By  my  Sister. 

1805 

1819    The  "Waggoner. 

1805 

iQn-r  /To  a  Skylark    ('Up  with  me!  up  with  me  into  the 
1807  \     clouds!'). 

1805 

i  OIK,  (To  the  Daisy  ('Sweet  Flower!  belike  one  day  to 
1815H     have'). 

1806 

Dec.  18051 
or  Jan.  1806  / 

1807    Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior. 

July  1806 

1889    To  the  Evening  Star. 

Sept.  1806 

1807    Lines  composed  at  Grasmere  ('Loud  is  the  Vale  !  '). 

Nov.  1806 

i  onn  (  November   1806    ('Another   year!  —  another    deadly 
807  t     blow!'). 

Nov.  1806 

1807    To  the  Spade  of  a  Friend. 

IRftfi 

1815  /Address    to    a    Child,    during    a    boisterous    winter 

-LOvU 

\     Evening.     By  my  Sister. 

Before  Dec.     \ 
in  1806  / 

1807    A  Complaint. 

Before  Dec.     \ 
in  1806  / 

1807     'O  Nightingale  !  thou  surely  art.' 

Before  Dec.     \ 
in  1806  / 

1807    Power  of  Music. 

Before  Dec.      \ 
in  1806  / 

1807    Star-Gazers. 

Before  Dec.     \ 
in  1806  J 

1807    Stray  Pleasures. 

Before  Dec.  in    \ 
1806  J 

1807    The  Horn  of  Egremont  Castle. 

Before  Dec.  in    \ 
1806  / 

1807    '  Yes,  it  was  the  mountain  Echo.' 

Dec.  1806 

1807    '  How  sweet  it  is  when  mother  Fancy  rocks.' 

Prob.  Dec.  1806 

1807    The  Blind  Highland  Boy. 

Before  Dec.  1806 

1807    Admonition. 

Before  Dec.  1806 

1807     '  "Beloved  Vale  !"  I  said,  "when  I  shall  con."  ' 

Before  Dec.  1806 

1807     '  Methought  I  saw  the  footsteps  of  a  throne.' 

Before  Dec.  1806 

1807     '  Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow  room.' 

Before  Dec.  1806 

i  SAT  X  '  O  Mountain  Stream  !   the  Shepherd  and  his  Cot  ' 
iou'  /     (Sonnet  xiv.  of  the  River  Duddon). 

Before  Dec.  1806 

1807    Personal  Talk. 

Before  Dec.  1806 

1807     '  The  world  is  too  much  with  us  ;  late  and  soon.' 

After  4  Oct.  1802 

1807     '  Those  words  were  uttered  as  in  pensive  mood.' 

After  4  Oct.  1802 

1807    To  Sleep.     (Three  Sonnets.) 

After  4  Oct.  1802 

1807    To  the  Memory  of  Raisley  Calvert. 

After  4  Oct.  1802 
After  4  Oct.  1802 

1807     '  Where  lies  the  Land  to  which  yon  Ship  must  go  ?  ' 
1807     '  With  Ships  the  sea  was  sprinkled  far  and  nigh.' 

(?)  1806 

1815    '  Brook  !  whose  society  the  Poet  seeks.' 

1807 

1806  or  1807 

1807    Thought  of  a  Briton  on  the  Subjugation  of  Switzerland. 

Jan.  or  Feb.  1807 

1807    To  Lady  Beaumont. 

CHRONOLOGICAL  TABLE 


Ixi 


COMPOSED 

Feb.  1807 

March  1807 

Apr.  or  May  1807 

After  7  Aug.  1807 

Sept.  1807 

1807 

1807 

1807 

1807-1810 


PUBLISHED 

1807  A  Prophecy.     February,  1807. 

1807  To  Thomas  Clarkson. 

1815  The  Mother's  Return.    By  my  Sister. 

1819  Composed  by  the  side  of  Grasmere  Lake. 


1815 

1807 
1807 
1807 
1815 
1807 


{The  Force  of  Prayer ;  or,  The  Founding  of  Bolton 
Priory. 
Gipsies. 

Song  at  the  Feast  of  Brougham  Castle. 
'Though  narrow  be  that  old  Man's  cares,  and  near.' 
The  White  Doe  of  .Rylstone. 
Admonition. 


Apr.  1808 
Nov.  or  Dec.  1808 


1808 

1839    George  and  Sarah  Green. 

f  Composed  while  the  Author  was  engaged  in  writing 
1815-J      a  Tract,  occasioned  by  the  Convention  of  Cintra. 

I     (Two  Sonnets.) 


After  Feb. 

1809 

1815 

After  Mar. 

1809 

1815 

After  Mar. 

1809 

1815 

After  May 

1809 

1815 

1809 

/26  Oct.  \ 

\    1809  J 

1809 

„  1809 

1809 

/  16  Nov.  \ 
\    1809  / 

1809 

("21  Dec.  ) 
\    1809  / 

1809 

„  1809 

1809 

„  1809 

1809 

„  1809 

1809 

("28  Dec.  \ 

1809 

„  1809} 

1809 

/4Jan.   \ 
\    1810  J 

1809 

„  1810  { 

1809 


22  Feb. 


1810  / 
1809      „  1810 { 

1809  1814 

Probably  1809  1815 

Probably  1809  1815 


1809 

'Hail,  Zaragoza  !  if  with  unwet  eye.' 
'  Call  not  the  royal  Swede  unfortunate.' 
'Look  now  on  that  Adventurer  who  hath  paid.' 
'  Brave  Schill !  by  death  delivered,  take  thy  flight.' 

Hofer. 

'Advance — come  forth  from  thy  Tyrolean  ground.' 

'  Alas  !  what  boots  the  long  laborious  quest  ? ' 

Feelings  of  the  Tyrolese. 

'And  is  it  among  rude  untutored  Dales.' 

'  O'er  the  wide  earth,  on  mountain  and  on  plain.' 

On  the  final  Submission  of  the  Tyrolese. 

'There  never  breathed  a  man  who,  when  his  life.' 

(Epitaphs  translated  from  Chiabrera,  iv.) 
'Destined  to  war  from  very  infancy.'     (Ep.  from 

Chiabrera,  vi.) 
'Not  without  heavy  grief  of  heart  did  He.'     (Ep. 

from  Chiabrera,  vm. ) 
'Pause,  courteous  Spirit! — Baldi  supplicates.'    (Ep. 

from  Chiabrera,  ix.) 
'Perhaps  some  needful  service  of  the  State.'    (Ep. 

from  Chiabrera,  n.) 
'O  Thou  who  movest  onward  with  a  mind.'     (Ep. 

from  Chiabrera,  in.) 
Part  of  The  Excursion. 

'  Say,  what  is  honour  ?    'Tis  the  finest  sense.' 
'Is  there  a  power  that  can  sustain  and  cheer.' 


1810 

1810  1815  '  Ah  !  where  is  Palafox  ?    Nor  tongue  nor  pen.' 

1810  1815  '  In  due  observance  of  an  ancient  rite.' 

1810  1815  Feelings  of  a  noble  Biscayan  at  one  of  those  Funerals. 

1810  1815  Indignation  of  a  high-minded  Spaniard. 

1810  1815  '  O'erweening  Statesmen  have  full  long  relied. ' 

1810  1815  The  Oak  of  Guernica. 


Ixii 


COMPOSED 

1810 

Probably  1810 
About  1810 

1810 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

PUBLISHED 

1814  Part  of  The  Excursion. 

1815  '  Avaunt  all  specious  pliancy  of  mind.' 
1842    Maternal  Grief. 

i  QI  K  (  On  a  celebrated  Event  in  Ancient  History. 
1815  \      Sonnets.) 


(Two 


1810  or  1811 
1811 
1811 
1811 

Prob.  Spring        \ 
1811 J 
Aug.  1811 
Aug.  1811 
Aug.  1811) 
or  earlier.  / 
November  1811  \ 
or  earlier  / 

November  1811 

19  Nov.  1811 

1808-1811 

1811 

1811 


1811 

1815  The  French  and  the  Spanish  Guerillas. 

1815  Spanish  Guerillas. 

1815  '  The  power  of  Armies  is  a  visible  thing.' 

1815  'Here  pause :  the  Poet  claims  at  least  this  praise.' 

1815    Characteristics  of  a  Child  three  years  old. 

1842    Epistle  to  Sir  George  Howland  Beaumont,  Bart. 
1827    Departure  from  the  Vale  of  Grasmere,  1803. 
i  si  P;  /  Upon  the  sight  of  a  beautiful  Picture,  painted  by  Sir 
10  \     G.  H.  Beaumont,  Bart. 

1820    To  the  Poet,  John  Dyer. 

1815  /Written  at  the  request  of  Sir  George  Beaumont,  Bart., 

\     and  in  his  Name,  for  an  Urn. 
1815    For  a  Seat  in  the  Groves  at  Coleorton. 
1815    In  the  Grounds  of  Coleorton. 
1815    In  a  Garden  of  the  Same. 
1814    Part  of  The  Excursion. 


1812 

o-i  r\  L  1 01  a  1Q1K  ( Composed  on  the  Eve  of  the  Marriage  of  a  Friend  in 

31  Oct.  1812  1815  |     the  Vale  of  Grasmere. 

1812  1814    Part  of  The  Excursion. 

1812  1820    Song  for  the  Spinning  Wheel. 

(?)  1812  1819  '  Grief,  thou  hast  lost  an  ever-ready  friend.' 

(?)1812  1823  Water-Fowl. 

Probably  1812  1896  Through  Cumbrian  Wilds  in  many  a  mountain  cave. 

Perhaps  1812  1896  My  Son  !  behold  the  Tide  already  spent. 

1813 

1813  1815    View  from  the  top  of  Black  Comb. 

i  QI  i  i  ei  K  /  Written  with  a  Slate  Pencil  on  a  Stone,  on  the  side  of 

10  \     the  Mountain  of  Black  Comb. 
November  1813  1815    November,  1813. 

1813  1814    Part  of  The  Excursion. 


1814 
13  Nov.  1814 

1814 
1814 
1814 

Perhaps  1814 
Perhaps  1814 

Perhaps  1814 


1814 

1814  The  Excursion  (finished). 

ieiK/  Lines  written  on  a  Blank  Leaf  in  a  Copy  of  The 
10  \     Excursion. 

1815  Laodamia. 

1815    '  From  the  dark  chambers  of  dejection  freed.' 

1815    Yarrow  Visited,  September,  1814. 

1820    Composed  at  Cora  Linn. 

1820    The  Brownie's  Cell. 

i  s<?7  /  Effusion  in  the  Pleasure-ground  on  the  banks  of  the 

iox'  t     Bran,  near  Dunkeld. 


CHRONOLOGICAL  TABLE 


Ixiii 


1815 


COMPOSED                  PUBLISHED 

December  1815           1816    September,  1815. 

December  1815 

1816    November  1. 

December  1815 

i  ai  ft  /To  B.    R.   Hay  don  ('High  is  our    calling,    Friend! 
Lb\     Creative  Art'). 

1815 

1820    Artegal  and  Elidure. 

After  June  1812 

1815     '  Surprised  by  joy  —  impatient  as  the  Wind.' 

? 

1815     '  Even  as  a  dragon's  eye  that  feels  the  stress.' 

? 

1815     '  Hail,  Twilight,  sovereign  of  one  peaceful  hour  !  ' 

? 

1815     'Mark  the  concentred  hazels  that  enclose.' 

? 

1815     '  The  fairest,  brightest,  hues  of  either  fade.' 

? 

1815    'The  Shepherd,  looking  eastward,  softly  said.' 

? 

1815     'Weak  is  the  will  of  Man,  his  judgment  blind.' 

1816 

1815  or  1816 

1816    Ode.    1815. 

January  1816 

1  81  fi  -f  Ode.  —  The  Morning  of  the  Day  appointed    for    a 
LD  \     General  Thanksgiving,  January  18,  1816. 

January  1816 

1816    Ode,  1814. 

Prob.  Jan.  1816 

1816    Ode  (  '  Who  rises  on  the  banks  of  Seine'). 

Jan.  or  Feb.  1816 

1816    Siege  of  Vienna  raised  by  John  Sobieski. 

February  1816 

1816    Invocation  to  the  Earth,  February,  1816. 

February  1816 

1816    The  French  Army  in  Russia,  1812-13. 

February  1816 

1816    On  the  same  Occasion. 

February  1816 

1816    Occasioned  by  the  Battle  of  Waterloo.   (Two  Sonnets.) 

Prob.  Feb.  1816 

1827     '  Emperors  and  Kings,  how  oft  have  temples  rung.' 

1816 

i  8<?ft  /  A  Fact,  and  an  Imagination  ;  or,  Canute  and  Alfred 
*u  \     on  the  Sea-shore. 

1816 

1820     '  A  little  onward  lend  thy  guiding  hand.' 

1816 

1820    Dion. 

1816 

IRifi  /Feelings  of  a  French  Royalist  on  the  Disinterment  of 
\     the  Remains  of  the  Duke  d'Enghien. 

1816 

i  Qor.  /  To  ,    on    her    First  Ascent  to    the    Summit    of 

JLOJ.U 

W  \     Helvellyn. 

In  or  about  1816 

1832    Translation  of  part  of  the  First  Book  of  the  Mneid. 

1817 

1817 

1820    Vernal  Ode. 

May  1817 

1820    Ode  to  Lycoris.     May,  1817. 

Summer  1817 

1820    To  the  Same. 

June  1817 

1820    The  Longest  Day.     Addressed  to  my  Daughter. 

1817 

1820  -f  Hint  from  the  Mountains  for  certain  Political  Pre- 
\     tenders. 

1817 

1820    Lament  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots. 

1817 

1827     Sequel  to  'Beggars.' 

1817 

1820    The  Pass  of  Kirkstone. 

I     ; 

1818 

1818 

1  a«n  /  Composed  upon  an  Evening  of  extraordinary  Splendour 
•u  I     and  Beauty. 

1818 

1  «9n  (  (Five)  Inscriptions  supposed  to  be  found  in  and  near  a 

?  \     Hermit's  Cell. 

1818 

1820  -f  ^Qe  Pilgrim's  Dream  ;  or,  The  Star  and  the  Glow- 

\     worm. 

Ixiv 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


COMPOSED  PUBLISHED 

1818  1819     'Pure  element  of  waters.' 

1818  1819    MalhamCove. 

1818  1819    Gordale. 


Feb.  1819 

Summer  1819 

Sept.  1819 

Sept.  1819 


Not  later     1 
than  1819 / 


1819 

1819  Composed  during  a  Storm. 

1820  The  Haunted  Tree. 
1820    September,  1819. 

1820    Upon  the  same  Occasion. 

1819     'Aerial  Rock — whose  solitary  brow.' 

1819    Captivity — Mary  Queen  of  Scots. 

101  a  /Composed  in  one  of  the  Valleys  of  Westmoreland,  on 

1819  \     Easter  Sunday. 

1 01  o  / '  Fallen  and  diffused  into  a  shapeless  heap '  (Sonnet 

La  \     xxvii.  of  The  River  Duddon). 
1819     'I  heard  (alas !  'twas  only  in  a  dream).' 
1819     '  I  watch,  and  long  have  watched,  with  calm  regret.' 
1819    The  Wild  Duck's  Nest. 
1819    To  a  Snowdrop. 
1819    To  the  River  Derwent. 

1819  Written  upon  a  Blank  Leaf  in  '  The  Complete  Angler. 

1820  '  When  haughty  expectations  prostrate  lie.' 


At  intervals  dur-  \ 
ing  many  years/ 
Probably      \ 
Feb.  1820  / 
1820 
1820 
1820 

1820 

1820 

Probably     1 
Nov. -Dec.  1820  / 
1820-1822 


1820 

1820    Composed  on  the  Banks  of  a  Rocky  Stream. 
1820     'The  stars  are  mansions  built  by  Nature's  hand.' 
1820    To  the  Lady  Mary  Lowther. 

1820    The  River  Duddon.     A  Series  of  Sonnets. 


1820 

1820 
1820 
1822 

1  soft 
" 

1822 


1822 


On  the  death  of  His  Majesty  (George  the  Third). 

Oxford.    May  30,  1820.     (Two  Sonnets.  ) 

June,  1820. 

A  Parsonage  in  Oxfordshire. 

/  ^n  *^e  Detraction  which  followed  the  Publication  of 
\     a  certain  Poem. 

The  Germans  on  the  Heights  of  Hochheim. 
(  Inside  of  King's  College  Chapel,  Cambridge.     (Three 
\     Sonnets.) 

To  Enterprise. 


1820  and 
mostly  1821 

1820  or  1821 
1821 

(?)  1821 


fFeb. 
-^  Mai 


1821 


March     >  Memorials  of  a  Tour  on  the  Continent,  1820, 
1822J 

1822    Sonnet.     Author's  Voyage  down  the  Rhine. 
1822    Most  of  The  Ecclesiastical  Sonnets. 
1822  -f  ^e  Monument  commonly  called  Long  Meg  and  her 
\     Daughters. 


Perhaps  Nov.     1 
or  Dec.  1822  / 


1822 
1827     'By  Moscow  self -devoted  to  a  blaze.' 


CHRONOLOGICAL  TABLE 


Ixv 


1823 

COMPOSED  PUBLISHED 

1823  1827    Memory. 

fTo  the  Lady  Fleming,   on   seeing    the    Foundation 
1823  1827 -I     preparing    for    the    Erection   of    Rydal    Chapel, 

^    Westmoreland. 

1823  1827    On  the  same  Occasion. 

?  1823     'A  volant  Tribe  of  Bards  on  Earth  are  found.' 

?  1823     '  Not  Love,  not  War,  nor  the  tumultuous  swell.' 


Apr.  or  May  1824 
Summer  1824 

Between  August) 
and  Oct.  1824  / 

Between  August  \ 
and  Oct.  1824  / 

Prob.  Sept.  1824 

Prob.  Dec.  1824 

1824 
1824 
1824 
1824 
1824 
1824 


1824 

1827    A  Flower  Garden  at  Coleorton  Hall,  Leicestershire. 
1827    To ( '  Look  at  the  fate  of  summer  flowers '). 

1827    To  the  Lady  E.  B.  and  the  Hon.  Miss  P. 


1827 
1827  { 

1827  { 

1842 

1827 

1827 

1827 

1827 

1827 


To  the  Torrent  at  the  Devil's  Bridge. 

Composed  among  the  Ruins  of  a  Castle  in  North 

Wales. 
Elegiac  Stanzas.     Addressed  to  Sir  G.  H.  B.,  upon 

the  death  of  his  Sister-in-law. 
Cenotaph. 
'How  rich  that  forehead's  calm  expanse.' 

To ('Let  other  bards  of  angels  sing'). 

To ('  O  dearer  far  than  light  and  life  are  dear '). 

To ,  in  her  Seventieth  Year. 

Written  in  a  Blank  Leaf  of  Macpherson's  Ossian. 


1825 

1825 

1825  or  1826 


1825 

1827    The  Contrast.     The  Parrot  and  the  Wren. 

i  QO-T  /  To  a  Sky-Lark    ( '  Ethereal  minstrel !  Pilgrim  of  the 

1827  \     sky!'). 

1827    The  Pillar  of  Trajan. 


Some  years          \ 
after  1822  / 

9 

1— e 


1826 

1835  Ode  Composed  on  May  Morning. 

1835  To  May. 

1827  '  Ere  with  cold  beads  of  midnight  dew.' 

1827  '  Once  I  could  hail  (howe'er  serene  the  sky).' 

1835  'The  massy  Ways,  carried  across  these  heights.' 

1 889  /  Composed  when  a  probability  existed  of  our  being 

\     obliged  to  quit  Rydal  Mount. 

1827  Decay  of  Piety. 

1827  '  Fair  Prime  of  life  !  were  it  enough  to  gild. ' 

1827  '  Go  back  to  antique  ages,  if  thine  eyes.' 

1827  '  Her  only  pilot  the  soft  breeze,  the  boat.' 

1827  'In  my  mind's  eye  a  Temple,  like  a  cloud.' 

1827  In  the  Woods  of  Rydal. 

1827  Recollection  of  the  Portrait  of  King  Henry  Eighth. 

1827  Retirement. 

1827  '  Scorn  not  the  Sonnet ;  Critic,  you  have  frowned.' 

1827  The  Infant  M M . 

1827  '  There  is  a  pleasure  in  poetic  pains.' 

1827  To  Rotha  Q . 

1827  To  S.  H. 


Ixvi  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

COMPOSED  PUBLISHED 

?  1827    To  the  Cuckoo. 

?  1827     '  When  Philoctetes  in  the  Lemnian  isle.' 

?  1827     '  While  Anna's  peers  and  early  playmates  tread.' 

?  1827     'Why,  Minstrel,  these  untuneful  murmurings.' 

( Ecclesiastical  Sonnets  (Part  n.,  Nos.  xxx.,  xxxiii., 
After  1821  1827 -I      xxxiv. ;   Part  in.,  Nos.  vii.,  xi.,  xii.,  xx.,  xxiii., 

^     xxiv.,  xxv.,  xxxvi.). 


1827 
Probably  1827 

Probably  1827 
After  1813 


1827 

1827    On  seeing  a  Needlecase  in  the  Form  of  a  Harp. 

io27/ Dedication.     To  ('Happy  the  feeling  from  the 

\     bosom  thrown '). 

1827    Conclusion.    To . 

1827     '  If  thou  indeed  derive  thy  light  from  Heaven. 


1828 
1828 
1828 
1828 
1828 
1828-9 

Probably  1828 
Probably  1828 
Probably  1828 
Probably  1828 


1829  or  earlier 
1829 
1829 
1829 
1829 
1829 


Nov.  1830 

Nov.  1830 

1830 

1830 

1830 

1830 

1830 

1830  or  1831 


1831 

11  June  1831 
1831 

1831 


1832 
1835 
1829 
1829 
1829 
1835 

1829 
1829 
1842 
1829 


1828 

A  Morning  Exercise. 

A  Jewish  Family. 

The  Gleaner,  suggested  by  a  picture. 

The  Triad. 

The  Wishing-Gate. 

On  the  Power  of  Sound. 

A  Gravestone  upon  the  Floor  in  the  Cloisters  of 

Worcester  Cathedral. 

A  Tradition  of  Oker  Hill  in  Darley  Dale,  Derbyshire. 
Farewell  Lines    ('High   bliss   is  only  for  a  higher 

state '). 
Filial  Piety. 

1829 

1889  Written  in  the  Strangers'  Book  at  '  The  Station.' 

1835  Gold  and  Silver  Fishes  in  a  Vase. 

1835  Liberty  (Sequel  to  the  preceding). 

1835  Humanity. 

1835  '  This  Lawn,  a  carpet  all  alive.' 

1835  Thought  on  the  Seasons. 

1830 

1835    Elegiac  Musings  in  the  grounds  of  Coleorton  Hall. 

1835     '  Chats  worth  !  thy  stately  mansion,  and  the  pride.' 

1835    Presentiments. 

1835    The  Armenian  Lady's  Love. 

1835 /  ^e  Egyptian  Maid;  or,  The  Romance  of  the  Water 

\     Lily. 

1835    The  Poet  and  the  Caged  Turtle-dove. 
1835    The  Russian  Fugitive. 
1835    '  In  these  fair  vales  hath  many  a  Tree.' 

1831 

1835    The  Primrose  of  the  Rock. 

f  To  B.  R.  Hay  don,  on  seeing  his  Picture  of  Napoleon 

\      Buonaparte. 
1835    Composed  after  reading  a  Newspaper  of  the  Day. 

(  Yarrow  Revisited,  and  other  Poems.    Composed  (two 
1835-j      excepted)  during  a  Tour  in  Scotland,  and  on  the 

V.     English  Border,  in  the  Autumn  of  1831. 


CHRONOLOGICAL  TABLE 


Ixvii 


1832 


COMPOSED 

March  1832 
Probably  after  \ 

1832 
1832 
1832 
1832 
Probably  1832 

18^2      A  18^7 


PUBLISHED 


1832    Upon  the  late  General  Fast. 

Ig32    Sponsors  (Ecclesiastical  Sonnets,  Part  ra.,  No.  xxi.). 

1835    '  Calm  is  the  fragrant  air,  and  loth  to  lose.' 
1835    Devotional  Incitements. 
1835    Loving  and  Liking.     By  my  Sister. 
1835    Rural  Illusions. 
1835    To  the  Author's  Portrait. 

18S7-f  Afterthought  (Memorials  of  a  Tour  on  the  Continent, 
(.     1820). 


1832  or  1833 
March  1833 

1833 
7  April  1833 

1833 


1833 


1833 
1833 

(?)  1833-1842 
(?)  1833-1842 


1835 
1835 
1835 
1835 
1835 


1845 

iQiK.f 

1835  \ 

1835 

1835 

1842 

1842 


1833 

'  Why  art  thou  silent  ?    Is  thy  love  a  plant  ?  ' 

To  -  ,  on  the  birth  of  her  Firstborn  Child. 

The  Warning.     A  Sequel  to  the  foregoing. 

On  a  high  part  of  the  coast  of  Cumberland. 

A  Wren's  Nest. 

By  the  Seaside  ('The  Sun  is  couched,  the  sea-fowl 

gone  to  rest'). 

Composed  by  the  Seashore  (  '  What  mischief  '). 
Foems  composed  or  suggested  during  a  Tour  in  the 

Summer  of  1833. 

'  If  this  great  world  of  joy  and  pain.' 
To  the  Utilitarians. 
Love  Lies  Bleeding. 
Companion  to  the  foregoing. 


1834 


1834 
1834 
1834 
1834 
1834 


5  Nov  1834 
1834 


1835    By  the  side  of  Rydal  Mere. 

1835     '  Not  in  the  lucid  intervals  of  life.' 

1835    '  Soft  as  a  cloud  is  yon  blue  Ridge—  the  Mere.' 

1835     'The  leaves  that  rustled  on  this  oak-crowned  hill.' 

1835    The  Labourer's  Noon-day  Hymn. 

iflQK/The    Redbreast.      (Suggested    in    a    Westmoreland 

50  \     Cottage.) 
1835  [  ^nea  writ*en  in    the    Album    of  the    Countess    of 

\     Lonsdale. 

1835    To  a  Child.     Written  in  her  Album. 
ism/^1168  suggested  by  a  Portrait  from  the  Pencil  of  F. 

50  1     Stone. 


1834  1835    The  foregoing  Subject  resumed. 


Prob.  before  1833 
Prob.  before  1835 


1835 
1835 


1835 

1835    The  Somnambulist. 
1835    A  Cento. 

IQOT/TO  the  Moon.     (Composed  by  the  Seaside,  —  on  the 
1JW7  I     Coast  of  Cumberland.  ) 
1837    To  the  Moon  (Rydal). 

1837  /Upon  seeing  a  coloured   drawing    of    the    Bird    of 
I     Paradise. 


Ixviii 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


COMPOSED 

Nov.  1835 1 

Nov.  1835 
Prob.  before  1835 
Prob.  before  1835 
Prob.  bef  ore  1835 
Prob.  before  1835 

Prob.  bef  ore  1835 
Prob.  bef  ore  1835 
Prob.  bef  ore  1835 


PUBLISHED 

T835I  ExtemP°re  Effusion  upon  the  Death  of  James  Hogg. 
1837    Written  after  the  Death  of  Charles  Lamb. 
1835     '  By  a  blest  Husband  guided,  Mary  came.' 
1835     '  Desponding  Father  !  mark  this  altered  bough. ' 
1835    Ecclesiastical  Sonnets  (Part  n.,  Nos.  iv.,  xii.,  xiii.). 
1835     '  Four  fiery  steeds  impatient  of  the  rein.' 
.,  QnK  (  Roman  Antiquities  discovered  at  Bishopstone,  Here- 
11WB  \    f  ordshire. 


1835 
1835 


St.  Catherine  of  Ledbury. 

fTo ('  "Wait,  prithee,  wait !"  this  answer  Lesbia 

[     threw '). 


1836 

March  1836  1889    Squib. 

1836  1889    Epigram. 

Nov.  1836  1837    November  1836. 

i->\  -i  QOC  -i  QQQ  (  Translations  of  a  Quatrain  by  Michelangelo,  and  from 

(?)1836  1883  |     the  Latin  of  T.  Warton. 


1887 


1832  and  1837 

1837 
1837 

Probably  1837 
(?)  1837 

Prob.  after  1834 


-.  Qo7  /  After-thought  (Memorials  of  a  Tour  on  the  Continent, 

XOO|    "»         1  Qon\ 

\_      lozUJ. 

1838     '  Oh  what  a  wreck  !  how  changed  in  mien  and  speech.' 
1842    The  Cuckoo  at  Laverna. 

18*19  /At  Bologna,  in  remembrance  of  the  late  Insurrections, 
if>v*\     1837.     (Three  Sonnets.) 
1842    The  Widow  of  Windermere  Side. 
1837    A  Night  Thought. 
1837    Ecclesiastical  Sonnets  (Part  i.,  No.  xxxii.). 

'O  flower  of  all  that    springs    from  gentle  blood.' 


1837 


[     (Epitaphs  translated  from  Chiabrera,  vii. ). 

( '  True    is    it    that    Ambrosio    Salinero '    (Ep. 

\     Chiabrera,  v.). 
1837  /  '  Weep  not,   beloved  Friends  !   nor  let  the  air 

I     from  Chiabrera,  i. ). 

1837     '  Six  months  to  six  years  added  he  remained.' 
1837     '  What  if  our  numbers  barely  could  defy.' 


from 
(Ep. 


1838 


Jan.  1838  1838  To  the  Planet  Venus. 

1  May  1838  1838  Composed  at  Rydal  on  May  Morning,  1838. 

1838  1838  Composed  on  a  May  Morning,  1838. 

1838  '  Hark  !  'tis  the  Thrush,  undaunted,  undeprest.' 

1838  1838  "Tis  He  whose  yester-evening's  high  disdain.' 

May  1838  1838  A  Plea  for  Authors,  May  1838. 

23  May  1838  1838  A  Poet  to  his  Grandchild.     (Sequel  to  the  foregoing.) 

1838  1838  At  Dover. 

1838  1838  '  Blest  Statesman  He,  whose  Mind's  unselfish  will.' 

1838  1838  Protest  against  the  Ballot. 

1838  1838  '  Said  Secrecy  to  Cowardice  and  Fraud.' 

1838  1838  Valedictory  Sonnet. 

1838  1851  Inscription  on  a  Rock  at  Rydal  Mount. 


CHRONOLOGICAL  TABLE 


Ixix 


1839 

COMPOSED  PUBLISHED 

("Thoughts  suggested  the  Day  following,  on  the  Banks 
Finished  1839  1842 -{     of  Nith,  near  the  Poet's  Residence  (See  'At  the 

t    Grave  of  Burns,  1803 '). 
1839  1842    '  Men  of  the  Western  World  !  in  Fate's  dark  book.' 


1840 

1839-1840  Dec.  1841    Sonnets  upon  the  Punishment  of  Death. 

1851/^onnet  on  a  ^>ortra't  °f  !•  ^->  painted  by  Margaret 

\     Gillies. 

1851    Sonnet  to  I.  F. 
Poor  Robin. 

On  a  Portrait  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  upon  the 
Field  of  Waterlo0)  by  Haydon. 

To  a  Painter  (Two  Sonnets). 


1  T       1840 

Feb.  1840 
March  1840 

QI  A    ~  1  QAn 
61  Aug.  IS 

1840 


1842 

i  QAO 
12 

1842 


1841 
1841 


1841 

Memorials  of  a  Tour  in  Italy.     (See  dates  in  text.) 
1842    Epitaph  in  the  Chapel-yard  at  Langdale. 

,  /  Upon  perusing  the  foregoing  Epistle  (See  '  Epistle  to 
\     Sir  G.  H.  Beaumont,  1811 '). 


1842 

23  Jan.  1842  1842     'When  Severn's  sweeping  flood  had  overthrown.' 
14  Feb.  1842  1842    To  Henry  Crabb  Robinson. 

8  March  1842  1842     'Intent  on  gathering  wool  from  hedge  and  brake.' 

or  *r.  „„;,  ICMO  IOAO  /Prelude,   prefixed  to  the  Volume   entitled    'Poems 

21)  March  1842  Io42  -{          u-ar-ui  JTJ.-VT  > 

t     chiefly  of  Early  and  Late  Years. 

24  Dec.  1842  1845     '  Wansfell !  this  Household  has  a  favoured  lot.' 
Probably  1842  1842    The  Eagle  and  the  Dove. 

f  Ecclesiastical  Sonnets    (Part  u.,  Nos.  ix.,  x.     Part 
1842  1842 -j     in.,  Nos.  xiii.,  xiv.,  xv.,  xxvi.,  xxxi.,  and  probably 

I.     xxvii.,  xxviii.,  xxix.,  xxx. ). 
?  1842    Airey-Force  Valley. 

1842    The  Norman  Boy. 
?  1842    The  Poet's  Dream.     Sequel  to 'The  Norman  Boy.' 


1  January  1843 
Before  27  Mar.     ) 
1843  f 

11  Dec.  1843 
1843 


1843 

1845     '  While  beams  of  orient  light  shoot  wide  and  high.' 
1845    Grace  Darling. 

1845    To  the  Rev.  Christopher  Wordsworth,  D.D. 

1845    Inscription  for  a  monument  in  Crosthwaite  Church. 


1844 

July  1844  1845     'So  fair,  so  sweet,  withal  so  sensitive.' 

12  Oct.  1844  1844    On  the  projected  Kendal  and  Windermere  Railway. 

1844  1844    'Proud  were  ye,  Mountains,  when,  in  times  of  old.' 


Ixx 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


COMPOSED 

Prob.  Jan.  or      \ 

Feb.  1845  / 

Prob.  Jan.  or\ 

Feb.  1845  / 

6  June  1845 

21  June  1845 

Probably  1845 

1845 
(?)  1845 

(?)  1845 


1845 

PUBLISHED 

1845    To  the  Pennsylvanians. 


1845    'Young  England— what  is  then  become  of  Old.' 

1845    The  Westmoreland  Girl. 

1845 


( '  Well  have  yon  Railway  Labourers 
to  THIS  ground  *). 
1845  /  ^  Furness  Abbey  ( '  Here,  where,  of  havoc  tired  and 

\     rash  undoing'). 

1845     '  Forth  from  a  jutting  ridge,  around  whose  base.' 
1845     '  Glad  sight  wherever  new  with  old.' 

/To  a  Lady,  in  answer  to  a  request  that  I  should  write 

t     her  a  Poem,  etc. 
1845     'Yes  !  thou  art  fair,  yet  be  not  moved.' 
1845     '  What  heavenly  smiles  !    O  Lady  mine.' 
1845    Ecclesiastical  Sonnets  (Part  n. ,  Nos.  i. ,  ii.  Part  in. ,  xvi. ). 


1846 

9  T       1846  1889-f^nes  inscriked  m  a  Copy  of  his  Poems  sent  to  the 

1846  1850     '  I  know  an  aged  Man  constrained  to  dwell.' 

1846  1850    Illustrated  Books  and  Newspapers. 

1846  1850    Sonnet.    To  an  Octogenarian. 

1846  1850    Sonnet  ('Why  should  we  weep  or  mourn,  Angelic  boy'). 

1846  1850    '  The  unremitting  voice  of  mighty  streams.' 

1846  1850    To  Lucca  Giordano. 

1846  1850    '  Where  lies  the  truth  ?     Has  Man,  in  wisdom's  creed.' 

1846  1850     '  Who  but  is  pleased  to  watch  the  moon  on  high.' 


1847 


1847  { 


1847 

Ode  on  the  Installation  of  H.R.H.  Prince  Albert  as 
Chancellor  of  the  University  of  Cambridge,  July,  1847. 


Prob.  not  before"! 

1846  / 
Prob.  not  before) 

1846  / 


1850 

1850    '  How  beautiful  the  Queen  of  Night,  on  high.' 
1850    On  the  Banks  of  a  Rocky  Stream. 


NOTE 

THE  first  draft  of  the  poem  on  the  other  side  of  this  page 
was  written,  as  Wordsworth  tells  us  in  the  Fenwick  note, 
some  time  after  he  settled  at  Rydal  Mount  (1813).  It  was 
first  published,  in  1827,  among  the  Poems  of  Sentiment  and 
Reflection,  and  consisted  of  eleven  lines.  In  ed.  1836-7 
1.  2  and  11.  14-16  were  added ;  11.  4,  5  were  expanded  from 
the  original — '  The  Star  that  from  the  zenith  darts  its 
beams,'  and  the  consequent  changes  from  singular  to 
plural  were  made  in  the  following  lines,  The  poem  was 
moved  to  the  front  of  the  Poems  of  Sentiment  and  Reflection, 
on  the  verso  of  the  title-page  of  that  section.  It  was  trans- 
ferred to  its  present  position  in  the  one-volume  ed.  of 
1845,  Wordsworth  writing  to  Moxon,  '  1  mean  it  to  serve 
as  a  sort  of  Preface'  (Knight's  Life  of  Wordsworth,  iii. 
(vol.  ix.  of  Edinburgh  ed.),  p.  414). 


IF  thou  indeed  derive  thy  light  from  Heaven, 

Then,  to  the  measure  of  that  Heaven-born  light, 

Shine,  Poet !  in  thy  place,  and  be  content  : 

The  stars  pre-eminent  in  magnitude, 

And  they  that  from  the  Zenith  dart  their  beams 

(Visible  though  they  be  to  half  the  earth, 

Though  half  a  sphere  be  conscious  of  their  brightness), 

Are  yet  of  no  diviner  origin, 

No  purer  essence,  than  the  one  that  burns, 

Like  an  untended  watch-fire,  on  the  ridge 

Of  some  dark  mountain  ;  or  than  those  which  seem 

Humbly  to  hang,  like  twinkling  winter  lamps, 

Among  the  branches  of  the  leafless  trees  ; 

All  are  the  undying  offspring  of  one  Sire  ; 

Then,  to  the  measure  of  the  light  vouchsafed, 

Shine,  Poet !  in  thy  place,  and  be  content. 


POEMS  BY  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

OF  the  Poems  in  this  class,  'THE  EVENING  WALK'  and  '  DESCBIPTIVE 
SKETCHES'  were  first  published  in  1793.  They  are  reprinted  with  some 
alterations  that  were  chiefly  made  very  soon  after  their  publication. 

This  notice,  which  was  written  some  time  ago,  scarcely  applies  to  the 
Poem,  'Descriptive  Sketches,'  as  it  now  stands.     The  corrections,  though 
numerous,  are  not,  however,  such  as  to  prevent  its  retaining  with  propriety 
a  place  in  the  class  of  Juvenile  Pieces. 
1836 

I 

EXTRACT 

FROM  THE  CONCLUSION  OF  A  POEM,  COMPOSED  IN  ANTICIPATION 
OF  LEAVING  SCHOOL 

EAR  native  regions,    I  foretell, 

From  what  I  feel  at  this  farewell, 

That  wheresoe'er  my  steps  may  tend, 
And  whensoe'er  my  course  shall  end, 
If  in  that  hour  a  single  tie 
Survive  of  local  sympathy, 
My  soul  will  cast  the  backward  view, 
The  longing  look  alone  on  you. 

Thus,  while  the  Sun  sinks  down  to  rest 
Far  in  the  regions  of  the  west,  10 

Though  to  the  vale  no  parting  beam 
Be  given,  not  one  memorial  gleam, 
A  lingering  light  he  fondly  throws 
On  the  dear  hills  where  first  he  rose. 

1786 

II 

WRITTEN  IN  VERY  EARLY  YOUTH 

CALM  is  all  nature  as  a  resting  wheel. 
The  kine  are  couched  upon  the  dewy  grass  ; 
The  horse  alone,  seen  dimly  as  I  pass. 
Is  cropping  audibly  his  later  meal : 
1-A 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Dark  is  the  ground;  a  slumber  seems  to  steal 
O'er  vale,  and  mountain,  and  the  starless  sky. 
Now,  in  this  blank  of  things,  a  harmony, 
Home-felt,  and  home-created,  comes  to  heal 
That  grief  for  which  the  senses  still  supply 
Fresh  food ;  for  only  then,  when  memory 
Is  hushed,  am  I  at  rest.     My  Friends  !  restrain 
Those  busy  cares  that  would  allay  my  pain  ; 
Oh !  leave  me  to  myself,  nor  let  me  feel 
The  officious  touch  that  makes  me  droop  again. 

Published  1802 


III 

AN  EVENING  WALK 

ADDRESSED  TO  A  YOUNG  LADY 

General  Sketch  of  the  Lakes — Author's  regret  of  his  Youth  which  was 
passed  amongst  them — Short  description  of  Noon— Cascade — Noontide 
Retreat— Precipice  and  sloping  Lights — Face  of  Nature  as  the  Sun 
declines — Mountain-farm,  and  the  Cock — Slate-quarry — Sunset — Super- 
stition of  the  Country  connected  with  that  moment — Swans — Female 
Beggar  —  Twilight  -  sounds  —  "Western  Lights  —  Spirits — Night — Moon- 
light— Hope — Night-sounds — Conclusion. 


F 


AR  from  my  dearest  Friend,  'tis  mine  to  rove 

Through  bare  grey  dell,  high   wood,  and   pastoral 


Where  Derwent  rests,  and  listens  to  the  roar 

That  stuns  the  tremulous  cliffs  of  high  Lodore ; 

Where  peace  to  Grasmere's  lonely  island  leads, 

To  willowy  hedge-rows,  and  to  emerald  meads ; 

Leads  to  her  bridge,  rude  church,  and  cottaged  grounds, 

Her  rocky  sheepwalks,  and  her  woodland  bounds  ; 

Where,  undisturbed  by  winds,  Winander l  sleeps  ; 

'Mid  clustering  isles,  and  holly-sprinkled  steeps  ;  « 

Where  twilight  glens  endear  my  Esthwaite's  shore, 

And  memory  of  departed  pleasures,  more. 

Fair  scenes,  erewhile,  I  taught,  a  happy  child, 
The  echoes  of  your  rocks  my  carols  wild  : 
The  spirit  sought  not  then,  in  cherished  sadness, 
A  cloudy  substitute  for  failing  gladness. 
In  youth's  keen  eye  the  livelong  day  was  bright, 
The  sun  at  morning,  and  the  stars  at  night, 

1  These  lines  are  only  applicable  to  the  middle  part  of  that  lake. 


AN  EVENING  WALK  3 

Alike,  when  first  the  bittern's  hollow  bill 

Was  heard,  or  woodcocks  l  roamed  the  moonlight  hill.     20 

In  thoughtless  gaiety  I  coursed  the  plain, 
And  hope  itself  was  all  I  knew  of  pain  ; 
For  then  the  inexperienced  heart  would  beat 
At  times,  while  young  Content  forsook  her  seat, 
And  wild  Impatience,  pointing  upward,  showed, 
Through  passes  yet  unreached,  a  brighter  road. 
Alas  !  the  idle  tale  of  man  is  found 
Depicted  in  the  dial's  moral  round  ; 
Hope  with  reflection  blends  her  social  rays 
To  gild  the  total  tablet  of  his  days ;  30 

Yet  still,  the  sport  of  some  malignant  power, 
He  knows  but  from  its  shade  the  present  hour. 

But  why,  ungrateful,  dwell  on  idle  pain  ? 
To  show  what  pleasures  yet  to  me  remain, 
Say,  will  my  Friend,  with  unreluctant  ear, 
The  history  of  a  poet's  evening  hear  ? 

When,  in  the  south,  the  wan  noon,  brooding  still 
Breathed  a  pale  steam  around  the  glaring  hill, 
And  shades  of  deep-embattled  clouds  were  seen, 
Spotting  the  northern  cliffs  with  lights  between  ;  40 

When  crowding  cattle,  checked  by  rails  that  make 
A  fence  far  stretched  into  the  shallow  lake, 
Lashed  the  cool  water  with  their  restless  tails, 
Or  from  high  points  of  rock  looked  out  for  fanning  gales  ; 
When  school-boys  stretched  their  length  upon  the  green  ; 
And  round  the  broad-spread  oak,  a  glimmering  scene, 
In  the  rough  fern-clad  park,  the  herded  deer 
Shook  the  still-twinkling  tail  and  glancing  ear ; 
When  horses  in  the  sunburnt  intake  2  stood, 
And  vainly  eyed  below  the  tempting  flood,  50 

Or  tracked  the  passenger,  in  mute  distress, 
With  forward  neck  the  closing  gate  to  press — 
Then,  while  I  wandered  where  the  huddling  rill 
Brightens  with  water-breaks  the  hollow  ghyll,3 
As  by  enchantment,  an  obscure  retreat 
Opened  at  once,  and  stayed  my  devious  feet. 
While  thick  above  the  rill  the  branches  close, 
In  rocky  basin  its  wild  waves  repose, 

1  In  the  beginning  of  winter,  these  mountains  are  frequented  by  wood- 
cocks, which  in  dark  nights  retire  into  the  woods. 

2  The  word  intake  is  local,  and  signifies  a  mountain-inclosure. 

3  Ghyll  is  also,  I  believe,  a  term  confined  to  this  country  :  ghyll,  and  dinjrle, 
have  the  same  meaning. 


4  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Inverted  shrubs,  and  moss  of  gloomy  green, 

Cling  from  the  rocks,  with  pale  wood-weeds  between  ;    60 

And  its  own  twilight  softens  the  whole  scene, 

Save  where  aloft  the  subtle  sunbeams  shine 

On  withered  briars  that  o'er  the  crags  recline ; 

Save  where,  with  sparkling  foam,  a  small  cascade 

Illumines,  from  within,  the  leafy  shade ; 

Beyond,  along  the  vista  of  the  brook, 

Where  antique  roots  its  bustling  course  o'erlook, 

The  eye  reposes  on  a  secret  bridge,1 

Half  grey,  half  shagged  with  ivy  to  its  ridge  ; 

There,  bending  o'er  the  stream,  the  listless  swain  70 

Lingers  behind  his  disappearing  wain. 

— Did  Sabine  grace  adorn  my  living  line, 

Blandusia's  praise,  wild  stream,  should  yield  to  thine  ! 

Never  shall  ruthless  minister  of  death 

'Mid  thy  soft  glooms  the  glittering  steel  unsheath  ; 

No  goblets  shall,  for  thee,  be  crowned  with  flowers, 

No  kid  with  piteous  outcry  thrill  thy  bowers ; 

The  mystic  shapes  that  by  thy  margin  rove 

A  more  benignant  sacrifice  approve — 

A  mind  that,  in  a  calm  angelic  mood  80 

Of  happy  wisdom,  meditating  good, 

Beholds,  of  all  from  her  high  powers  required, 

Much  done,  and  much  designed,  and  more  desired, — 

Harmonious  thoughts,  a  soul  by  truth  refined, 

Entire  affection  for  all  human  kind. 

Dear  Brook,  farewell !     To-morrow's  noon  again 
Shall  hide  me,  wooing  long  thy  wildwood  strain ; 
But  now  the  sun  has  gained  his  western  road, 
And  eve's  mild  hour  invites  my  steps  abroad. 

While,  near  the  midway  cliff,  the  silvered  kite  90 

In  many  a  whistling  circle  wheels  her  flight ; 
Slant  watery  lights,  from  parting  clouds,  apace 
Travel  along  the  precipice's  base ; 
Cheering  its  naked  waste  of  scattered  stone, 
By  lichens  grey,  and  scanty  moss,  o'ergrown ; 
Where  scarce  the  foxglove  peeps,  or  thistle's  beard ; 
And  restless  stone-chat,  all  day  long,  is  heard. 

How  pleasant,  as  the  sun  declines,  to  view 
The  spacious  landscape  change  in  form  and  hue  ! 

1  The  reader,  who  has  made  the  tour  of  this  country,  will  recognise  in 
this  description  the  features  which  characterise  the  lower  waterfall  in  the 
grounds  of  Rydal. 


AN  EVENING  WALK  5 

Here,  vanish,  as  in  mist,  before  a  flood  100 

Of  bright  obscurity,  hill,  lawn,  and  wood  ; 

There,  objects,  by  the  searching  beams  betrayed, 

Come  forth,  and  here  retire  in  purple  shade ; 

Even  the  white  stems  of  birch,  the  cottage  white, 

Soften  their  glare  before  the  mellow  light ; 

The  skiffs,  at  anchor  where  with  umbrage  wide 

Yon  chestnuts  half  the  latticed  boat-house  hide, 

Shed  from  their  sides,  that  face  the  sun's  slant  beam, 

Strong  flakes  of  radiance  on  the  tremulous  stream  : 

Raised  by  yon  travelling  flock,  a  dusty  cloud  no 

Mounts  from  the  road,  and  spreads  its  moving  shroud  ; 

The  shepherd,  all  involved  in  wreaths  of  fire, 

Now  shows  a  shadowy  speck,  and  now  is  lost  entire. 

Into  a  gradual  calm  the  breezes  sink, 
A  blue  rim  borders  all  the  lake's  still  brink ; 
There  doth  the  twinkling  aspen's  foliage  sleep, 
And  insects  clothe,  like  dust,  the  glassy  deep : 
And  now,  on  every  side,  the  surface  breaks 
Into  blue  spots,  and  slowly  lengthening  streaks ; 
Here,  plots  of  sparkling  water  tremble  bright  120 

With  thousand  thousand  twinkling  points  of  light ; 
There,  waves  that,  hardly  weltering,  die  away, 
Tip  their  smooth  ridges  with  a  softer  ray ; 
And  now  the  whole  wide  lake  in  deep  repose 
Is  hushed,  and  like  a  burnished  mirror  glows, 
Save  where,  along  the  shady  western  marge, 
Coasts,  with  industrious  oar,  the  charcoal  barge. 

Their  panniered  train  a  group  of  potters  goad, 
Winding  from  side  to  side  up  the  steep  road ; 
The  peasant,  from  yon  cliff  of  fearful  edge  130 

Shot,  down  the  headlong  path  darts  with  his  sledge ; 
Bright  beams  the  lonely  mountain-horse  illume 
Feeding  'mid  purple  heath,  '  green  rings,' 1  and  broom  ; 
While  the  sharp  slope  the  slackened  team  confounds, 
Downward  the  ponderous  timber- wain  resounds; 
In  foamy  breaks  the  rill,  with  merry  song, 
Dashed  o'er  the  rough  rock,  lightly  leaps  along ; 
From  lonesome  chapel  at  the  mountain's  feet 
Three  humble  bells  their  rustic  chime  repeat  ; 
Sounds  from  the  water-side  the  hammered  boat ;  140 

And  blasted  quarry  thunders,  heard  remote  ! 

Even  here,  amid  the  sweep  of  endless  woods, 
Blue  pomp  of  lakes,  high  cliffs,  and  falling  floods, 

1  'Vivid  rings  of  green.' — Greenwood's  Poem  on  Shooting. 


6  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Not  undelightful  are  the  simplest  charms, 
Found  by  the  grassy  door  of  mountain-farms. 

Sweetly  ferocious,1  round  his  native  walks, 
Pride  of  his  sister-wives,  the  monarch  stalks  ; 
Spur-clad  his  nervous  feet,  and  firm  his  tread ; 
A  crest  of  purple  tops  the  warrior's  head. 
Bright  sparks  his  black  and  rolling  eyeball  hurls  150 

Afar,  his  tail  he  closes  and  unfurls ; 
On  tiptoe  reared,  he  strains  his  clarion  throat, 
Threatened  by  faintly-answering  farms  remote  : 
Again  with  his  shrill  voice  the  mountain  rings, 
While,  flapped  with  conscious  pride,  resound  his  wings  ! 

Where,  mixed  with  graceful  birch,  the  sombrous  pine 
And  yew-tree  o'er  the  silver  rocks  recline, 
I  love  to  mark  the  quarry's  moving  trains, 
Dwarf  panniered  steeds,  and  men,  and  numerous  wains  : 
How  busy  all  the  enormous  hive  within,  160 

While  Echo  dallies  with  its  various  din ! 
Some  (hear  you  not  their  chisels'  clinking  sound  ?) 
Toil,  small  as  pigmies  in  the  gulf  profound  ; 
Some,  dim  between  the  lofty  cliffs  descried, 
O'erwalk  the  slender  plank  from  side  to  side ; 
These,  by  the  pale-blue  rocks  that  ceaseless  ring, 
In  airy  baskets  hanging,  work  and  sing. 

Just  where  a  cloud  above  the  mountain  rears 
An  edge  all  flame,  the  broadening  sun  appears  ; 
A  long  blue  bar  its  aegis  orb  divides,  170 

And  breaks  the  spreading  of  its  golden  tides  ; 
And  now  that  orb  has  touched  the  purple  steep, 
Whose  softened  image  penetrates  the  deep. 
'Cross  the  calm  lake's  blue  shades  the  cliffs  aspire, 
With  towers  and  woods,  a  '  prospect  all  on  fire ' ; 
While  coves  and  secret  hollows,  through  a  ray 
Of  fainter  gold,  a  purple  gleam  betray. 
Each  slip  of  lawn  the  broken  rocks  between 
Shines  in  the  light  with  more  than  earthly  green  : 
Deep  yellow  beams  the  scattered  stems  illume,  180 

Far  in  the  level  forest's  central  gloom  : 
Waving  his  hat,  the  shepherd,  from  the  vale, 
Directs  his  winding  dog  the  cliffs  to  scale, — 
The  dog,  loud  barking,  'mid  the  glittering  rocks, 
Hunts,  where  his  master  points,  the  intercepted  flocks. 

1  'Dolcemente  feroce." — TASSO. — In  this  description  of  the  cock,  I  remem- 
bered a  spirited  one  of  the  same  animal  in  L' Agriculture,  ou  Let  Gtorgiques 
Franfoiset,  of  M.  Roasuet. 


AN  EVENING  WALK  7 

Where  oaks  o'erhang  the  road  the  radiance  shoots 

On  tawny  earth,  wild  weeds,  and  twisted  roots ; 

The  druid-stones  a  brightened  ring  unfold  ; 

And  all  the  babbling  brooks  are  liquid  gold ; 

Sunk  to  a  curve,  the  day-star  lessens  still,  190 

Gives  one  bright  glance,  and  drops  behind  the  hill.1 

In  these  secluded  vales,  if  village  fame, 
Confirmed  by  hoary  hairs,  belief  may  claim  ; 
When  up  the  hills,  as  now,  retired  the  light, 
Strange  apparitions  mocked  the  shepherd's  sight. 

The  form  appears  of  one  that  spurs  his  steed 
Midway  along  the  hill  with  desperate  speed  ; 
Unhurt  pursues  his  lengthened  flight,  while  all 
Attend,  at  every  stretch,  his  headlong  fall. 
Anon,  appears  a  brave,  a  gorgeous  show  200 

Of  horsemen-shadows  moving  to  and  fro  ; 
At  intervals  imperial  banners  stream, 
And  now  the  van  reflects  the  solar  beam ; 
The  rear  through  iron  brown  betrays  a  sullen  gleam. 
While  silent  stands  the  admiring  crowd  below, 
Silent  the  visionary  warriors  go, 
Winding  in  ordered  pomp  their  upward  way,2 
Till  the  last  banner  of  their  long  array 
Has  disappeared,  and  every  trace  has  fled 
Of  splendour — save  the  beacon's  spiry  head  210 

Tipt  with  eve's  latest  gleam  of  burning  red. 

Now,  while  the  solemn  evening  shadows  sail, 
On  slowly- waving  pinions,  down  the  vale  ; 
And,  fronting  the  bright  west,  yon  oak  entwines 
Its  darkening  boughs  and  leaves  in  stronger  lines  ; 
'Tis  pleasant  near  the  tranquil  lake  to  stray 
Where,  winding  on  along  some  secret  bay, 
The  swan  uplifts  his  chest,  and  backward  flings 
His  neck,  a  varying  arch,  between  his  towering  wings  : 
The  eye  that  marks  the  gliding  creature  sees  220 

How  graceful,  pride  can  be,  and  how  majestic,  ease. 
While  tender  cares  and  mild  domestic  loves 
With  furtive  watch  pursue  her  as  she  moves, 
The  female  with  a  meeker  charm  succeeds, 
And  her  brown  little-ones  around  her  leads, 
Nibbling  the  water  lilies  as  they  pass, 
Or  playing  wanton  with  the  floating  grass. 

1  From  Thomson. 

2  See  a  description  of  an  appearance  of  this  kind  in  Clark's  Survey  of  the 
Lakes,  accompanied  by  vouchers  of  its  veracity,  that  may  amuse  the  reader. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

She,  in  a  mother's  care,  her  beauty's  pride 

Forgetting,  calls  the  wearied  to  her  side ; 

Alternately  they  mount  her  back,  and  rest  230 

Close  by  her  mantling  wings'  embraces  prest. 

Long  may  they  float  upon  this  flood  serene ; 
Theirs  be  these  holms  untrodden,  still,  and  green, 
Where  leafy  shades  fence  off  the  blustering  gale, 
And  breathes  in  peace  the  lily  of  the  vale  ! 
Yon  isle,  which  feels  not  even  the  milkmaid's  feet, 
Yet  hears  her  song,  '  by  distance  made  more  sweet/ 
Yon  isle  conceals  their  home,  their  hut-like  bower; 
Green  water-rushes  overspread  the  floor ; 
Long  grass  and  willows  form  the  woven  wall,  240 

And  swings  above  the  roof  the  poplar  tall. 
Thence  issuing  often  with  unwieldy  stalk, 
They  crush  with  broad  black  feet  their  flowery  walk  ; 
Or,  from  the  neighbouring  water,  hear  at  morn 
The  hound,  the  horse's  tread,  and  mellow  horn ; 
Involve  their  serpent-necks  in  changeful  rings, 
Rolled  wantonly  between  their  slippery  wings, 
Or,  starting  up  with  noise  and  rude  delight, 
Force  half  upon  the  wave  their  cumbrous  flight. 

Fair  Swan  !  by  all  a  mother's  joys  caressed,  250 

Haply  some  wretch  has  eyed,  and  called  thee  blessed ; 
When  with  her  infants,  from  some  shady  seat 
By  the  lake's  edge,  she  rose — to  face  the  noontide  heat ; 
Or  taught  their  limbs  along  the  dusty  road 
A  few  short  steps  to  totter  with  their  load. 

I  see  her  now,  denied  to  lay  her  head, 
On  cold  blue  nights,  in  hut  or  straw-built  shed, 
Turn  to  a  silent  smile  their  sleepy  cry, 
By  pointing  to  the  gliding  moon  on  high. 
— When  low-hung  clouds  each  star  of  summer  hide,        260 
And  fireless  are  the  valleys  far  and  wide, 
Where  the  brook  brawls  along  the  public  road 
Dark  with  bat-haunted  ashes  stretching  broad, 
Oft  has  she  taught  them  on  her  lap  to  lay 
The  shining  glow-worm  ;  or,  in  heedless  play, 
Toss  it  from  hand  to  hand,  disquieted ; 
While  others,  not  unseen,  are  free  to  shed 
Green  unmolested  light  upon  their  mossy  bed. 

Oh  !  when  the  sleety  showers  her  path  assail, 
And  like  a  torrent  roars  the  headstrong  gale ;  270 


AN  EVENING  WALK  9 

No  more  her  breath  can  thaw  their  fingers  cold, 
Their  frozen  arms  her  neck  no  more  can  fold ; 
Weak  roof  a  cowering  form  two  babes  to  shield, 
And  faint  the  fire  a  dying  heart  can  yield  ! 
Press  the  sad  kiss,  fond  mother !  vainly  fears 
Thy  flooded  cheek  to  wet  them  with  its  tears  ; 
No  tears  can  chill  them,  and  no  bosom  warms, 
Thy  breast  their  death-bed,  coffined  in  thine  arms! 

Sweet  are  the  sounds  that  mingle  from  afar, 
Heard  by  calm  lakes,  as  peeps  the  folding  star,  280 

Where  the  duck  dabbles  'mid  the  rustling  sedge, 
And  feeding  pike  starts  from  the  water's  edge, 
Or  the  swan  stirs  the  reeds,  his  neck  and  bill 
Wetting,  that  drip  upon  the  water  still  ; 
And  heron,  as  resounds  the  trodden  shore, 
Shoots  upward,  darting  his  long  neck  before. 

Now,  with  religious  awe,  the  farewell  light 
Blends  with  the  solemn  colouring  of  night; 
'Mid  groves  of  clouds  that  crest  the  mountain's  brow, 
And  round  the  west's  proud  lodge  their  shadows  throw, 
Like  Una  shining  on  her  gloomy  way,  291 

The  half-seen  form  of  Twilight  roams  astray  ; 
Shedding,  through  paly  loop-holes  mild  and  small, 
Gleams  that  upon  the  lake's  still  bosom  fall  ; 
Soft  o'er  the  surface  creep  those  lustres  pale 
Tracking  the  motions  of  the  fitful  gale. 
With  restless  interchange  at  once  the  bright 
Wins  on  the  shade,  the  shade  upon  the  light. 
No  favoured  eye  was  e'er  allowed  to  gaze 
On  lovelier  spectacle  in  faery  days ;  300 

When  gentle  Spirits  urged  a  sportive  chase, 
Brushing  with  lucid  wands  the  water's  face ; 
While  music,  stealing  round  the  glimmering  deeps, 
Charmed  the  tall  circle  of  the  enchanted  steeps. 
— The  lights  are  vanished  from  the  watery  plains  : 
No  wreck  of  all  the  pageantry  remains. 
Unheeded  night  has  overcome  the  vales  : 
On  the  dark  earth  the  wearied  vision  fails  ; 
The  latest  lingerer  of  the  forest  train, 

The  lone  black  fir,  forsakes  the  faded  plain  ;  310 

Last  evening  sight,  the  cottage  smoke,  no  more, 
Lost  in  the  thickened  darkness,  glimmers  hoar ; 
And,  towering  from  the  sullen  dark-brown  mere, 
Like  a  black  wall,  the  mountain-steeps  appear. 
— Now  o'er  the  soothed  accordant  heart  we  feel 
A  sympathetic  twilight  slowly  steal, 


10  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

And  ever,  as  we  fondly  muse,  we  find 

The  soft  gloom  deepening  on  the  tranquil  mind. 

Stay  !  pensive,  sadly-pleasing  visions,  stay  ! 

Ah  no  !  as  fades  the  vale,  they  fade  away :  320 

Yet  still  the  tender,  vacant  gloom  remains ; 

Still  the  cold  cheek  its  shuddering  tear  retains. 

The  bird,  who  ceased,  with  fading  light,  to  thread 
Silent  the  hedge  or  steamy  rivulet's  bed, 
From  his  grey  re-appearing  tower  shall  soon 
Salute  with  gladsome  note  the  rising  moon, 
While  with  a  hoary  light  she  frosts  the  ground, 
And  pours  a  deeper  blue  to  ^Ether's  bound  ; 
Pleased,  as  she  moves,  her  pomp  of  clouds  to  fold 
In  robes  of  azure,  fleecy-white,  and  gold.  330 

Above  yon  eastern  hill,  where  darkness  broods 
O'er  all  its  vanished  dells,  and  lawns,  and  woods; 
Where  but  a  mass  of  shade  the  sight  can  trace, 
Even  now  she  shows,  half-veiled,  her  lovely  face  : 
Across  the  gloomy  valley  flings  her  light, 
Far  to  the  western  slopes  with  hamlets  white  ; 
And  gives,  where  woods  the  chequered  upland  strew, 
To  the  green  corn  of  summer,  autumn's  hue. 

Thus  Hope,  first  pouring  from  her  blessed  horn 
Her  dawn,  far  lovelier  than  the  moon's  own  morn,  340 

'Till  higher  mounted,  strives  in  vain  to  cheer 
The  weary  hills,  impervious,  blackening  near ; 
Yet  does  she  still,  undaunted,  throw  the  while 
On  darling  spots  remote  her  tempting  smile. 

Even  now  she  decks  for  me  a  distant  scene, 
(For  dark  and  broad  the  gulf  of  time  between) 
Gilding  that  cottage  with  her  fondest  ray, 
(Sole  bourn,  sole  wish,  sole  object  of  my  way  ; 
How  fair  its  lawns  and  sheltering  woods  appear  ! 
How  sweet  its  streamlet  murmurs  in  mine  ear  !)  350 

Where  we,  my  Friend,  to  happy  days  shall  rise, 
'Till  our  small  share  of  hardly-paining  sighs 
(For  sighs  will  ever  trouble  human  breath) 
Creep  hushed  into  the  tranquil  breast  of  death. 

But  now  the  clear  bright  Moon  her  zenith  gains, 
And,  rimy  without  speck,  extend  the  plains  : 
The  deepest  cleft  the  mountain's  front  displays 
Scarce  hides  a  shadow  from  her  searching  rays ; 


LINES  11 

From  the  dark-blue  faint  silvery  threads  divide 

The  hills,  while  gleams  below  the  azure  tide ;  360 

Time  softly  treads ;  throughout  the  landscape  breathes 

A  peace  enlivened,  not  disturbed,  by  wreaths 

Of  charcoal-smoke,  that,  o'er  the  fallen  wood, 

Steal  down  the  hill,  and  spread  along  the  flood. 

The  song  of  mountain-streams,  unheard  by  day, 
Now  hardly  heard,  beguiles  my  homeward  way. 
Air  listens,  like  the  sleeping  water,  still, 
To  catch  the  spiritual  music  of  the  hill, 
Broke  only  by  the  slow  clock  tolling  deep, 
Or  shout  that  wakes  the  ferryman  from  sleep,  370 

The  echoed  hoof  nearing  the  distant  shore, 
The  boat's  first  motion — made  with  dashing  oar; 
Sound  of  closed  gate,  across  the  water  borne, 
Hurrying  the  timid  hare  through  rustling  corn  ; 
The  sportive  outcry  of  the  mocking  owl ; 
And  at  long  intervals  the  mill-dog's  howl ; 
The  distant  forge's  swinging  thump  profound ; 
Or  yell,  in  the  deep  woods,  of  lonely  hound. 

1787-1789 


IV 

LINES 

WRITTEN  WHILE  SAILING  IN  A  BOAT  AT  EVENING 

HOW  richly  glows  the  water's  breast 
Before  us,  tinged  with  evening  hues, 
While,  facing  thus  the  crimson  west, 
The  boat  her  silent  course  pursues  ! 
And  see  how  dark  the  backward  stream  ! 
A  little  moment  past  so  smiling ! 
And  still,  perhaps,  with  faithless  gleam, 
Some  other  loiterers  beguiling. 

Such  views  the  youthful  Bard  allure; 
But,  heedless  of  the  following  gloom, 
He  deems  their  colours  shall  endure 
Till  peace  go  with  him  to  the  tomb. 
— And  let  him  nurse  his  fond  deceit, 
And  what  if  he  must  die  in  sorrow ! 
Who  would  not  cherish  dreams  so  sweet, 
Though  grief  and  pain  may  come  to-morrow  ? 

1789 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

V 

REMEMBRANCE  OF  COLLINS 

COMPOSED  UPON  THE  THAMES  NEAR  RICHMOND 


LIDE  gently,  thus  for  ever  glide, 

O  Thames  !  that  other  bards  may  see 
As  lovely  visions  by  thy  side 
As  now,  fair  river  !  come  to  me. 
O  glide,  fair  stream  !  for  ever  so, 
Thy  quiet  soul  on  all  bestowing, 
Till  all  our  minds  for  ever  flow 
As  thy  deep  waters  now  are  flowing. 

Vain  thought  !  —  Yet  be  as  now  thou  art, 

That  in  thy  waters  may  be  seen  10 

The  image  of  a  poet's  heart, 

How  bright,  how  solemn,  how  serene  ! 

Such  as  did  once  the  Poet  bless, 

Who,  murmuring  here  a  later  l  ditty, 

Could  find  no  refuge  from  distress 

But  in  the  milder  grief  of  pity. 

Now  let  us,  as  we  float  along, 

For  him  suspend  the  dashing  oar  ; 

And  pray  that  never  child  of  song 

May  know  that  Poet's  sorrows  more.  20 

How  calm  !  how  still  !  the  only  sound, 

The  dripping  of  the  oar  suspended  ! 

—  The  evening  darkness  gathers  round 

By  virtue's  holiest  Powers  attended. 

1789 

VI 
DESCRIPTIVE  SKETCHES 

TAKEN  DURING  A  PEDESTRIAN  TOUR  AMONG  THE  ALPS 

TO  THE  REV.  ROBERT  JONES 

FELLOW  OF  ST.   JOHN'S  COLLEGE,  CAMBRIDGE 

DEAR  SIR,  —  However  desirous  I  might  have  been  of  giving  you 
proofs  of  the  high  place  you  hold  in  my  esteem,  I  should  have 
been  cautious  of  wounding  your  delicacy  by  thus  publicly  address- 
ing you,  had  not  the  circumstance  of  our  having  been  companions 

1  Collins's  Ode  on  the  death  of  Thomson,  the  last  written,  I  believe,  of  the 
poems  which  were  published  during  his  life-time.  This  Ode  is  also  alluded 
to  in  the  next  stanza. 


DESCRIPTIVE  SKETCHES  13 

among  the  Alps  seemed  to  give  this  dedication  a  propriety  sufficient 
to  do  away  any  scruples  which  your  modesty  might  otherwise  have 
suggested. 

In  inscribing  this  little  work  to  you,  I  consult  my  heart.  You 
know  well  how  great  is  the  difference  between  two  companions 
lolling  in  a  post-chaise  and  two  travellers  plodding  slowly  along 
the  road,  side  by  side,  each  with  his  little  knapsack  of  necessaries 
upon  his  shoulders.  How  much  more  of  heart  between  the  two 
latter ! 

I  am  happy  in  being  conscious  that  I  shall  have  one  reader  who 
will  approach  the  conclusion  of  these  few  pages  with  regret.  You 
they  must  certainly  interest,  in  reminding  you  of  moments  to 
which  you  can  hardly  look  back  without  a  pleasure  not  the  less 
dear  from  a  shade  of  melancholy.  You  will  meet  with  few  images 
without  recollecting  the  spot  where  we  observed  them  together  ; 
consequently,  whatever  is  feeble  in  my  design,  or  spiritless  in  my 
colouring,  will  be  amply  supplied  by  your  own  memory. 

With  still  greater  propriety  I  might  have  inscribed  to  you  a 
description  of  some  of  the  features  of  your  native  mountains, 
through  which  we  have  wandered  together,  in  the  same  manner, 
with  so  much  pleasure.  But  the  sea-sunsets,  which  give  such 
splendour  to  the  vale  of  Clwyd,  Snowdon,  the  chair  of  Idris,  the 
quiet  village  of  Bethgelert,  Menai  and  her  Druids,  the  Alpine 
steeps  of  the  Conway,  and  the  still  more  interesting  windings  of  the 
wizard  stream  of  the  Dee,  remain  yet  untouched.  Apprehensive 
that  my  pencil  may  never  be  exercised  on  these  subjects,  I  cannot 
let  slip  this  opportunity  of  thus  publicly  assuring  you  with  how 
much  affection  and  esteem  I  am,  dear  Sir, 

Most  sincerely  yours, 

London,  1793  W.  WORDSWORTH 


Happiness  (if  she  had  been  to  be  found  on  earth)  among  the  charms  of 
Nature — Pleasures  of  the  pedestrian  traveller — Author  crosses  France  to 
the  Alps — Present  state  of  the  Grande  Chartreuse — Lake  of  Como — Time, 
Sunset — Same  Scene,  Twilight — Same  Scene,  Morning  ;  its  voluptuous 
Character ;  Old  man  and  forest- cottage  music — River  Tusa — Via  Mala 
and  Orison  Gipsy — Sckellenen-thal — Lake  of  Uri — Stormy  sunset — 
Chapel  of  William  Tell — Force  of  local  emotion — Chamois-chaser — 
View  of  the  higher  Alps — Manner  of  life  of  a  Swiss  mountaineer,  inter- 
spersed with  views  of  the  higher  Alps — Golden  age  of  the  Alps — Life 
and  views  continued — Ranz  des  Vaches,  famous  Swiss  Air — Abbey  of 
Einsiedlen  and  its  pilgrims — Valley  of  Chamouny — Mont  Blanc — 
Slavery  of  Savoy — Influence  of  liberty  on  cottage -happiness — France — 
Wish  for  the  Extirpation  of  Slavery — Conclusion. 

WERE  there,  below,  a  spot  of  holy  ground 
Where  from  distress  a  refuge  might  be  found, 
And  solitude  prepare  the  soul  for  heaven ; 
Sure,  nature's  God  that  spot  to  man  had  given 
Where  falls  the  purple  morning  far  and  wide 
In  flakes  of  light  upon  the  mountain-side  ; 
Where  with  loud  voice  the  power  of  water  shakes 
The  leafy  wood,  or  sleeps  in  quiet  lakes. 


H  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Yet  not  unrecompensed  the  man  shall  roam, 
Who  at  the  call  of  summer  quits  his  home,  10 

And  plods  through  some  wide  realm  o'er  vale  and  height, 
Though  seeking  only  holiday  delight ; 
At  least,  not  owning  to  himself  an  aim 
To  which  the  sage  would  give  a  prouder  name. 
No  gains  too  cheaply  earned  his  fancy  cloy, 
Though  every  passing  zephyr  whispers  joy ; 
Brisk  toil,  alternating  with  ready  ease, 
Feeds  the  clear  current  of  his  sympathies. 
For  him  sod-seats  the  cottage-door  adorn ; 
And  peeps  the  far-off  spire,  his  evening  bourn  !  20 

Dear  is  the  forest  frowning  o'er  his  head, 
And  dear  the  velvet  green-sward  to  his  tread  : 
Moves  there  a  cloud  o'er  mid-day's  flaming  eye  ? 
Upward  he  looks — 'and  calls  it  luxury  '  : 
Kind  Nature's  charities  his  steps  attend ; 
In  every  babbling  brook  he  finds  a  friend ; 
While  chastening  thoughts  of  sweetest  use,  bestowed 
By  wisdom,  moralise  his  pensive  road. 
Host  of  his  welcome  inn,  the  noon-tide  bower, 
To  his  spare  meal  he  calls  the  passing  poor ;  30 

He  views  the  sun  uplift  his  golden  fire, 
Or  sink,  with  heart  alive  like  Memnon's  lyre  ; 1 
Blesses  the  moon  that  comes  with  kindly  ray, 
To  light  him  shaken  by  his  rugged  way. 
Back  from  his  sight  no  bashful  children  steal ; 
He  sits  a  brother  at  the  cottage-meal ; 
His  humble  looks  no  shy  restraint  impart ; 
Around  him  plays  at  will  the  virgin  heart. 
While  unsuspended  wheels  the  village  dance, 
The  maidens  eye  him  with  inquiring  glance,  40 

Much  wondering  by  what  fit  of  crazing  care, 
Or  desperate  love,  bewildered,  he  came  there. 

A  hope,  that  prudence  could  not  then  approve, 
That  clung  to  Nature  with  a  truant's  love, 
O'er  Gallia's  wastes  of  corn  my  footsteps  led  ; 
Her  files  of  road-elms,  high  above  my  head 
In  long-drawn  vista,  rustling  in  the  breeze ; 
Or  where  her  pathways  straggle  as  they  please 
By  lonely  farms  and  secret  villages. 

But  lo  !  the  Alps,  ascending  white  in  air,  50 

Toy  with  the  sun  and  glitter  from  afar. 

1  The  lyre  of  Memnon  ia  reported  to  have  emitted  melancholy  or  cheerful 
tones,  as  it  was  touched  by  the  sun's  evening  or  morning  rays. 


DESCRIPTIVE  SKETCHES  15 

And  now,  emerging  from  the  forest's  gloom, 
I  greet  thee,  Chartreuse,  while  I  mourn  thy  doom. 
Whither  is  fled  that  Power  whose  frown  severe 
Awed  sober  Reason  till  she  crouched  in  fear  ? 
That  Silence,  once  in  deathlike  fetters  bound, 
Chains  that  were  loosened  only  by  the  sound 
Of  holy  rites  chanted  in  measured  round  ? 
— The  voice  of  blasphemy  the  fane  alarms, 
The  cloister  startles  at  the  gleam  of  arms.  60 

The  thundering  tube  the  aged  angler  hears, 
Bent  o'er  the  groaning  flood  that  sweeps  away  his  tears. 
Cloud-piercing  pine-trees  nod  their  troubled  heads, 
Spires,  rocks,  and  lawns  a  browner  night  o'erspreads ; 
Strong  terror  checks  the  female  peasant's  sighs, 
And  start  the  astonished  shades  at  female  eyes. 
From  Bruno's  forest  screams  the  affrighted  jay, 
And  slow  the  insulted  eagle  wheels  away. 
A  viewless  flight  of  laughing  Demons  mock 
The  Cross,  by  Angels  planted  1  on  the  aerial  rock.  70 

The  '  parting  Genius '  sighs  with  hollow  breath 
Along  the  mystic  streams  of  Life  and  Death.2 
Swelling  the  outcry  dull,  that  long  resounds 
Portentous  through  her  old  woods'  trackless  bounds, 
Vallombre,3  'mid  her  falling  fanes,  deplores, 
For  ever  broke,  the  sabbath  of  her  bowers. 

More  pleased,  my  foot  the  hidden  margin  roves 
Of  Como,  bosomed  deep  in  chestnut  groves. 
No  meadows  thrown  between,  the  giddy  steeps 
Tower,  bare  or  sylvan,  from  the  narrow  deeps.  80 

— To  towns,  whose  shades  of  no  rude  noise  complain, 
From  ringing  team  apart  and  grating  wain — 
To  flat-roofed  towns,  that  touch  the  water's  bound, 
Or  lurk  in  woody  sunless  glens  profound, 
Or,  from  the  bending  rocks,  obtrusive  cling, 
And  o'er  the  whitened  wave  their  shadows  fling — 
The  pathway  leads,  as  round  the  steeps  it  twines  ; 
And  Silence  loves  its  purple  roof  of  vines. 
The  loitering  traveller  hence,  at  evening,  sees 
From  rock-hewn  steps  the  sail  between  the  trees  ;  90 

Or  marks,  'mid  opening  cliffs,  fair  dark-eyed  maids 
Tend  the  small  harvest  of  their  garden  glades ; 
Or  stops  the  solemn  mountain-shades  to  view 
Stretch  o'er  the  pictured  mirror  broad  and  blue, 

1  Alluding  to  crosses  seen  on  the  tops  of  the  spiry  rocks  of  Chartreuse, 
which  have  every  appearance  of  being  inaccessible. 
3  Names  of  rivers  at  the  Chartreuse. 
3  Name  of  one  of  the  valleys  of  the  Chartreuse. 


16  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

And  track  the  yellow  lights  from  steep  to  steep, 

As  up  the  opposing  hills  they  slowly  creep. 

Aloft,  here,  half  a  village  shines,  arrayed 

In  golden  light;  half  hides  itself  in  shade  : 

While,  from  amid  the  darkened  roofs,  the  spire, 

Restlessly  flashing,  seems  to  mount  like  fire  :  100 

There,  all  unshaded,  blazing  forests  throw 

Rich  golden  verdure  on  the  lake  below. 

Slow  glides  the  sail  along  the  illumined  shore, 

And  steals  into  the  shade  the  lazy  oar  ; 

Soft  bosoms  breathe  around  contagious  sighs, 

And  amorous  music  on  the  water  dies. 

How  blest,  delicious  scene !  the  eye  that  greets 
Thy  open  beauties,  or  thy  lone  retreats  ; 
Beholds  the  unwearied  sweep  of  wood  that  scales 
Thy  cliffs  ;  the  endless  waters  of  thy  vales ;  no 

Thy  lowly  cots  that  sprinkle  all  the  shore, 
Each  with  its  household  boat  beside  the  door ; 
Thy  torrents  shooting  from  the  clear-blue  sky ; 
Thy  towns  that  cleave,  like  swallows'  nests,  on  high  ; 
That  glimmer  hoar  in  eve's  last  light,  descried 
Dim  from  the  twilight  water's  shaggy  side, 
Whence  lutes  and  voices  down  the  enchanted  woods 
Steal,  and  compose  the  oar- forgotten  floods ; 
— Thy  lake  that,  streaked  or  dappled,  blue  or  grey, 
'Mid  smoking  woods  gleams  hid  from  morning's  ray       120 
Slow-travelling  down  the  western  hills,  to  enfold 
Its  green-tinged  margin  in  a  blaze  of  gold  ; 
Thy  glittering  steeples,  whence  the  matin  bell 
Calls  forth  the  woodman  from  his  desert  cell, 
And  quickens  the  blithe  sound  of  oars  that  pass 
Along  the  steaming  lake,  to  early  mass. 
But  now  farewell  to  each  and  all — adieu 
To  every  charm,  and  last  and  chief  to  you, 
Ye  lovely  maidens  that  in  noontide  shade 
Rest  near  your  little  plots  of  wheaten  glade  ;  130 

To  all  that  binds  the  soul  in  powerless  trance, 
Lip-dewing  song,  and  ringlet-tossing  dance  ; 
Where  sparkling  eyes  and  breaking  smiles  illume 
The  sylvan  cabin's  lute-enlivened  gloom. 
— Alas  !  the  very  murmur  of  the  streams 
Breathes  o'er  the  failing  soul  voluptuous  dreams, 
While  Slavery,  forcing  the  sunk  mind  to  dwell 
On  joys  that  might  disgrace  the  captive's  cell, 
Her  shameless  timbrel  shakes  on  Como's  marge, 
And  lures  from  bay  to  bay  the  vocal  barge.  140 


DESCRIPTIVE  SKETCHES  17 

Yet  are  thy  softer  arts  with  power  indued 
To  soothe  and  cheer  the  poor  man's  solitude. 
By  silent  cottage  doors,  the  peasant's  home 
Left  vacant  for  the  day,  I  love  to  roam. 
But  once  I  pierced  the  mazes  of  a  wood 
In  which  a  cabin  undeserted  stood  ; 
There  an  old  man  an  olden  measure  scanned 
On  a  rude  viol  touched  with  withered  hand. 
As  lambs  or  fawns  in  April  clustering  lie 
Under  a  hoary  oak's  thin  canopy,  150 

Stretched  at  his  feet,  with  steadfast  upward  eye, 
His  children's  children  listened  to  the  sound  ; 
— A  Hermit  with  his  family  around  ! 

But  let  us  hence ;  for  fair  Locarno  smiles 
Embowered  in  walnut  slopes  and  citron  isles  : 
Or  seek  at  eve  the  banks  of  Tusa's  stream,1 
Where,  'mid  dim  towers  and  woods,,  her  waters  gleam. 
From  the  bright  wave,  in  solemn  gloom,  retire 
The  dull-red  steeps,  and,  darkening  still,  aspire 
To  where  afar  rich  orange  lustres  glow  160 

Round  undistinguished  clouds,  and  rocks,  and  snow  : 
Or,  led  where  Via  Mala's  chasms  confine 
The  indignant  waters  of  the  infant  Rhine, 
Hang  o'er  the  abyss,  whose  else  impervious  gloom 
His  burning  eyes  with  fearful  light  illume. 

The  mind  condemned,  without  reprieve,  to  go 
O'er  life's  long  deserts  with  its  charge  of  woe, 
With  sad  congratulation  joins  the  train 
Where  beasts  and  men  together  o'er  the  plain 
Move  on — a  mighty  caravan  of  pain  :  170 

Hope,  strength,  and  courage,  social  suffering  brings, 
Freshening  the  wilderness  with  shades  and  springs. 
— There  be  whose  lot  far  otherwise  is  cast : 
Sole  human  tenant  of  the  piny  waste, 
By  choice  or  doom  a  gipsy  wanders  here, 
A  nursling  babe  her  only  comforter ; 
Lo,  where  she  sits  beneath  yon  shaggy  rock, 
A  cowering  shape  half  hid  in  curling  smoke  ! 

When  lightning  among  clouds  and  mountain-snows 
Predominates,  and  darkness  comes  and  goes,  180 

And  the  fierce  torrent  at  the  flashes  bi-oad 
Starts,  like  a  horse,  beside  the  glaring  road — 
She  seeks  a  covert  from  the  battering  shower 

1  The  river  along  whose  banks  you  descend  in  crossing  the  Alps  by  the 
Simplon  Pass. 
1-B 


18  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

In  the  roofed  bridge ; l  the  bridge,  in  that  dread  hour, 
Itself  all  trembling  at  the  torrent's  power. 

Nor  is  she  more  at  ease  on  some  still  night, 
When  not  a  star  supplies  the  comfort  of  its  light ; 
Only  the  waning  moon  hangs  dull  and  red 
Above  a  melancholy  mountain's  head, 

Then  sets.     In  total  gloom  the  Vagrant  sighs,  190 

Stoops  her  sick  head,  and  shuts  her  weary  eyes; 
Or  on  her  fingers  counts  the  distant  clock, 
Or  to  the  drowsy  crow  of  midnight  cock 
Listens,  or  quakes  while  from  the  forest's  gulf 
Howls  near  and  nearer  yet  the  famished  wolf. 

From  the  green  vale  of  Urseren  smooth  and  wide 
Descend  we  now,  the  maddened  Reuss  our  guide; 
By  rocks  that,  shutting  out  the  blessed  day, 
Cling  tremblingly  to  rocks  as  loose  as  they  ; 
By  cells  2  upon  whose  image,  while  he  prays,  200 

The  kneeling  peasant  scarcely  dares  to  gaze  ; 
By  many  a  votive  death-cross  3  planted  near, 
And  watered  duly  with  the  pious  tear, 
That  faded  silent  from  the  upward  eye 
Unmoved  with  each  rude  form  of  peril  nigh  ; 
Fixed  on  the  anchor  left  by  Him  who  saves 
Alike  in  whelming  snows  and  roaring  waves. 

But  soon  a  peopled  region  on  the  sight 
Opens — a  little  world  of  calm  delight ; 
Where  mists,  suspended  on  the  expiring  gale,  210 

Spread  rooflike  o'er  the  deep  secluded  vale, 
And  beams  of  evening,  slipping  in  between, 
Gently  illuminate  a  sober  scene  : — 
Here,  on  the  brown  wood-cottages  4  they  sleep, 
There,  over  rock  or  sloping  pasture  creep. 
On  as  we  journey,  in  clear  view  displayed, 
The  still  vale  lengthens  underneath  its  shade 
Of  low-hung  vapour  :  on  the  freshened  mead 
The  green  light  sparkles ; — the  dim  bowers  recede. 
While  pastoral  pipes  and  streams  the  landscape  lull,       220 
And  bells  of  passing  mules  that  tinkle  dull, 

1  Moat  of  the  bridges  among  the  Alps  are  of  wood,  and  covered :  these 
bridges  have  a  heavy  appearance,  and  rather  injure  the  effect  of  the  scenery 
in  some  places. 

2  The  Catholic  religion  prevails  here :  these  cells  are,  as  is  well  known, 
very  common  in  the  Catholic  countries,  planted,  like  the  Roman  tombs,  along 
the  road  side. 

3  Crosses,  commemorative  of  the  deaths  of  travellers  by  the  fall  of  snow, 
and  other  accidents,  are  very  common  along  this  dreadful  road. 

4  The  houses  in  the  more  retired  Swiss  valleys  are  all  built  of  wood. 


DESCRIPTIVE  SKETCHES  19 

In  solemn  shapes  before  the  admiring  eye 
Dilated  hang  the  misty  pines  on  high, 
Huge  convent  domes  with  pinnacles  and  towers, 
And  antique  castles  seen  through  gleamy  showers. 

From  such  romantic  dreams,  my  soul,  awake  ! 
To  sterner  pleasure,  where,  by  Uri's  lake 
In  Nature's  pristine  majesty  outspread, 
Winds  neither  road  nor  path  for  foot  to  tread  : 
The  rocks  rise  naked  as  a  wall,  or  stretch  230 

Far  o'er  the  water,  hung  with  groves  of  beech  ; 
Aerial  pines  from  loftier  steeps  ascend, 
Nor  stop  but  where  creation  seems  to  end. 
Yet  here  and  there,  if  'mid  the  savage  scene 
Appears  a  scanty  plot  of  smiling  green, 
Up  from  the  lake  a  zigzag  path  will  creep 
To  reach  a  small  wood-hut  hung  boldly  on  the  steep. 
— Before  those  thresholds  (never  can  they  know 
The  face  of  traveller  passing  to  and  fro,) 
No  peasant  leans  upon  his  pole,  to  tell  240 

For  whom  at  morning  tolled  the  funeral  bell ; 
Their  watch-dog  ne'er  his  angry  bark  forgoes, 
Touched  by  the  beggar's  moan  of  human  woes  ; 
The  shady  porch  ne'er  offered  a  cool  seat 
To  pilgrims  overcome  by  summer's  heat. 
Yet  thither  the  world's  business  finds  its  way 
At  times,  and  tales  unsought  beguile  the  day, 
And  there  are  those  fond  thoughts  which  Solitude, 
However  stern,  is  powerless  to  exclude. 
There  doth  the  maiden  watch  her  lover's  sail  250 

Approaching,  and  upbraid  the  tardy  gale  ; 
At  midnight  listens  till  his  parting  oar, 
And  its  last  echo,  can  be  heard  no  more. 

And  what  if  ospreys,  cormorants,  herons  cry, 
Amid  tempestuous  vapours  driving  by, 
Or  hovering  over  wastes  too  bleak  to  rear 
That  common  growth  of  earth,  the  foodful  ear  ; 
Where  the  green  apple  shrivels  on  the  spray, 
And  pines  the  unripened  pear  in  summer's  kindliest  ray  j 
Contentment  shares  the  desolate  domain  260 

With  Independence,  child  of  high  Disdain. 
Exulting  'mid  the  winter  of  the  skies, 
Shy  as  the  jealous  chamois,  Freedom  flies, 
And  grasps  by  fits  her  sword,  and  often  eyes ; 
And  sometimes,  as  from  rock  to  rock  she  bounds, 
The  Patriot  nymph  starts  at  imagined  sounds, 


20  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

And,  wildly  pausing,  oft  she  hangs  aghast, 
Whether  some  old  Swiss  air  hath  checked  her  haste, 
Or  thrill  of  Spartan  fife  is  caught  between  the  blast. 

Swoln  with  incessant  rains  from  hour  to  hour,  270 

All  day  the  floods  a  deepening  murmur  pour  : 
The  sky  is  veiled,  and  every  cheerful  sight  : 
Dark  is  the  region  as  with  coming  night ; 
But  what  a  sudden  burst  of  overpowering  light ! 
Triumphant  on  the  bosom  of  the  storm, 
Glances  the  wheeling  eagle's  glorious  form  ! 
Eastward,  in  long  perspective  glittering,  shine 
The  wood-crowned  cliffs  that  o'er  the  lakes  recline  ; 
Those  lofty  cliffs  a  hundred  streams  unfold, 
At  once  to  pillars  turned  that  flame  with  gold  :  280 

Behind  his  sail  the  peasant  shrinks,  to  shun 
The  west,  that  burns  like  one  dilated  sun, 
A  crucible  of  mighty  compass,  felt 
By  mountains,  glowing  till  they  seem  to  melt. 

But,  lo  !  the  boatman,  overawed,  before 
The  pictured  fane  of  Tell  suspends  his  oar ; 
Confused  the  Marathonian  tale  appears, 
While  his  eyes  sparkle  with  heroic  tears. 
And  who,  that  walks  where  men  of  ancient  days 
Have  wrought  with  godlike  arm  the  deeds  of  praise,     290 
Feels  not  the  spirit  of  the  place  control, 
Or  rouse  and  agitate  his  labouring  soul  ? 
Say,  who,  by  thinking  on  Canadian  hills, 
Or  wild  Aosta  lulled  by  Alpine  rills, 
On  Zutphen's  plain,  or  on  that  highland  dell, 
Through  which  rough  Garry  cleaves  his  way,  can  tell 
What  high  resolves  exalt  the  tenderest  thought 
Of  him  whom  passion  rivets  to  the  spot, 
Where  breathed  the  gale  that  caught  Wolfe's  happiest  sigh, 
And  the  last  sunbeam  fell  on  Bayard's  eye ;  300 

Where  bleeding  Sidney  from  the  cup  retired, 
And  glad  Dundee  in  '  faint  huzzas '  expired  ? 

But  now  with  other  mind  I  stand  alone 
Upon  the  summit  of  this  naked  cone, 
And  watch  the  fearless  chamois-hunter  chase 
His  prey,  througli  tracts  abrupt  of  desolate  space, 
1  Through  vacant  worlds  where  Nature  never  gave 
A  brook  to  murmur  or  a  bough  to  wave, 

1  For  most  of  the  images  in  the  next  sixteen  verses,  I  am  indebted  to 
M.  Raymond's  interesting  observations  annexed  to  his  translation  of  Coxe's 
in  Switzerland. 


DESCRIPTIVE  SKETCHES  21 

Which  unsubstantial  Phantoms  sacred  keep ; 

Thro'  worlds  where  Life,  and  Voice,  and  Motion  sleep ;  310 

Where  silent  Hours  their  death-like  sway  extend, 

Save  when  the  avalanche  breaks  loose,  to  rend 

Its  way  with  uproar,  till  the  ruin,  drowned 

In  some  dense  wood  or  gulf  of  snow  profound, 

Mocks  the  dull  ear  of  Time  with  deaf  abortive  sound. 

— 'Tis  his,  while  wandering  on  from  height  to  height, 

To  see  a  planet's  pomp  and  steady  light 

In  the  least  star  of  scarce-appearing  night ; 

While  the  pale  moon  moves  near  him,  on  the  bound 

Of  ether,  shining  with  diminished  round,  320 

And  far  and  wide  the  icy  summits  blaze, 

Rejoicing  in  the  glory  of  her  rays  : 

To  him  the  day-star  glitters  small  and  bright, 

Shorn  of  its  beams,  insufferably  white, 

And  he  can  look  beyond  the  sun,  and  view 

Those  fast-receding  depths  of  sable  blue 

Flying  till  vision  can  no  more  pursue  ! 

— At  once  bewildering  mists  around  him  close, 

And  cold  and  hunger  are  his  least  of  woes ; 

The  Demon  of  the  snow,  with  angry  roar  330 

Descending,  shuts  for  aye  his  prison  door. 

Soon  with  despair's  whole  weight  his  spirits  sink  ; 

Bread  has  he  none,  the  snow  must  be  his  drink  ; 

And,  ere  his  eyes  can  close  upon  the  day, 

The  eagle  of  the  Alps  o'ershades  her  prey. 

Now  couch  thyself  where,  heard  with  fear  afar, 
Thunders  through  echoing  pines  the  headlong  Aar ; 
Or  rather  stay  to  taste  the  mild  delights 
Of  pensive  Underwalden's l  pastoral  heights. 
— Is  there  who  'mid  these  awful  wilds  has  seen  340 

The  native  Genii  walk  the  mountain  green  ? 
Or  heard,  while  other  worlds  their  charms  reveal, 
Soft  music  o'er  the  aerial  summit  steal  ? 
While  o'er  the  desert,  answering  every  close, 
Rich  steam  of  sweetest  perfume  comes  and  goes. 
— And  sure  there  is  a  secret  Power  that  reigns 
Here,  where  no  trace  of  man  the  spot  profanes, 
Nought  but  the  chalets,2  flat  and  bare,  on  high 
Suspended  'mid  the  quiet  of  the  sky  ; 

1  The  people  of  this  Canton  are  supposed  to  be  of  a  more  melancholy  dis- 
position than  the  other  inhabitants  of  the  Alps ;  this,  if  true,  may  proceed 
from  their  living  more  secluded. 

2  This  picture  is  from  the  middle  region  of  the  Alps.     Chalets  are  summer 
huts  for  the  Swiss  herdsmen. 


22  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Or  distant  herds  that  pasturing  upward  creep,  350 

And,  not  untended,  climb  the  dangerous  steep. 

How  still !  no  irreligious  sound  or  sight 

Rouses  the  soul  from  her  severe  delight. 

An  idle  voice  the  sabbath  region  fills 

Of  Deep  that  calls  to  Deep  across  the  hills, 

And  with  that  voice  accords  the  soothing  sound 

Of  drowsy  bells,  for  ever  tinkling  round  ; 

Faint  wail  of  eagle  melting  into  blue 

Beneath  the  cliffs,  and  pine- wood's  steady  sugh ; 1 

The  solitary  heifer's  deepened  low;  360 

Or  rumbling,  heard  remote,  of  falling  snow. 

All  motions,  sounds,  and  voices,  far  and  nigh, 

Blend  in  a  .music  of  tranquillity  ; 

Save  when,  a  stranger  seen  below,  the  boy 

Shouts  from  the  echoing  hills  with  savage  joy. 

When,  from  the  sunny  breast  of  open  seas, 
And  bays  with  myrtle  fringed,  the  southern  breeze 
Comes  on  to  gladden  April  with  the  sight 
Of  green  isles  widening  on  each  snow-clad  height ; 
When  shouts  and  lowing  herds  the  valley  fill,  370 

And  louder  torrents  stun  the  noon-tide  hill, 
The  pastoral  Swiss  begin  the  cliffs  to  scale, 
Leaving  to  silence  the  deserted  vale ; 
And,  like  the  Patriarchs  in  their  simple  age, 
Move,  as  the  verdure  leads,  from  stage  to  stage ; 
High  and  more  high  in  summer's  heat  they  go, 
And  hear  the  rattling  thunder  far  below  ; 
Or  steal  beneath  the  mountains,  half-deterred, 
Where  huge  rocks  tremble  to  the  bellowing  herd. 

One  I  behold  who,  'cross  the  foaming  flood,  380 

Leaps  with  a  bound  of  graceful  hardihood  ; 
Another  high  on  that  green  ledge  ; — he  gained 
The  tempting  spot  with  every  sinew  strained ; 
And  downward  thence  a  knot  of  grass  he  throws, 
Food  for  his  beasts  in  time  of  winter  snows. 
— Far  different  life  from  what  Tradition  hoar 
Transmits  of  happier  lot  in  times  of  yore  ! 
Then  Summer  lingered  long  ;  and  honey  flowed 
From  out  the  rocks,  the  wild  bees'  safe  abode ; 
Continual  waters  welling  cheered  the  waste,  390 

And  plants  were  wholesome,  now  of  deadly  taste: 

1  Sugh,  &  Scotch  word  expressive  of  the  sound   of  the  wind  through 
the  trees. 


DESCRIPTIVE  SKETCHES  23 

Nor  Winter  yet  his  frozen  stores  had  piled, 

Usurping  where  the  fairest  herbage  smiled  : 

Nor  Hunger  driven  the  herds  from  pastures  bare, 

To  climb  the  treacherous  cliffs  for  scanty  fare. 

Then  the  milk-thistle  flourished  through  the  land, 

And  forced  the  full-swoln  udder  to  demand, 

Thrice  every  day,  the  pail  and  welcome  hand. 

Thus  does  the  father  to  his  children  tell 

Of  banished  bliss,  by  fancy  loved  too  well.  400 

Alas  !  that  human  guilt  provoked  the  rod 

Of  angry  Nature  to  avenge  her  God. 

Still,  Nature,  ever  just,  to  him  imparts 

Joys  only  given  to  uncorrupted  hearts. 

'Tis  morn  :  with  gold  the  verdant  mountain  glows ; 
More  high,  the  snowy  peaks  with  hues  of  rose. 
Far  stretched  beneath  the  many-tinted  hills, 
A  mighty  waste  of  mist  the  valley  fills, 
A  solemn  sea  !  whose  billows  wide  around 
Stand  motionless,  to  awful  silence  bound  :  410 

Pines,  on  the  coast,  through  mist  their  tops  uprear, 
That  like  to  leaning  masts  of  stranded  ships  appear. 
A  single  chasm,  a  gulf  of  gloomy  blue, 
Gapes  in  the  centre  of  the  sea — and,  through 
That  dark  mysterious  gulf  ascending,  sound 
Innumerable  streams  with  roar  profound. 
Mount  through  the  nearer  vapours  notes  of  birds, 
And  merry  flageolet ;  the  low  of  herds, 
The  bark  of  dogs,  the  heifer's  tinkling  bell, 
Talk,  laughter,  and  perchance  a  church-tower  knell :      420 
Think  not  the  peasant  from  aloft  has  gazed 
And  heard  with  heart  unmoved,  with  soul  unraised  : 
Nor  is  his  spirit  less  enrapt,  nor  less 
Alive  to  independent  happiness, 
Then,  when  he  lies,  outstretched,  at  even-tide 
Upon  the  fragrant  mountain's  purple  side  : 
For  as  the  pleasures  of  his  simple  day 
Beyond  his  native  valley  seldom  stray, 
Nought  round  its  darling  precincts  can  he  find 
But  brings  some  past  enjoyment  to  his  mind;  430 

While  Hope,  reclining  upon  Pleasure's  urn, 
Binds  her  wild  wreaths,  and  whispers  his  return. 

Once,  Man  entirely  free,  alone  and  wild, 
Was  blest  as  free — for  he  was  Nature's  child. 
He,  all  superior  but  his  God  disdained, 
Walked  none  restraining,  and  by  none  restrained  : 


24  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Confessed  no  law  but  what  his  reason  taught, 

Did  all  he  wished,  and  wished  but  what  he  ought. 

As  man  in  his  primeval  dower  arrayed 

The  image  of  his  glorious  Sire  displayed,  440 

Even  so,  by  faithful  Nature  guarded,  here 

The  traces  of  primeval  Man  appear ; 

The  simple  dignity  no  forms  debase ; 

The  eye  sublime,  and  surly  lion-grace : 

The  slave  of  none,  of  beasts  alone  the  lord, 

His  book  he  prizes,  nor  neglects  his  sword  ; 

— Well  taught  by  that  to  feel  his  rights,  prepared 

With  this  'the  blessings  he  enjoys  to  guard.' 

And,  as  his  native  hills  encircle  ground 
For  many  a  marvellous  victory  renowned,  450 

The  work  of  Freedom  daring  to  oppose, 
With  few  in  arms,1  innumerable  foes, 
When  to  those  famous  fields  his  steps  are  led, 
An  unknown  power  connects  him  with  the  dead : 
For  images  of  other  worlds  are  there ; 
Awful  the  light,  and  holy  is  the  air. 
Fitfully,  and  in  flashes,  through  his  soul, 
Like  sun-lit  tempests,  troubled  transports  roll ; 
His  bosom  heaves,  his  Spirit  towers  amain, 
Beyond  the  senses  and  their  little  reign.  460 

And  oft,  when  that  dread  vision  hath  past  by, 
He  holds  with  God  himself  communion  high, 
There  where  the  peal  of  swelling  torrents  fills 
The  sky-roofed  temple  of  the  eternal  hills; 
Or,  when  upon  the  mountain's  silent  brow 
Reclined,  he  sees,  above  him  and  below, 
Bright  stars  of  ice  and  azure  fields  of  snow; 
While  needle  peaks  of  granite  shooting  bare 
Tremble  in  ever- vary  ing  tints  of  air. 

And  when  a  gathering  weight  of  shadows  brown  470 

Falls  on  the  valleys  as  the  sun  goes  down ; 
And  Pikes,  of  darkness  named  and  fear  and  storms,2 
Uplift  in  quiet  their  illumined  forms, 

1  Alluding  to  several  battles  which  the  Swiss  in  very  small  numbers  have 
gained  over  their  oppressors,  the  house  of  Austria ;  and,  in  particular,  to 
one  fought  at  Naeffels  near  Glarus,  where  three  hundred  and  thirty  men  are 
said  to  have  defeated  an  army  of  between  fifteen  and  twenty  thousand 
Austrians.     Scattered  over  the  valley  are  to  be  found  eleven  stones,  with 
this  inscription,  1388,  the  year  the  battle  was  fought,  marking  out,  as  I  was 
told  upon  the  spot,  the  several  places  where  the  Austrians,  attempting  to 
make  a  stand,  were  repulsed  anew. 

2  As  Schreck-Horn,  the  pike  of  terror ;  Wetter-Horn,  the  pike  of  storms, 
etc.  etc. 


DESCRIPTIVE  SKETCHES  25 

In  sea-like  reach  of  prospect  round  him  spread, 
Tinged  like  an  angel's  smile  all  rosy  red — 
Awe  in  his  breast  with  holiest  love  unites, 
And  the  near  heavens  impart  their  own  delights. 

When  downward  to  his  winter  hut  he  goes, 
Dear  and  more  dear  the  lessening  circle  grows ; 
That  hut  which  on  the  hills  so  oft  employs  480 

His  thoughts,  the  central  point  of  all  his  joys. 
And  as  a  swallow,  at  the  hour  of  rest, 
Peeps  often  ere  she  darts  into  her  nest, 
So  to  the  homestead,  where  the  grandsire  tends 
A  little  prattling  child,  he  oft  descends, 
To  glance  a  look  upon  the  well-matched  pair; 
Till  storm  and  driving  ice  blockade  him  there. 
There,  safely  guarded  by  the  woods  behind, 
He  hears  the  chiding  of  the  baffled  wind, 
Hears  Winter  calling  all  his  terrors  round,  490 

And,  blest  within  himself,  he  shrinks  not  from  the  sound. 

Through  Nature's  vale  his  homely  pleasures  glide, 
Unstained  by  envy,  discontent,  and  pride ; 
The  bound  of  all  his  vanity,  to  deck, 
With  one  bright  bell  a  favourite  heifer's  neck ; 
Well  pleased  upon  some  simple  annual  feast, 
Remembered  half  the  year  and  hoped  the  rest, 
If  dairy -produce,  from  his  inner  hoard, 
Of  thrice  ten  summers  dignify  the  board. 
— Alas  !  in  every  clime  a  flying  ray  500 

Is  all  we  have  to  cheer  our  wintry  way  ; 
And  here  the  unwilling  mind  may  more  than  trace 
The  general  sorrows  of  the  human  race  : 
The  churlish  gales  of  penury,  that  blow 
Cold  as  the  north-wind  o'er  a  waste  of  snow, 
To  them  the  gentle  groups  of  bliss  deny 
That  on  the  noon-day  bank  of  leisure  lie. 
Yet  more ; — compelled  by  Powers  which  only  deign 
That  solitary  man  disturb  their  reign, 

Powers  that  support  an  unremitting  strife  510 

With  all  the  tender  charities  of  life, 
Full  oft  the  father,  when  his  sons  have  grown 
To  manhood,  seems  their  title  to  disown ; 
And  from  his  nest  amid  the  storms  of  heaven 
Drives,  eagle-like,  those  sons  as  he  was  driven ; 
With  stern  composure  watches  to  the  plain — 
And  never,  eagle-like,  beholds  again  ! 


26  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

When  long  familiar  joys  are  all  resigned, 
Why  does  their  sad  remembrance  haunt  the  mind  ? 
Lo  !  where  through  flat  Batavia's  willowy  groves,  520 

Or  by  the  lazy  Seine,  the  exile  roves ; 
O'er  the  curled  waters  Alpine  measures  swell, 
And  search  the  affections  to  their  inmost  cell ; 
Sweet  poison  spreads  along  the  listener's  veins, 
Turning  past  pleasures  into  mortal  pains ; 
Poison,  which  not  a  frame  of  steel  can  brave, 
Bows  his  young  head  with  sorrow  to  the  grave.1 

Gay  lark  of  hope,  thy  silent  song  resume  ! 
Ye  flattering  eastern  lights,  once  more  the  hills  illume  ! 
Fresh  gales  and  dews  of  life's  delicious  morn,  530 

And  thou,  lost  fragrance  of  the  heart,  return  ! 
Alas  !  the  little  joy  to  man  allowed 
Fades  like  the  lustre  of  an  evening  cloud ; 
Or  like  the  beauty  in  a  flower  installed, 
Whose  season  was,  and  cannot  be  recalled. 
Yet  when  opprest  by  sickness,  grief,  or  care, 
And  taught  that  pain  is  pleasure's  natural  heir, 
We  still  confide  in  more  than  we  can  know ; 
Death  would  be  else  the  favourite  friend  of  woe. 

'Mid  savage  rocks,  and  seas  of  snow  that  shine,  540 

Between  interminable  tracts  of  pine, 
Within  a  temple  stands  an  awful  shrine, 
By  an  uncertain  light  revealed,  that  falls 
On  the  mute  Image  and  the  troubled  walls. 
Oh  !  give  not  me  that  eye  of  hard  disdain 
That  views,  undimmed,  Einsiedlen's2  wretched  fane. 
While  ghastly  faces  through  the  gloom  appear, 
Abortive  joy,  and  hope  that  works  in  fear ; 
While  prayer  contends  with  silenced  agony, 
Surely  in  other  thoughts  contempt  may  die.  550 

If  the  sad  grave  of  human  ignorance  bear 
One  flower  of  hope — oh,  pass  and  leave  it  there ! 

The  tall  sun,  pausing  on  an  Alpine  spire, 
Flings  o'er  the  wilderness  a  stream  of  fire  : 
Now  meet  we  other  pilgrims  ere  the  day 
Close  on  the  remnant  of  their  weary  way  ; 
While  they  are  drawing  toward  the  sacred  floor 
Where,  so  they  fondly  think,  the  worm  shall  gnaw  no  more. 

1  The  well-known  effect  of  the  famous  air,  called  in  French  Ranz  des 
Vaehes,  upon  the  Swiss  troops. 

2  This  shrine  is  resorted  to,  from  a  hope  of  relief,  by  multitudes,  from 
every  corner  of  the  Catholic  world,   labouring  under  mental  or   bodily 
afflictions. 


DESCRIPTIVE  SKETCHES  27 

How  gaily  murmur  and  how  sweetly  taste 

The  fountains l  reared  for  them  amid  the  waste  !  560 

Their  thirst  they  slake  : — they  wash  their  toil-worn  feet, 

And  some  with  tears  of  joy  each  other  greet. 

Yes,  I  must  see  you  when  ye  first  behold 

Those  holy  turrets  tipped  with  evening  gold, 

In  that  glad  moment  will  for  you  a  sigh 

Be  heaved,  of  charitable  sympathy; 

In  that  glad  moment  when  your  hands  are  prest 

In  mute  devotion  on  the  thankful  breast ! 

Last,  let  us  turn  to  Chamouny  that  shields 
With  rocks  and  gloomy  woods  her  fertile  fields :  570 

Five  streams  of  ice  amid  her  cots  descend, 
And  with  wild  flowers  and  blooming  orchards  blend  ;-— 
A  scene  more  fair  than  what  the  Grecian  feigns 
Of  purple  lights  and  ever-vernal  plains  ; 
Here  all  the  seasons  revel  hand  in  hand : 
'Mid  lawns  and  shades  by  breezy  rivulets  fanned, 
They  sport  beneath  that  mountain's  matchless  height 
That  holds  no  commerce  with  the  summer  night. 
From  age  to  age,  throughout  his  lonely  bounds 
The  crash  of  ruin  fitfully  resounds  ;  580 

Appalling  havoc  !  but  serene  his  brow, 
Where  daylight  lingers  on  perpetual  snow  ; 
Glitter  the  stars  above,  and  all  is  black  below. 

What  marvel  then  if  many  a  Wanderer  sigh, 
While  roars  the  sullen  Arve  in  anger  by, 
That  not  for  thy  reward,  unrivall'd  Vale  ! 
Waves  the  ripe  harvest  in  the  autumnal  gale ; 
That  thou,  the  slave  of  slaves,  art  doomed  to  pine 
And  droop,  while  no  Italian  arts  are  thine, 
To  soothe  or  cheer,  to  soften  or  refine.  590 

Hail  Freedom  !  whether  it  was  mine  to  stray, 
With  shrill  winds  whistling  round  my  lonely  way, 
On  the  bleak  sides  of  Cumbria's  heath-clad  moors, 
Or  where  dank  sea-weed  lashes  Scotland's  shores  ; 
To  scent  the  sweets  of  Piedmont's  breathing  rose, 
And  orange  gale  that  o'er  Lugano  blows ; 
Still  have  I  found,  where  Tyranny  prevails, 
That  virtue  languishes  and  pleasure  fails, 
While  the  remotest  hamlets  blessings  share 
In  thy  loved  presence  known,  and  only  there ;  600 

1  Rude  fountains  built  and  covered  with  sheds  for  the  accommodation  of 
the  Pilgrims,  in  their  ascent  of  the  mountain. 


28  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Heart-blessings — outward  treasures  too  which  the  eye 

Of  the  sun  peeping  through  the  clouds  can  spy, 

And  every  passing  breeze  will  testify. 

There,  to  the  porch,  belike  with  jasmine  bound 

Or  woodbine  wreaths,  a  smoother  path  is  wound  ; 

The  housewife  there  a  brighter  garden  sees, 

Where  hum  on  busier  wing  her  happy  bees ; 

On  infant  cheeks  there  fresher  roses  blow  ; 

And  grey-haired  men  look  up  with  livelier  brow, — 

To  greet  the  traveller  needing  food  and  rest ;  610 

Housed  for  the  night,  or  but  a  half-hour's  guest. 

And  oh,  fair  France  !  though  now  the  traveller  sees 
Thy  three-striped  banner  fluctuate  on  the  breeze ; 
Though  martial  songs  have  banished  songs  of  love, 
And  nightingales  desert  the  village  grove, 
Scared  by  the  fife  and  rumbling  drum's  alarms, 
And  the  short  thunder,  and  the  flash  of  arms ; 
That  cease  not  till  night  falls,  when  far  and  nigh, 
Sole  sound,  the  Sourd l  prolongs  his  mournful  cry ; 
— Yet  hast  thou  found  that  Freedom  spreads  her  power 
Beyond  the  cottage-hearth,  the  cottage-door :  621 

All  nature  smiles,  and  owns  beneath  her  eyes 
Her  fields  peculiar,  and  peculiar  skies. 
Yes,  as  I  roamed  where  Loiret's  waters  glide 
Through  rustling  aspens  heard  from  side  to  side, 
When  from  October  clouds  a  milder  light 
Fell  where  the  blue  flood  rippled  into  white  ; 
Methought  from  every  cot  the  watchful  bird 
Crowed  with  ear-piercing  power  till  then  unheard ; 
Each  clacking  mill,  that  broke  the  murmuring  streams,  630 
Rocked  the  charmed  thought  in  more  delightful  dreams; 
Chasing  those  pleasant  dreams,  the  falling  leaf 
Awoke  a  fainter  sense  of  moral  grief; 
The  measured  echo  of  the  distant  flail 
Wound  in  more  welcome  cadence  down  the  vale ; 
With  more  majestic  course  2  the  water  rolled, 
And  ripening  foliage  shone  with  richer  gold. 
— But  foes  are  gathering — Liberty  must  raise 
Red  on  the  hills  her  Beacon's  far-seen  blaze ; 
Must  bid  the  tocsin  ring  from  tower  to  tower  ! —  640 

Nearer  and  nearer  comes  the  trying  hour ! 

1  An  insect  so  called,  which  emits  a  short,  melancholy  cry,  heard  at  the 
close  of  the  summer  evenings,  on  the  banks  of  the  Loire. 

2  The  duties  upon  many  parts  of  the  French  rivers  were  so  exorbitant,  that 
the  poorer  people,  deprived  of  the  benefit  of  water-carriage,  were  obliged  to 
transport  their  goods  by  land. 


LINES  29 

Rejoice,  brave  Land,  though  pride's  perverted  ire 

Rouse  hell's  own  aid,  and  wrap  thy  fields  in  fire  : 

Lo,  from  the  flames  a  great  and  glorious  birth  ; 

As  if  a  new-made  heaven  were  hailing  a  new  earth  ! 

— All  cannot  be  :  the  promise  is  too  fair 

For  creatures  doomed  to  breathe  terrestrial  air : 

Yet  not  for  this  will  sober  reason  frown 

Upon  that  promise,  nor  the  hope  disown ; 

She  knows  that  only  from  high  aims  ensue  650 

Rich  guerdons,  and  to  them  alone  are  due. 

Great  God  !  by  whom  the  strifes  of  men  are  weighed 
In  an  impartial  balance,  give  thine  aid 
To  the  just  cause  ;  and,  oh  !  do  thou  preside 
Over  the  mighty  stream  now  spreading  wide  : 
So  shall  its  waters,  from  the  heavens  supplied 
In  copious  showers,  from  earth  by  wholesome  springs, 
Brood  o'er  the  long-parched  lands  with  Nile-like  wings  ! 
And  grant  that  every  sceptred  child  of  clay 
Who  cries  presumptuous,  '  Here  the  flood  shall  stay,'      660 
May  in  its  progress  see  thy  guiding  hand, 
And  cease  the  acknowledged  purpose  to  withstand ; 
Or,  swept  in  anger  from  the  insulted  shore, 
Sink  with  his  servile  bands,  to  rise  no  more  ! 

To-night,  my  Friend,  within  this  humble  cot 
Be  scorn  and  fear  and  hope  alike  forgot 
In  timely  sleep  ;  and  when,  at  break  of  day, 
On  the  tall  peaks  the  glistening  sunbeams  play, 
With  a  light  heart  our  course  we  may  renew, 
The  first  whose  footsteps  print  the  mountain  dew.  670 

1791-1792 


VII 
LINES 

Left  upon  a  Seat  in  a  Yew-tree,  which  stands  near  the  lake  of  Esthwaite,  on 
a  desolate  part  of  the  shore,  commanding  a  beautiful  prospect. 

NAY,  Traveller  !  rest.     This  lonely  Yew-tree  stands 
Far  from  all  human  dwelling  :  what  if  here 
No  sparkling  rivulet  spread  the  verdant  herb  ? 
What  if  the  bee  love  not  these  barren  boughs  ? 
Yet,  if  the  wind  breathe  soft,  the  curling  waves, 
That  break  against  the  shore,  shall  lull  thy  mind 
By  one  soft  impulse  saved  from  vacancy. 


30  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Who  he  was 


That  piled  these  stones  and  with  the  mossy  sod 

First  covered,  and  here  taught  this  aged  Tree  10 

With  its  dark  arms  to  form  a  circling  bower, 

I  well  remember. — He  was  one  who  owned 

No  common  soul.     In  youth  by  science  nursed, 

And  led  by  nature  into  a  wild  scene 

Of  lofty  hopes,  he  to  the  world  went  forth 

A  favoured  Being,  knowing  no  desire 

Which  genius  did  not  hallow ;  'gainst  the  taint 

Of  dissolute  tongues,  and  jealousy,  and  hate, 

And  scorn, — against  all  enemies  prepared, 

All  but  neglect.     The  world,  for  so  it  thought,  20 

Owed  him  no  service ;  wherefore  he  at  once 

With  indignation  turned  himself  away, 

And  with  the  food  of  pride  sustained  his  soul 

In  solitude. — Stranger  !  these  gloomy  boughs 

Had  charms  for  him  ;  and  here  he  loved  to  sit, 

His  only  visitants  a  straggling  sheep, 

The  stone-chat,  or  the  glancing  sand-piper : 

And  on  these  barren  rocks,  with  fern  and  heath, 

And  juniper  and  thistle,  sprinkled  o'er, 

Fixing  his  downcast  eye,  he  many  an  hour  30 

A  morbid  pleasure  nourished,  tracing  here 

An  emblem  of  his  own  unfruitful  life  : 

And,  lifting  up  his  head,  he  then  would  gaze 

On  the  more  distant  scene, — how  lovely  'tis 

Thou  seest, — and  he  would  gaze  till  it  became 

Far  lovelier,  and  his  heart  could  not  sustain 

The  beauty,  still  more  beauteous  !     Nor,  that  time, 

When  nature  had  subdued  him  to  herself, 

Would  he  forget  those  Beings  to  whose  minds 

Warm  from  the  labours  of  benevolence  40 

The  world,  and  human  life,  appeared  a  scene 

Of  kindred  loveliness  :  then  he  would  sigh, 

Inly  disturbed,  to  think  that  others  felt 

What  he  must  never  feel :  and  so,  lost  Man  ! 

On  visionary  views  would  fancy  feed, 

Till  his  eye  streamed  with  tears.     In  this  deep  vale 

He  died, — this  seat  his  only  monument. 

If  Thou  be  one  whose  heart  the  holy  forms 
Of  young  imagination  have  kept  pure, 

Stranger !  henceforth  be  warned  ;  and  know  that  pride,  50 
Howe'er  disguised  in  its  own  majesty, 
Is  littleness  ;  that  he  who  feels  contempt 
For  any  living  thing,  hath  faculties 


GUILT  AND  SORROW  31 

Which  he  has  never  used ;  that  thought  with  him 

Is  in  its  infancy.     The  man  whose  eye 

Is  ever  on  himself  doth  look  on  one, 

The  least  of  Nature's  works,  one  who  might  move 

The  wise  man  to  that  scorn  which  wisdom  holds 

Unlawful,  ever.     O  be  wiser,  Thou  ! 

Instructed  that  true  knowledge  leads  to  love ;  60 

True  dignity  abides  with  him  alone 

Who,  in  the  silent  hour  of  inward  thought, 

Can  still  suspect,  and  still  revere  himself, 

In  lowliness  of  heart. 

Begun  before  Oct.  1787,  finished  1795 


VIII 
GUILT  AND  SORROW 

OR,  INCIDENTS  UPON  SALISBURY  PLAIN 
ADVERTISEMENT 

PREFIXED  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION  OF  THIS  POEM,  PUBLISHED  IN  1842 

NOT  less  than  one-third  of  the  following  poem,  though  it  has 
from  time  to  time  been  altered  in  the  expression,  was  published  so 
far  back  as  the  year  1798,  under  the  title  of  'The  Female  Vagrant.' 
The  extract  is  of  such  length  that  an  apology  seems  to  be  required 
for  reprinting  it  here :  but  it  was  necessary  to  restore  it  to  its 
original  position,  or  the  rest  would  have  been  unintelligible.  The 
whole  was  written  before  the  close  of  tbe  year  1794,  and  I  will  de- 
tail, rather  as  matter  of  literary  biography  than  for  any  other  reason, 
the  circumstances  under  which  it  was  produced. 

During  the  latter  part  of  the  summer  of  1793,  having  passed  a 
month  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  in  view  of  the  fleet  which  was  then  pre- 
paring for  sea  off  Portsmouth  at  the  commencement  of  the  war,  1 
left  the  place  with  melancholy  forebodings.  The  American  war  was 
still  fresh  in  memory.  Tbe  struggle  which  was  beginning,  and 
which  many  thought  would  be  brought  to  a  speedy  close  by  the 
irresistible  arms  of  Great  Britain  being  added  to  those  of  the  Allies, 
I  was  assured  in  my  own  mind  would  be  of  long  continuance,  and 
productive  of  distress  and  misery  beyond  all  possible  calculation. 
This  conviction  was  pressed  upon  me  by  having  been  a  witness, 
during  a  long  residence  in  revolutionary  France,  of  the  spirit  which 
prevailed  in  that  country.  After  leaving  the  Isle  of  Wight,  I  spent 
two  days  in  wandering  on  foot  over  Salisbury  Plain,  which,  though 
cultivation  was  then  widely  spread  through  parts  of  it,  had  upon 
the  whole  a  still  more  impressive  appearance  than  it  now  retains. 

The  monuments  and  traces  of  antiquity,  scattered  in  abundance 
over  that  region,  led  me  unavoidably  to  compare  what  we  know  or 
guess  of  those  remote  times  with  certain  aspects  of  modern  society, 
and  with  calamities,  principally  those  consequent  upon  war,  to 


32  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

which,  more  than  other  classes  of  men,  the  poor  are  subject.  In 
those  reflections,  joined  with  particular  facts  that  had  come  to  my 
knowledge,  the  following  stanzas  originated. 

In  conclusion,  to  obviate  some  distraction  in  the  minds  of  those 
who  are  well  acquainted  with  Salisbury  Plain,  it  may  be  proper  to 
say  that,  of  the  features  described  as  belonging  to  it,  one  or  two  are 
taken  from  other  desolate  parts  of  England. 


A  TRAVELLER  on  the  skirt  of  Sarum's  Plain 
Pursued  his  vagrant  way,  with  feet  half  bare ; 
Stooping  his  gait,  but  not  as  if  to  gain 
Help  from  the  staff  he  bore  ;  for  mien  and  air 
Were  hardy,  though  his  cheek  seemed  worn  with  care 
Both  of  the  time  to  come,  and  time  long  fled  : 
Down  fell  in  straggling  locks  his  thin  grey  hair ; 
A  coat  he  wore  of  military  red 
But  faded,  and  stuck  o'er  with  many  a  patch  and  shred. 


While  thus  he  journeyed,  step  by  step  led  on,  i 

He  saw  and  passed  a  stately  inn,  full  sure 

That  welcome  in  such  house  for  him  was  none. 

No  board  inscribed  the  needy  to  allure 

Hung  there,  no  bush  proclaimed  to  old  and  poor 

And  desolate,  '  Here  you  will  find  a  friend  !' 

The  pendent  grapes  glittered  above  the  door ; — 

On  he  must  pace,  perchance  till  night  descend, 

Where'er  the  dreary  roads  their  bare  white  lines  extend. 

in 

The  gathering  clouds  grew  red  with  stormy  fire, 

In  streaks  diverging  wide  and  mounting  high ;  a 

That  inn  he  long  had  passed  ;  the  distant  spire, 

Which  oft  as  he  looked  back  had  fixed  his  eye, 

Was  lost,  though  still  he  looked,  in  the  blank  sky. 

Perplexed  and  comfortless  he  gazed  around, 

And  scarce  could  any  trace  of  man  descry, 

Save  cornfields  stretched  and  stretching  without  bound  ; 

But  where  the  sower  dwelt  was  nowhere  to  be  found. 

IV 

No  tree  was  there,  no  meadow's  pleasant  green, 
No  brook  to  wet  his  lip  or  soothe  his  ear ; 


GUILT  AND  SORROW  33 

Long  files  of  corn-stacks  here  and  there  were  seen,          30 

But  not  one  dwelling-place  his  heart  to  cheer. 

Some  labourer,  thought  he,  may  perchance  be  near ; 

And  so  he  sent  a  feeble  shout — in  vain  ; 

No  voice  made  answer,  he  could  only  hear 

Winds  rustling  over  plots  of  unripe  grain, 

Or  whistling  thro'  thin  grass  along  the  unfurrowed  plain. 


Long  had  he  fancied  each  successive  slope 

Concealed  some  cottage,  whither  he  might  turn 

And  rest ;  but  now  along  heaven's  darkening  cope 

The  crows  rushed  by  in  eddies,  homeward  borne.  40 

Thus  warned  he  sought  some  shepherd's  spreading  thorn 

Or  hovel  from  the  storm  to  shield  his  head, 

But  sought  in  vain ;  for  now,  all  wild,  forlorn, 

And  vacant,  a  huge  waste  around  him  spread  ; 

The  wet  cold  ground,  he  feared,  must  be  his  only  bed. 


And  be  it  so — for  to  the  chill  night  shower 

And  the  sharp  wind  his  head  he  oft  hath  bared ; 

A  Sailor  he,  who  many  a  wretched  hour 

Hath  told  ;  for,  landing  after  labour  hard, 

Full  long  endured  in  hope  of  just  reward,  50 

He  to  an  armed  fleet  was  forced  away 

By  seamen,  who  perhaps  themselves  had  shared 

Like  fate ;  was  hurried  off,  a  helpless  prey, 

'Gainst  all  that  in  his  heart,  or  theirs  perhaps,  said  nay. 


For  years  the  work  of  carnage  did  not  cease, 

And  death's  dire  aspect  daily  he  surveyed, 

Death's  minister ;  then  came  his  glad  release, 

And  hope  returned,  and  pleasure  fondly  made 

Her  dwelling  in  his  dreams.     By  Fancy's  aid 

The  happy  husband  flies,  his  arms  to  throw  60 

Round  his  wife's  neck ;  the  prize  of  victory  laid 

In  her  full  lap,  he  sees  such  sweet  tears  flow 

As  if  thenceforth  nor  pain  nor  trouble  she  could  know. 

VIII 

Vain  hope  !  for  fraud  took  all  that  he  had  earned. 
The  lion  roars  and  gluts  his  tawny  brood 
Even  in  the  desert's  heart ;  but  he,  returned, 
Bears  not  to  those  he  loves  their  needful  food. 
His  home  approaching,  but  in  such  a  mood 
l-C 


34  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

That  from  his  sight  his  children  might  have  run, 

He  met  a  traveller,  robbed  him,  shed  his  blood  ;  70 

And  when  the  miserable  work  was  done 

He  fled,  a  vagrant  since,  the  murderer's  fate  to  shun. 

IX 

From  that  day  forth  no  place  to  him  could  be 

So  lonely,  but  that  thence  might  come  a  pang 

Brought  from  without  to  inward  misery. 

Now,  as  he  plodded  on,  with  sullen  clang 

A  sound  of  chains  along  the  desert  rang  ; 

He  looked,  and  saw  upon  a  gibbet  high 

A  human  body  that  in  irons  swang, 

Uplifted  by  the  tempest  whirling  by ;  80 

And,  hovering,  round  it  often  did  a  raven  fly. 


It  was  a  spectacle  which  none  might  view, 

In  spot  so  savage,  but  with  shuddering  pain ; 

Nor  only  did  for  him  at  once  renew 

All  he  had  feared  from  man,  but  roused  a  train 

Of  the  mind's  phantoms,  horrible  as  vain. 

The  stones,  as  if  to  cover  him  from  day, 

Rolled  at  his  back  along  the  living  plain ; 

He  fell,  and  without  sense  or  motion  lay  ; 

But,  when  the  trance  was  gone,  feebly  pursued  his  way.  90 


As  one  whose  brain  habitual  frenzy  fires 

Owes  to  the  fit  in  which  his  soul  hath  tossed 

Profounder  quiet,  when  the  fit  retires, 

Even  so  the  dire  phantasma  which  had  crossed 

His  sense,  in  sudden  vacancy  quite  lost, 

Left  his  mind  still  as  a  deep  evening  stream. 

Nor,  if  accosted  now,  in  thought  engrossed, 

Moody,  or  inly  troubled,  would  he  seem 

To  traveller  who  might  talk  of  any  casual  theme. 


Hurtle  the  clouds  in  deeper  darkness  piled, 

Gone  is  the  raven  timely  rest  to  seek ; 

He  seemed  the  only  creature  in  the  wild 

On  whom  the  elements  their  rage  might  wreak ; 

Save  that  the  bustard,  of  those  regions  bleak 

Shy  tenant,  seeing  by  the  uncertain  light 

A  man  there  wandering,  gave  a  mournful  shriek, 


GUILT  AND  SORROW  35 

And  half  upon  the  ground,  with  strange  affright, 
Forced  hard  against  the  wind  a  thick  unwieldy  flight. 


All,  all  was  cheerless  to  the  horizon's  bound  ; 

The  weary  eye — which,  wheresoe'er  it  strays,  no 

Marks  nothing  but  the  red  sun's  setting  round, 

Or  on  the  earth  strange  lines,  in  former  days 

Left  by  gigantic  arms — at  length  surveys 

What  seems  an  antique  castle  spreading  wide ; 

Hoary  and  naked  are  its  walls,  and  raise 

Their  brow  sublime  :  in  shelter  there  to  bide 

He  turned,  while  rain  poured  down  smoking  on  every  side. 


Pile  of  Stone-henge  !  so  proud  to  hint  yet  keep 
Thy  secrets,  thou  that  lov'st  to  stand  and  hear 
The  Plain  resounding  to  the  whirlwind's  sweep,  120 

Inmate  of  lonesome  Nature's  endless  year ; 
Even  if  thou  saw'st  the  giant  wicker  rear 
For  sacrifice  its  throngs  of  living  men, 
Before  thy  face  did  ever  wretch  appear, 
Who  in  his  heart  had  groaned  with  deadlier  pain 
Than   he   who,  tempest-driven,   thy   shelter   now   would 
gain  ? 

xv 

Within  that  fabric  of  mysterious  form 

Winds  met  in  conflict,  each  by  turns  supreme  ; 

And,  from  the  perilous  ground  dislodged,  through  storm 

And  rain  he  wildered  on,  no  moon  to  stream  130 

From  gulf  of  parting  clouds  one  friendly  beam, 

Nor  any  friendly  sound  his  footsteps  led  ; 

Once  did  the  lightning's  faint  disastrous  gleam 

Disclose  a  naked  guide-post's  double  head, 

Sight  which,  tho'  lost  at  once,  a  gleam  of  pleasure  shed. 


No  swinging  sign-board  creaked  from  cottage  elm 

To  stay  his  steps  with  faintness  overcome ; 

'Twas  dark  and  void  as  ocean's  watery  realm 

Roaring  with  storms  beneath  night's  starless  gloom  ; 

No  gipsy  cowered  o'er  fire  of  furze  or  broom  ;  140 

No  labourer  watched  his  red  kiln  glaring  bright, 

Nor  taper  glimmered  dim  from  sick  man's  room  ; 

Along  the  waste  no  line  of  mournful  light 

From  lamp  of  lonely  toll-gate  streamed  athwart  the  night. 


5  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

XVII 

At  length,  though  hid  in  clouds,  the  moon  arose ; 
The  downs  were  visible — and  now  revealed 
A  structure  stands,  which  two  bare  slopes  enclose. 
It  was  a  spot  where,  ancient  vows  fulfilled, 
Kind  pious  hands  did  to  the  Virgin  build 
A  lonely  Spital,  the  belated  swain  150 

From  the  night  terrors  of  that  waste  to  shield  : 
But  there  no  human  being  could  remain, 
And  now  the  walls  are  named  the  '  Dead  House '  of  the 
plain. 

XVIII 

Though  he  had  little  cause  to  love  the  abode 

Of  man,  or  covet  sight  of  mortal  face, 

Yet  when  faint  beams  of  light  that  ruin  showed, 

How  glad  he  was  at  length  to  find  some  trace 

Of  human  shelter  in  that  dreary  place. 

Till  to  his  flock  the  early  shepherd  goes, 

Here  shall  much-needed  sleep  his  frame  embrace.  160 

In  a  dry  nook  where  fern  the  floor  bestrews 

He  lays  his  stiffened  limbs, — his  eyes  begin  to  close; 


XIX 

When  hearing  a  deep  sigh,  that  seemed  to  come 
From  one  who  mourned  in  sleep,  he  raised  his  head, 
And  saw  a  woman  in  the  naked  room 
Outstretched,  and  turning  on  a  restless  bed  : 
The  moon  a  wan  dead  light  around  her  shed. 
He  waked  her — spake  in  tone  that  would  not  fail, 
He  hoped,  to  calm  her  mind;  but  ill  he  sped, 
For  of  that  ruin  she  had  heard  a  tale  170 

Which  now  with  freezing  thoughts  did  all  her  powers 
assail ; 

xx 

Had  heard  of  one  who,  forced  from  storms  to  shroud, 
Felt  the  loose  walls  of  this  decayed  Retreat 
Rock  to  incessant  neighings  shrill  and  loud, 
While  his  horse  pawed  the  floor  with  furious  heat ; 
Till  on  a  stone,  that  sparkled  to  his  feet, 
Struck,  and  still  struck  again,  the  troubled  horse : 
The  man  half  raised  the  stone  with  pain  and  sweat, 
Half  raised,  for  well  his  arm  might  lose  its  force 
Disclosing  the  grim  head  of  a  late  murdered  corse.          180 


GUILT  AND  SORROW  37 

XXI 

Such  tale  of  this  lone  mansion  she  had  learned, 
And  when  that  shape,  with  eyes  in  sleep  half  drowned, 
By  the  moon's  sullen  lamp  she  first  discerned, 
Cold  stony  horror  all  her  senses  bound. 
Her  he  addressed  in  words  of  cheering  sound  ; 
Recovering  heart,  like  answer  did  she  make  ; 
And  well  it  was  that  of  the  corse  there  found 
In  converse  that  ensued  she  nothing  spake  ; 
She  knew  not  what  dire  pangs  in  him  such  tale  could 
wake. 


But  soon  his  voice  and  words  of  kind  intent  190 

Banished  that  dismal  thought ;  and  now  the  wind 

In  fainter  howlings  told  its  rage  was  spent : 

Meanwhile  discourse  ensued  of  various  kind, 

Which  by  degrees  a  confidence  of  mind 

And  mutual  intei'est  failed  not  to  create. 

And,  to  a  natural  sympathy  resigned, 

In  that  forsaken  building  where  they  sate 

The  Woman  thus  retraced  her  own  untoward  fate. 


'  By  Derwent's  side  my  father  dwelt — a  man 

Of  virtuous  life,  by  pious  parents  bred  ;  200 

And  I  believe  that,  soon  as  I  began 

To  lisp,  he  made  me  kneel  beside  my  bed, 

And  in  his  hearing  there  my  prayers  I  said : 

And  afterwards,  by  my  good  father  taught, 

I  read,  and  loved  the  books  in  which  I  read ; 

For  books  in  every  neighbouring  house  I  sought, 

And  nothing  to  my  mind  a  sweeter  pleasure  brought. 

XXIV 

'  A  little  croft  we  owned — a  plot  of  corn, 

A  garden  stored  with  peas,  and  mint,  and  thyme, 

And  flowers  for  posies,  oft  on  Sunday  morn  210 

Plucked    while    the    church    bells    rang    their    earliest 

chime. 

Can  I  forget  our  freaks  at  shearing  time  ! 
My  hen's  rich  nest  through  long  grass  scarce  espied ; 
The  cowslip-gathering  in  June's  dewy  prime ; 
The  swans  that  with  white  chests  upreared  in  pride 
Rushing  and  racing  came  to  meet  me  at  the  water-side  ! 


38  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

XXV 

'  The  staff  I  well  remember  which  upbore 
The  bending  body  of  my  active  sire  ; 
His  seat  beneath  the  honied  sycamore 
Where  the  bees  hummed,  and  chair  by  winter  fire ;         220 
When  market-morning  came,  the  neat  attire 
With  which,  though  bent  on  haste,  myself  I  decked ; 
Our  watchful  house-dog,  that  would  tease  and  tire 
The  stranger  till  its  barking-fit  I  checked  ; 
The  red-breast,  known  for  years,  which  at  my  casement 
pecked. 

XXVI 

'  The  suns  of  twenty  summers  danced  along, — 

Too  little  marked  how  fast  they  rolled  away  : 

But,  through  severe  mischance  and  cruel  wrong, 

My  father's  substance  fell  into  decay : 

We  toiled  and  struggled,  hoping  for  a  day  230 

When  Fortune  might  put  on  a  kinder  look ; 

But  vain  were  wishes,  efforts  vain  as  they  ; 

He  from  his  old  hereditary  nook 

Must  part ;  the  summons  came ; — our  final  leave  we  took. 


xxvn 

'  It  was  indeed  a  miserable  hour 

When,  from  the  last  hill-top,  my  sire  surveyed, 

Peering  above  the  trees,  the  steeple  tower 

That  on  his  marriage  day  sweet  music  made ! 

Till  then  he  hoped  his  bones  might  there  be  laid 

Close  by  my  mother  in  their  native  bowers  :  240 

Bidding  me  trust  in  God,  he  stood  and  prayed  ;— 

I  could  not  pray : — through  tears  that  fell  in  showers 

Glimmered  our  dear-loved  home,  alas  !  no  longer  ours  ! 

XXVIII 

'There  was  a  Youth  whom  I  had  loved  so  long, 

That  when  I  loved  him  not  I  cannot  say  : 

'Mid  the  green  mountains  many  a  thoughtless  song 

We  two  had  sung,  like  gladsome  birds  in  May ; 

When  we  began  to  tire  of  childish  play, 

We  seemed  still  more  and  more  to  prize  each  other ; 

We  talked  of  marriage  and  our  marriage  day  ;  250 

And  I  in  truth  did  love  him  like  a  brother, 

For  never  could  I  hope  to  meet  with  such  another. 


GUILT  AND  SORROW  39 

XXIX 

'  Two  years  were  passed  since  to  a  distant  town 

He  had  repaired  to  ply  a  gainful  trade : 

What  tears  of  bitter  grief,  till  then  unknown, 

What  tender  vows  our  last  sad  kiss  delayed  ! 

To  him  we  turned  : — we  had  no  other  aid  : 

Like  one  revived,  upon  his  neck  I  wept ; 

And  her  whom  he  had  loved  in  joy,  he  said, 

He  well  could  love  in  grief ;  his  faith  he  kept ;  260 

And  in  a  quiet  home  once  more  my  father  slept. 

xxx 

'  We  lived  in  peace  and  comfort ;  and  were  blest 
With  daily  bread,  by  constant  toil  supplied. 
Three  lovely  babes  had  lain  upon  my  breast ; 
And  often,  viewing  their  sweet  smiles,  I  sighed, 
And  knew  not  why.     My  happy  father  died, 
When  threatened  war  reduced  the  children's  meal : 
Thrice  happy !  that  for  him  the  grave  could  hide 
The  empty  loom,  cold  hearth,  and  silent  wheel, 
And  tears  which  flowed  for  ills  which  patience  might  not 
heal.  270 

XXXI 

'  'Twas  a  hard  change ;  an  evil  time  was  come  ; 

We  had  no  hope,  and  no  relief  could  gain  : 

But  soon,  with  proud  parade,  the  noisy  drum 

Beat  round  to  clear  the  streets  of  want  and  pain. 

My  husband's  arms  now  only  serve  to  strain 

Me  and  his  children  hungering  in  his  view  ; 

In  such  dismay  my  prayers  and  tears  were  vain  : 

To  join  those  miserable  men  he  flew, 

And  now  to  the  sea-coast,  with  numbers  more,  we  drew. 


'  There  were  we  long  neglected,  and  we  bore  280 

Much  sorrow  ere  the  fleet  its  anchor  weighed ; 

Green  fields  before  us,  and  our  native  shore, 

We  breathed  a  pestilential  air,  that  made 

Ravage  for  which  no  knell  was  heard.     WTe  prayed 

For  our  departure  ;  wished  and  wished — nor  knew, 

'Mid  that  long  sickness  and  those  hopes  delayed, 

That  happier  days  we  never  more  must  view. 

The  parting  signal  streamed — at  last  the  land  withdrew. 


40  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


'  But  the  calm  summer  season  now  was  past. 

On  as  we  drove,  the  equinoctial  deep  290 

Ran  mountains  high  before  the  howling  blast, 

And  many  perished  in  the  whirlwind's  sweep. 

We  gazed  with  terror  on  their  gloomy  sleep, 

Untaught  that  soon  such  anguish  must  ensue, 

Our  hopes  such  harvest  of  affliction  reap, 

That  we  the  mercy  of  the  waves  should  rue  : 

We  reached  the  western  world,  a  poor  devoted  crew. 

xxxiv 

'  The  pains  and  plagues  that  on  our  heads  came  down, 

Disease  and  famine,  agony  and  fear, 

In  wood  or  wilderness,  in  camp  or  town,  300 

It  would  unman  the  firmest  heart  to  hear. 

All  perished — all  in  one  remorseless  year, 

Husband  and  children !  one  by  one,  by  sword 

And  ravenous  plague,  all  perished :  every  tear 

Dried  up,  despairing,  desolate,  on  board 

A  British  ship  I  waked,  as  from  a  trance  restored.' 


XXXV 

Here  paused  she  of  all  present  thought  forlorn, 

Nor  voice,  nor  sound,  that  moment's  pain  expressed, 

Yet  Nature,  with  excess  of  grief  o'erborne, 

From  her  full  eyes  their  watery  load  released.  310 

He  too  was  mute  :  and,  ere  her  weeping  ceased, 

He  rose,  and  to  the  ruin's  portal  went, 

And  saw  the  dawn  opening  the  silvery  east 

WTith  rays  of  promise  north  and  southward  sent ; 

And  soon  with  crimson  fire  kindled  the  firmament. 


xxxvi 

SO  come,'  he  cried,  'come,  after  weary  night 

Of  such  rough  storm,  this  happy  change  to  view.' 

So  forth  she  came,  and  eastward  looked ;  the  sight 

Over  her  brow  like  dawn  of  gladness  threw  ; 

Upon  her  cheek,  to  which  its  youthful  hue  320 

Seemed  to  return,  dried  the  last  lingering  tear, 

And  from  her  grateful  heart  a  fresh  one  drew  : 

The  whilst  her  comrade  to  her  pensive  cheer 

Tempered  fit  words  of  hope  ;  and  the  lark  warbled  near. 


GUILT  AND  SORROW  41 


They  looked  and  saw  a  lengthening  road,  and  wain 

That  rang  down  a  bare  slope  not  far  remote  : 

The  barrows  glistered  bright  with  drops  of  rain, 

Whistled  the  waggoner  with  merry  note, 

The  cock  far  off  sounded  his  clarion  throat  ; 

But  town,  or  farm,  or  hamlet,  none  they  viewed,  330 

Only  were  told  there  stood  a  lonely  cot 

A  long  mile  thence.     While  thither  they  pursued 

Their  way,  the  Woman  thus  her  mournful  tale  renewed. 

XXXVIII 

'  Peaceful  as  this  immeasurable  plain 

Is  now,  by  beams  of  dawning  light  imprest, 

In  the  calm  sunshine  slept  the  glittering  main  ; 

The  very  ocean  hath  its  hour  of  rest. 

I  too  forgot  the  heavings  of  my  breast. 

How  quiet  'round  me  ship  and  ocean  were  ! 

As  quiet  all  within  me.     1  was  blest,  340 

And  looked,  and  fed  upon  the  silent  air 

Until  it  seemed  to  bring  a  joy  to  my  despair. 

xxxix 

'  Ah  !  how  unlike  those  late  terrific  sleeps, 

And  groans  that  rage  of  racking  famine  spoke  ; 

The  unburied  dead  that  lay  in  festering  heaps, 

The  breathing  pestilence  that  rose  like  smoke, 

The  shriek  that  from  the  distant  battle  broke, 

The  mine's  dire  earthquake,  and  the  pallid  host 

Driven  by  the  bomb's  incessant  thunder-stroke 

To  loathsome  vaults,  where  heart-sick  anguish  tossed,    350 

Hope  died,  and  fear  itself  in  agony  was  lost ! 


'  Some  mighty  gulf  of  separation  passed, 
I  seemed  transported  to  another  world ; 
A  thought  resigned  with  pain,  when  from  the  mast 
The  impatient  mariner  the  sail  unfurled, 
And,  whistling,  called  the  wind  that  hardly  curled 
The  silent  sea.     From  the  sweet  thoughts  of  home 
And  from  all  hope  I  was  for  ever  hurled. 
For  me — farthest  from  earthly  port  to  roam 
WTas  best,  could  I  but  shun  the  spot  where  man  might 
come.  360 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


'  And  oft  I  thought  (my  fancy  was  so  strong) 
That  I,  at  last,  a  resting-place  had  found ; 
"  Here  will  I  dwell,"  said  I,  "  my  whole  life  long, 
Roaming  the  illimitable  waters  round ; 
Here  will  I  live,  of  all  but  heaven  disowned, 
And  end  my  days  upon  the  peaceful  flood." — 
To  break  my  dream  the  vessel  reached  its  bound ; 
And  homeless  near  a  thousand  homes  I  stood, 
And  near  a  thousand  tables  pined  and  wanted  food. 

XLII 

'  No  help  I  sought ;  in  sorrow  turned  adrift,  370 

Was  hopeless,  as  if  cast  on  some  bare  rock  ; 

Nor  morsel  to  my  mouth  that  day  did  lift, 

Nor  raised  my  hand  to  any  door  to  knock. 

I  lay  where,  with  his  drowsy  mates,  the  cock 

From  the  cross-timber  of  an  outhouse  hung : 

Dismally  tolled,  that  night,  the  city  clock  ! 

At  morn  my  sick  heart  hunger  scarcely  stung, 

Nor  to  the  beggar's  language  could  I  fit  my  tongue. 

XLIII 

'  So  passed  a  second  day  ;  and,  when  the  third 

Was  come,  I  tried  in  vain  the  crowd's  resort.  380 

— In  deep  despair,  by  frightful  wishes  stirred, 

Near  the  sea-side  I  reached  a  ruined  fort; 

There,  pains  which  nature  could  no  more  support, 

With  blindness  linked,  did  on  my  vitals  fall ; 

And,  after  many  interruptions  short 

Of  hideous  sense,  I  sank,  nor  step  could  crawl : 

Unsought  for  was  the  help  that  did  my  life  recall. 


XLIV 

'  Borne  to  a  hospital,  I  lay  with  brain 
Drowsy  and  weak,  and  shattered  memory ; 
I  heard  my  neighbours  in  their  beds  complain  390 

Of  many  things  which  never  troubled  me — 
Of  feet  still  bustling  round  with  busy  glee, 
Of  looks  where  common  kindness  had  no  part, 
Of  service  done  with  cold  formality, 
Fretting  the  fever  round  the  languid  heart, 
And  groans  which,  as  they  said,  might  make  a  dead  man 
start. 


GUILT  AND  SORROW  43 


XLV 

'  These  things  just  served  to  stir  the  slumbering  sense, 
Nor  pain  nor  pity  in  my  bosom  raised. 
With  strength  did  memory  return;  and,  thence 
Dismissed,  again  on  open  day  I  gazed,  400 

At  houses,  men,  and  common  light,  amazed. 
The  lanes  I  sought,  and,  as  the  sun  retired, 
Came  where  beneath  the  trees  a  faggot  blazed  ; 
The  travellers  saw  me  weep,  my  fate  inquired, 
And   gave   me    food — and    rest,   more   welcomed,   more 
desired. 

XLVI 

'  Rough  potters  seemed  they,  trading  soberly 

With  panniered  asses  driven  from  door  to  door ; 

But  life  of  happier  sort  set  forth  to  me, 

And  other  joys  my  fancy  to  allure — 

The  bag-pipe  dinning  on  the  midnight  moor  410 

In  barn  uplighted ;  and  companions  boon, 

Well  met  from  far  with  revelry  secure 

Among  the  forest  glades,  while  jocund  June 

Rolled  fast  along  the  sky  his  warm  and  genial  moon. 


XLVII 

'  But  ill  they  suited  me — those  journeys  dark 

O'er  moor  and  mountain,  midnight  theft  to  hatch ! 

To  charm  the  surly  house-dog's  faithful  bark, 

Or  hang  on  tip-toe  at  the  lifted  latch. 

The  gloomy  lantern,  and  the  dim  blue  match, 

The  black  disguise,  the  warning  whistle  shrill,  420 

And  ear  still  busy  on  its  nightly  watch, 

Were  not  for  me,  brought  up  in  nothing  ill : 

Besides,  on  griefs  so  fresh  my  thoughts  were  brooding  still. 

XLVIIl 

'  What  could  I  do,  unaided  and  unblest  ? 

My  father  !  gone  was  every  friend  of  thine  : 

And  kindred  of  dead  husband  are  at  best 

Small  help ;  and,  after  marriage  such  as  mine, 

With  little  kindness  would  to  me  incline. 

Nor  was  I  then  for  toil  or  service  fit ; 

My  deep-drawn  sighs  no  effort  could  confine  ;  430 

In  open  air  forgetful  would  I  sit 

Whole  hours,  with  idle  arms  in  moping  sorrow  knit. 


44  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

XLIX 

'  The  roads  I  paced,  I  loitered  through  the  fields ; 

Contentedly,  yet  sometimes  self-accused, 

Trusted  my  life  to  what  chance  bounty  yields, 

Now  coldly  given,  now  utterly  refused. 

The  ground  I  for  my  bed  have  often  used  : 

But  what  afflicts  my  peace  with  keenest  ruth, 

Is  that  I  have  my  inner  self  abused, 

Forgone  the  home  delight  of  constant  truth,  440 

And  clear  and  open  soul,  so  prized  in  fearless  youth. 


'  Through  tears  the  rising  sun  I  oft  have  viewed, 

Through  tears  have  seen  him  towards  that  world  descend 

Where  my  poor  heart  lost  all  its  fortitude  : 

Three  years  a  wanderer  now  my  course  I  bend — 

Oh  !  tell  me  whither — for  no  earthly  friend 

Have  I.' — She  ceased,  and  weeping  turned  away  ; 

As  if  because  her  tale  was  at  an  end, 

She  wept ;  because  she  had  no  more  to  say 

Of  that  perpetual  weight  which  on  her  spirit  lay.  450 

LI 

True  sympathy  the  Sailor's  looks  expressed, 

His  looks — for  pondering  he  was  mute  the  while. 

Of  social  Order's  care  for  wretchedness, 

Of  Time's  sure  help  to  calm  and  reconcile, 

Joy's  second  spring  and  Hope's  long-treasured  smile, 

'Twas  not  for  him  to  speak — a  man  so  tried. 

Yet,  to  relieve  her  heart,  in  friendly  style 

Proverbial  words  of  comfort  he  applied, 

And  not  in  vain,  while  they  went  pacing  side  by  side. 

LIT 

Ere  long,  from  heaps  of  turf,  before  their  sight,  460 

Together  smoking  in  the  sun's  slant  beam, 

Rise  various  wreaths  that  into  one  unite 

Which  high  and  higher  mounts  with  silver  gleam  : 

Fair  spectacle, — but  instantly  a  scream 

Thence  bursting  shrill  did  all  remark  prevent ; 

They  paused,  and  heard  a  hoarser  voice  blaspheme, 

And  female  cries.     Their  course  they  thither  bent, 

And  met  a  man  who  foamed  with  anger  vehement. 


A  woman  stood  with  quivering  lips  and  pale, 

And,  pointing  to  a  little  child  that  lay  470 


GUILT  AND  SORROW  45 

Stretched  on  the  ground,  began  a  piteous  tale ; 

How  in  a  simple  freak  of  thoughtless  play 

He  had  provoked  his  father,  who  straightway, 

As  if  each  blow  were  deadlier  than  the  last, 

Struck  the  poor  innocent.     Pallid  with  dismay 

The  Soldier's  Widow  heard  and  stood  aghast ; 

And  stern  looks  on  the  man  her  grey-haired  Comrade  cast. 

LIV 

His  voice  with  indignation  rising  high 

Such  further  deed  in  manhood's  name  forbade ; 

The  peasant,  wild  in  passion,  made  reply  480 

With  bitter  insult  and  revilings  sad ; 

Asked  him  in  scorn  what  business  there  he  had ; 

What  kind  of  plunder  he  was  hunting  now ; 

The  gallows  would  one  day  of  him  be  glad ; — 

Though  inward  anguish  damped  the  Sailor's  brow, 

Yet  calm  he  seemed  as  thoughts  so  poignant  would  allow. 

LV 

Softly  he  stroked  the  child,  who  lay  outstretched 

With  face  to  earth ;  and,  as  the  boy  turned  round 

His  battered  head,  a  groan  the  Sailor  fetched 

As  if  he  saw — there  and  upon  that  ground —  490 

Strange  repetition  of  the  deadly  wound 

He  had  himself  inflicted.     Through  his  brain 

At  once  the  griding  iron  passage  found ; 

Deluge  of  tender  thoughts  then  rushed  amain, 

Nor  could  his  sunken  eyes  the  starting  tear  restrain. 

LVI 

Within  himself  he  said — What  hearts  have  we  ! 

The  blessing  this  a  father  gives  his  child  ! 

Yet  happy  thou,  poor  boy  !  compared  with  me, 

Suffering  not  doing  ill — fate  far  more  mild. 

The  stranger's  looks  and  tears  of  wrath  beguiled  500 

The  father,  and  relenting  thoughts  awoke ; 

He  kissed  his  son — so  all  was  reconciled. 

Then,  with  a  voice  which  inward  trouble  broke 

Ere  to  his  lips  it  came,  the  Sailor  them  bespoke. 


'  Bad  is  the  world,  and  hard  is  the  world's  law 
Even  for  the  man  who  wears  the  warmest  fleece ; 
Much  need  have  ye  that  time  more  closely  draw 
The  bond  of  nature,  all  unkindness  cease, 


46  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

And  that  among  so  few  there  still  be  peace  : 

Else  can  ye  hope  but  with  such  numerous  foes  510 

Your  pains  shall  ever  with  your  years  increase  ? ' — 

While  from  his  heart  the  appropriate  lesson  flows, 

A  correspondent  calm  stole  gently  o'er  his  woes. 


Forthwith  the  pair  passed  on ;  and  down  they  look 
Into  a  narrow  valley's  pleasant  scene 
Where  wreaths  of  vapour  tracked  a  winding  brook, 
That  babbled  on  through  groves  and  meadows  green  ; 
A  low-roofed  house  peeped  out  the  trees  between  ; 
The  dripping  groves  resound  with  cheerful  lays, 
And  melancholy  lowings  intervene  520 

Of  scattered  herds,  that  in  the  meadow  graze, 
Some  amid  lingering  shade,  some  touched  by  the  sun's 
rays. 

LIX 

They  saw  and  heard,  and,  winding  with  the  road 

Down  a  thick  wood,  they  dropt  into  the  vale  ; 

Comfort  by  prouder  mansions  unbestowed 

Their  wearied  frames,  she  hoped,  would  soon  regale. 

Ere  long  they  reached  that  cottage  in  the  dale  : 

It  was  a  rustic  inn ; — the  board  was  spread, 

The  milk-maid  followed  with  her  brimming  pail, 

And  lustily  the  master  carved  the  bread,  530 

Kindly  the  housewife  pressed,  and  they  in  comfort  fed. 

LX 

Their  breakfast  done,  the  pair,  though  loth,  must  part ; 

Wanderers  whose  course  no  longer  now  agrees. 

She  rose  and  bade  farewell !  and,  while  her  heart 

Struggled  with  tears  nor  could  its  sorrow  ease, 

She  left  him  there ;  for,  clustering  round  his  knees, 

With  his  oak-staff  the  cottage  children  played  ; 

And  soon  she  reached  a  spot  o'erhung  with  trees 

And  banks  of  ragged  earth  ;  beneath  the  shade 

Across  the  pebbly  road  a  little  runnel  strayed.  540 

LXI 

A  cart  and  horse  beside  the  rivulet  stood ; 
Chequering  the  canvas  roof  the  sunbeams  shone. 
She  saw  the  carman  bend  to  scoop  the  flood 
As  the  wain  fronted  her, — wherein  lay  one, 
A  pale-faced  Woman,  in  disease  far  gone. 


GUILT  AND  SORROW  47 

The  carman  wet  her  lips  as  well  behoved ; 

Bed  under  her  lean  body  there  was  none, 

Though  even  to  die  near  one  she  most  had  loved 

She  could  not  of  herself  those  wasted  limbs  have  moved. 


The  Soldier's  Widow  learned  with  honest  pain  550 

And  homefelt  force  of  sympathy  sincere, 

Why  thus  that  worn-out  wretch  must  there  sustain 

The  jolting  road  and  morning  air  severe. 

The  wain  pursued  its  way ;  and  following  near 

In  pure  compassion  she  her  steps  retraced 

Far  as  the  cottage.     '  A  sad  sight  is  here/ 

She  cried  aloud  ;  and  forth  ran  out  in  haste 

The  friends  whom  she  had  left  but  a  few  minutes  past. 


While  to  the  door  with  eager  speed  they  ran, 

From  her  bare  straw  the  Woman  half  upraised  560 

Her  bony  visage — gaunt  and  deadly  wan ; 

No  pity  asking,  on  the  group  she  gazed 

With  a  dim  eye,  distracted  and  amazed  ; 

Then  sank  upon  her  straw  with  feeble  moan. 

Fervently  cried  the  housewife — '  God  be  praised, 

I  have  a  house  that  I  can  call  my  own ; 

Nor  shall  she  perish  there,  untended  and  alone  !' 

LXIV 

So  in  they  bear  her  to  the  chimney  seat, 

And  busily,  though  yet  with  fear,  untie 

Her  garments,  and,  to  warm  her  icy  feet  570 

And  chafe  her  temples,  careful  hands  apply. 

Nature  reviving,  with  a  deep-drawn  sigh 

She  strove,  and  not  in  vain,  her  head  to  rear ; 

Then  said — '  I  thank  you  all ;  if  I  must  die, 

The  God  in  heaven  my  prayers  for  you  will  hear ; 

Till  now  I  did  not  think  my  end  had  been  so  near. 


'  Barred  every  comfort  labour  could  procure, 

Suffering  what  no  endurance  could  assuage, 

I  was  compelled  to  seek  my  father's  door, 

Though  loth  to  be  a  burthen  on  his  age.  580 

But  sickness  stopped  me  in  an  early  stage 


48  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Of  my  sad  journey;  and  within  the  wain 
They  placed  me — there  to  end  life's  pilgrimage, 
Unless  beneath  your  roof  I  may  remain  : 
For  I  shall  never  see  my  father's  door  again. 


LXVI 

'  My  life,  Heaven  knows,  hath  long  been  burthensome ; 
But,  if  I  have  not  meekly  suffered,  meek 
May  my  end  be  !     Soon  will  this  voice  be  dumb : 
Should  child  of  mine  e'er  wander  hither,  speak 
Of  me,  say  that  the  Avorm  is  on  my  cheek. —  590 

Torn  from  our  hut,  that  stood  beside  the  sea 
Near  Portland  lighthouse  in  a  lonesome  creek, 
My  husband  served  in  sad  captivity 

On  shipboard,  bound  till  peace  or  death  should  set  him 
free. 

LXVII 

'  A  sailor's  wife  I  knew  a  widow's  cares, 

Yet  two  sweet  little  ones  partook  my  bed ; 

Hope  cheered  my  dreams,  and  to  my  daily  prayers 

Our  heavenly  Father  granted  each  day's  bread  ; 

Till  one  was  found  by  stroke  of  violence  dead, 

Whose  body  near  our  cottage  chanced  to  lie ;  600 

A  dire  suspicion  drove  us  from  our  shed  ; 

In  vain  to  find  a  friendly  face  we  try, 

Nor  could  we  live  together  those  poor  boys  and  I ; 

LXVIII 

'  For  evil  tongues  made  oath  how  on  that  day 

My  husband  lurked  about  the  neighbourhood ; 

Now  he  had  fled,  and  whither  none  could  say, 

And  he  had  done  the  deed  in  the  dark  wood — 

Near  his  own  home ! — but  he  was  mild  and  good  ; 

Never  on  earth  was  gentler  creature  seen ; 

He  'd  not  have  robbed  the  raven  of  its  food.  610 

My  husband's  loving  kindness  stood  between 

Me  and  all  worldly  harms  and  wi-ongs  however  keen.' 

LXIX 

Alas  !  the  thing  she  told  with  labouring  breath 

The  Sailor  knew  too  well.     That  wickedness 

His  hand  had  wrought ;  and  when,  in  the  hour  of  death, 

He  saw  his  Wife's  lips  move  his  name  to  bless 

With  her  last  words,  unable  to  suppress 


GUILT  AND  SORROW  49 

His  anguish,  with  his  heart  he  ceased  to  strive ; 

And,  weeping  loud  in  this  extreme  distress, 

He  cried — '  Do  pity  me  !     That  thou  shouldst  live          620 

1  neither  ask  nor  wish — forgive  me,  but  forgive  ! ' 


To  tell  the  change  that  Voice  within  her  wrought 

Nature  by  sign  or  sound  made  no  essay ; 

A  sudden  joy  surprised  expiring  thought, 

And  every  mortal  pang  dissolved  away. 

Borne  gently  to  a  bed,  in  death  she  lay ; 

Yet  still,  while  over  her  the  husband  bent, 

A  look  was  in  her  face  which  seemed  to  say, 

'  Be  blest :  by  sight  of  thee  from  heaven  was  sent 

Peace  to  my  parting  soul,  the  fulness  of  content.'  630 


She  slept  in  peace, — his  pulses  throbbed  and  stopped, 

Breathless  he  gazed  upon  her  face, — then  took 

Her  hand  in  his,  and  raised  it,  but  both  di'opped, 

When  on  his  own  he  cast  a  rueful  look. 

His  ears  were  never  silent ;  sleep  forsook 

His  burning  eyelids  stretched  and  stiff  as  lead  ; 

All  night  from  time  to  time  under  him  shook 

The  floor  as  he  lay  shuddering  on  his  bed ; 

And  oft  he  groaned  aloud,  '  O  God,  that  I  were  dead  ! ' 

LXXII 

The  Soldier's  Widow  lingered  in  the  cot;  640 

And,  when  he  rose,  he  thanked  her  pious  care 

Through  which  his  Wife,  to  that  kind  shelter  brought, 

Died  in  his  arms ;  and  with  those  thanks  a  prayer 

He  breathed  for  her,  and  for  that  merciful  pair. 

The  corse  interred,  not  one  hour  he  remained 

Beneath  their  roof,  but  to  the  open  air 

A  burthen,  now  with  fortitude  sustained, 

He  bore  within  a  breast  where  dreadful  quiet  reigned. 

LXXIII 

Confirmed  of  purpose,  fearlessly  prepared 
For  act  and  suffering,  to  the  city  straight  650 

He  journeyed,  and  forthwith  his  crime  declared  : 
'  And  from  your  doom/  he  added,  '  now  I  wait, 
Nor  let  it  linger  long,  the  murderer's  fate.' 
1-D 


50  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Not  ineffectual  was  that  piteous  claim  : 

'  O  welcome  sentence  which  will  end  though  late,' 

He  said,  (  the  pangs  that  to  my  conscience  came 

Out  of  that  deed.     My  trust,  Saviour  !  is  in  thy  name  ! 


LXXIV 


His  fate  was  pitied.     Him  in  iron  case 

(Reader,  forgive  the  intolerable  thought) 

They  hung  not : — no  one  on  his  form  or  face  660 

Could  gaze,  as  on  a  show  by  idlers  sought ; 

No  kindred  sufferer,  to  his  death-place  brought 

By  lawless  curiosity  or  chance, 

When  into  storm  the  evening  sky  is  wrought, 

Upon  his  swinging  corse  an  eye  can  glance, 

And  drop,  as  he  once  dropped,  in  miserable  trance. 

1791-1794 


THE  BORDERERS  51 


MARMADCKR 
OSWALD 


THE  BORDERERS 

A  TRAGEDY 
(Composed  1795-1796) 

DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

Host 
Of  the  Band  of  £^£  a  Peasanl 


Peasant,  Pilgrims,  etc. 
LENNOX 


HERBERT 

WILFRED,  Servant  to  MARMA- 


DUKE 


IDONEA 

Female  Beggar 
ELEANOR,  Wife  to  ELDRED 


SCENE — Borders  of  England  and  Scotland 
TIME — The  Reign  of  Henry  III 

READERS  already  acquainted  with  my  Poems  will  recognise,  in  the 
following  composition,  some  eight  or  ten  lines,  which  I  have  not 
scrupled  to  retain  in  the  places  where  they  originally  stood.  It  is 
proper  however  to  add  that  they  would  not  have  been  used  else- 
where, if  I  had  foreseen  the  time  when  I  might  be  induced  to 
publish  this  Tragedy. 
February  28,  1842 

ACT  I 

SCENE — Poad  in  a  Wood 
WALLACE  and  LACY 

LACY.  The  Troop  will  be  impatient ;  let  us  hie 
Back  to  our  post,  and  strip  the  Scottish  Foray 
Of  their  rich  Spoil,  ere  they  recross  the  Border 
— Pity  that  our  young  Chief  will  have  no  part 
In  this  good  service. 

WAL.  Rather  let  us  grieve 

That,  in  the  undertaking  which  has  caused 
His  absence,  he  hath  sought,  whate'er  his  aim, 
Companionship  with  One  of  crooked  ways, 


52  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  [ACT  i 

From  whose  perverted  soul  can  come  no  good 

To  our  confiding,  open-hearted,  Leader.  to 

LACY.  True ;  and,  remembering  how  the  Band  have  proved 
That  Oswald  finds  small  favour  in  our  sight, 
Well  may  we  wonder  he  has  gained  such  power 
Over  our  much-loved  Captain. 

WAL.  I  have  heard 

Of  some  dark  deed  to  which  in  early  life 
His  passion  drove  him — then  a  Voyager 
Upon  the  midland  Sea.     You  knew  his  bearing 
In  Palestine  ? 

LACY.  Where  he  despised  alike 

Mohammedan  and  Christian.     But  enough  ;  19 

Let  us  begone — the  Band  may  else  be  foiled.          [Exeunt. 

Enter  MARMADUKE  and  WILFRED 

WIL.   Be  cautious,  my  dear  Master ! 

MAR.  I  perceive 

That  fear  is  like  a  cloak  which  old  men  huddle 

About  their  love,  as  if  to  keep  it  warm. 
WIL.  Nay,  but  I  grieve  that  we  should  part.     This  Stranger, 

For  such  he  is 

MAR.  Your  busy  fancies,  Wilfred, 

Might  tempt  me  to  a  smile  ;  but  what  of  him  ? 
WIL.  You  know  that  you  have  saved  his  life. 
MAR.  I  know  it. 

WIL.  And  that  he  hates  you  ! — Pardon  me,  perhaps 

That  word  was  hasty. 

MAR.  Fy  !  no  more  of  it. 

WIL.  Dear  Master  !  gratitude  's  a  heavy  burden  30 

To  a  proud  Soul. — Nobody  loves  this  Oswald — 

Yourself,  you  do  not  love  him. 
MAR.  I  do  more, 

I  honour  him.     Strong  feelings  to  his  heart 

Are  natural ;  and  from  no  one  can  be  learnt 

More  of  man's  thoughts  and  ways  than  his  experience 

Has  given  him  power  to  teach  :  and  then  for  courage 

And  enterprise — what  perils  hath  he  shunned  ? 

What  obstacles  hath  he  failed  to  overcome  ? 

Answer  these  questions,  from  our  common  knowledge, 

And  be  at  rest. 
WIL.  Oh,  Sir ! 

MAR.  Peace,  my  good  Wilfred  ;      40 

Repair  to  Liddesdale,  and  tell  the  Band 

I  shall  be  with  them  in  two  days,  at  farthest. 
WIL.     May  He  whose  eye  is  over  all  protect  you  !  [Exit. 


ACT  i]  THE  BORDERERS  53 

Enter  OSWALD  (a  bunch  of  plants  in  his  hand) 

Osw.  This  wood  is  rich  in  plants  and  curious  simples. 
MAR.  (looking  at  theni).     The  wild  rose,  and  the  poppy,  and 
the  nightshade  : 

Which  is  your  favorite,  Oswald  ? 
Osw.  That  which,  while  it  is 

Strong  to  destroy,  is  also  strong  to  heal — [Looking  forward. 

Not  yet  in  sight  ! — We  '11  saunter  here  awhile ; 

They  cannot  mount  the  hill,  by  us  unseen. 
MAR.  (a  letter  in  his  hand).     It  is  no  common  thing  when  one 
like  you  50 

Performs  these  delicate  services,  and  therefore 

I  feel  myself  much  bounden  to  you,  Oswald  ; 

'Tis  a  strange  letter  this ! — You  saw  her  write  it  ? 
Osw.  And  saw  the  tears  with  which  she  blotted  it. 
MAR.  And  nothing  less  would  satisfy  him  ? 
Osw.  No  less  ; 

For  that  another  in  his  Child's  affection 

Should  hold  a  place,  as  if  'twere  robbery, 

He  seemed  to  quarrel  with  the  very  thought. 

Besides,  I  know  not  what  strange  prejudice 

Is  rooted  in  his  mind  ;  this  Band  of  ours,  60 

Which  you  've  collected  for  the  noblest  ends, 

Along  the  confines  of  the  Esk  and  Tweed 

To  guard  the  Innocent — he  calls  us  '  Outlaws  '; 

And,  for  yourself,  in  plain  terms  he  asserts 

This  garb  was  taken  up  that  indolence 

Might  want  no  cover,  and  rapacity 

Be  better  fed. 
MAR.  Ne'er  may  I  own  the  heart 

That  cannot  feel  for  one,  helpless  as  he  is. 
Osw.  Thou  know'st  me  for  a  Man  not  easily  moved, 

Yet  was  I  grievously  provoked  to  think  70 

Of  what  I  witnessed. 
MAR.  This  day  will  suffice 

To  end  her  wrongs. 
Osw.  But  if  the  blind  Man's  tale 

Should  yet  be  true  ? 
MAR.  Would  it  were  possible  ! 

Did  not  the  Soldier  tell  thee  that  himself, 

And  others  who  survived  the  wreck,  beheld 

The  Baron  Herbert  perish  in  the  waves 

Upon  the  coast  of  Cyprus  ? 
Osw.  Yes,  even  so, 

And  I  had  heard  the  like  before  :  in  sooth 

The  tale  of  this  his  quondam  Barony 


54  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  [ACT  i 

Is  cunningly  devised;  and,  on  the  back  80 

Of  his  forlorn  appearance,  could  not  fail 

To  make  the  proud  and  vain  his  tributaries, 

And  stir  the  pulse  of  lazy  charity. 

The  seignories  of  Herbert  are  in  Devon ; 

We,  neighbours  of  the  Esk  and  Tweed:  'tis  much 

The  Arch-impostor 

MAR.  Treat  him  gently,  Oswald  ; 

Though  I  have  never  seen  his  face,  methinks, 

There  cannot  come  a  day  when  I  shall  cease 

To  love  him.     I  remember,  when  a  Boy 

Of  scarcely  seven  years'  growth,  beneath  the  Elm  90 

That  casts  its  shade  over  our  village  school, 

'Twas  my  delight  to  sit  and  hear  Idonea 

Repeat  her  Father's  terrible  adventures, 

Till  all  the  band  of  playmates  wept  together ; 

And  that  was  the  beginning  of  my  love. 

And,  through  all  converse  of  our  later  years, 

An  image  of  this  old  Man  still  was  present, 

When  I  had  been  most  happy.     Pardon  me 

If  this  be  idly  spoken. 
Osw.  See,  they  come, 

Two  Travellers ! 

MAR.  (points).  The  woman  is  Idonea.  100 

Osw.  And  leading  Herbert. 
MAR.  We  must  let  them  pass — 

This  thicket  will  conceal  us.  [They  step  aside. 

Enter  IDONEA,  leading  HERBERT  blind 

IDON.  Dear  Father,  you  sigh  deeply ;  ever  since 
We  left  the  willow  shade  by  the  brook-side, 
Your  natural  breathing  has  been  troubled. 

HER.  Nay, 

You  are  too  fearful ;  yet  must  I  confess, 
Our  march  of  yesterday  had  better  suited 
A  firmer  step  than  mine. 

IDON.  That  dismal  Moor — - 

In  spite  of  all  the  larks  that  cheered  our  path, 
I  never  can  forgive  it :  but  how  steadily  no 

You  paced  along,  when  the  bewildering  moonlight 
Mocked  me  with  many  a  strange  fantastic  shape  ! — 
I  thought  the  Convent  never  would  appear  ; 
It  seemed  to  move  away  from  us :  and  yet, 
That  you  are  thus  the  fault  is  mine ;  for  the  air 
Was  soft  and  warm,  no  dew  lay  on  the  grass, 
And  midway  on  the  waste  ere  night  had  fallen 


ACT  i]  THE  BORDERERS  55 

I  spied  a  Covert  walled  and  roofed  with  sods — 

A  miniature ;  belike  some  Shepherd-boy, 

Who  might  have  found  a  nothing-doing  hour  iao 

Heavier  than  work,  raised  it :  within  that  hut 

We  might  have  made  a  kindly  bed  of  heath, 

And  thankfully  there  rested  side  by  side 

Wrapped  in  our  cloaks,  and,  with  recruited  strength, 

Have  hailed  the  morning  sun.     But  cheerily,  Father, — 

That  staff  of  yours,  I  could  almost  have  heart 

To  fling 't  away  from  you  :  you  make  no  use 

Of  me,  or  of  my  strength ; — come,  let  me  feel 

That  you  do  press  upon  me.     There — indeed 

You  are  quite  exhausted.     Let  us  rest  awhile  130 

On  this  green  bank.  [He  sits  down. 

HER.  (after  some  time).     Idonea,  you  are  silent, 
And  I  divine  the  cause. 

I  DON.  Do  not  reproach  me  : 

I  pondered  patiently  your  wish  and  will 
When  I  gave  way  to  your  request ;  and  now, 
When  I  behold  the  ruins  of  that  face, 
Those  eyeballs  dark — dark  beyond  hope  of  light, 
And  think  that  they  were  blasted  for  my  sake, 
The  name  of  Marmaduke  is  blown  away  : 
Father,  I  would  not  change  that  sacred  feeling 
For  all  this  world  can  give. 

HER.  Nay,  be  composed :  140 

Few  minutes  gone  a  faintness  overspread 
My  frame,  and  I  bethought  me  of  two  things 
I  ne'er  had  heart  to  separate — my  grave, 
And  thee,  my  child  ! 

IDON.                                     Believe  me,  honoured  Sire  ! 
'Tis  weariness  that  breeds  these  gloomy  fancies, 
And  you  mistake  the  cause :  you  hear  the  woods 
Resound  with  music,  could  you  see  the  sun, 
And  look  upon  the  pleasant  face  of  Nature 

HER.  I  comprehend  thee — I  should  be  as  cheerful 

As  if  we  two  were  twins  ;  two  songsters  bred  150 

In  the  same  nest,  my  spring-time  one  with  thine,     r 

My  fancies,  fancies  if  they  be,  are  such 

As  come,  dear  Child !  from  a  far  deeper  source 

Than  bodily  weariness.     While  here  we  sit 

I  feel  my  strength  returning. — The  bequest 

Of  thy  kind  Patroness,  which  to  receive 

We  have  thus  far  adventured,  will  suffice 

To  save  thee  from  the  extreme  of  penury  ; 

But  when  thy  Father  must  lie  down  and  die, 

How  wilt  thou  stand  alone  ? 


56  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  [ACT  i 

IDON.  Is  he  not  strong  ?  160 

Is  he  not  valiant  ? 

HER.  Am  I  then  so  soon 

Forgotten  ?  have  my  warnings  passed  so  quickly 
Out  of  thy  mind  ?     My  dear,  my  only,  Child  ; 
Thou  wouldst  be  leaning  on  a  broken  reed — 
This  Marmaduke 

IDON.  O  could  you  hear  his  voice  : 

Alas  !  you  do  not  know  him.     He  is  one 
(I  wot  not  what  ill  tongue  has  wronged  him  with  you) 
All  gentleness  and  love.     His  face  bespeaks 
A  deep  and  simple  meekness  :  and  that  Soul, 
Which  with  the  motion  of  a  virtuous  act  170 

Flashes  a  look  of  terror  upon  guilt, 
Is,  after  conflict,  quiet  as  the  ocean, 
By  a  miraculous  finger  stilled  at  once. 

HER.  Unhappy  Woman ! 

IDON.  Nay,  it  was  my  duty 

Thus  much  to  speak ;  but  think  not  I  forget — 
Dear  Father  !  how  could  I  forget  and  live  ? — 
You  and  the  story  of  that  doleful  night 
When,  Antioch  blazing  to  her  topmost  towers, 
You  rushed  into  the  murderous  flames,  returned 
Blind  as  the  grave,  but,  as  you  oft  have  told  me,  180 

Clasping  your  infant  Daughter  to  your  heart. 

HER.  Thy  Mother  too  ! — scarce  had  I  gained  the  door, 
I  caught  her  voice  ;  she  threw  herself  upon  me, 
I  felt  thy  infant  brother  in  her  arms  ; 
She  saw  my  blasted  face — a  tide  of  soldiers 
That  instant  rushed  between  us,  and  I  heard 
Her  last  death-shriek,  distinct  among  a  thousand. 

IDON.  Nay,  Father,  stop  not;  let  me  hear  it  all. 

HER.  Dear  Daughter  !  precious  relic  of  that  time — 

For  my  old  age,  it  doth  remain  with  thee  190 

To  make  it  what  thou  wilt.     Thou  hast  been  told, 

That  when,  on  our  return  from  Palestine, 

I  found  how  my  domains  had  been  usurped, 

I  took  thee  in  my  arms,  and  we  began 

Our  wanderings  together.     Providence 

At  length  conducted  us  to  Rossland, — there, 

Our  melancholy  story  moved  a  Stranger 

To  take  thee  to  her  home — and  for  myself, 

Soon  after,  the  good  Abbot  of  St.  Cuthbert's 

Supplied  my  helplessness  with  food  and  raiment,  200 

And,  as  thou  know'st,  gave  me  that  humble  Cot 

Where  now  we  dwell. — For  many  years  I  bore 

Thy  absence,  till  old  age  and  fresh  infirmities 


ACT  i]  THE  BORDERERS  57 

Exacted  thy  return,  and  our  reunion. 
I  did  not  think  that,  during  that  long  absence, 
My  Child,  forgetful  of  the  name  of  Herbert, 
Had  given  her  love  to  a  wild  Freebooter, 
Who  here,  upon  the  borders  of  the  Tweed, 
Doth  prey  alike  on  two  distracted  Countries, 
Traitor  to  both. 

IDON.  Oh,  could  you  hear  his  voice !  210 

I  will  not  call  on  Heaven  to  vouch  for  me, 
But  let  this  kiss  speak  what  is  in  my  heart. 

Enter  a  Peasant 

PEA.  Good  morrow,  Strangers  !     If  you  want  a  Guide, 

Let  me  have  leave  to  serve  you  ! 
IDON.  My  Companion 

Hath  need  of  rest ;  the  sight  of  Hut  or  Hostel 

Would  be  most  welcome. 
PEA.  Yon  white  hawthorn  gained, 

You  will  look  down  into  a  dell,  and  there 

Will  see  an  ash  from  which  a  sign-board  hangs ; 

The  house  is  hidden  by  the  shade.     Old  Man, 

You  seem  worn  out  with  travel — shall  I  support  you  ?    220 
HER.   I  thank  you  ;  but,  a  resting-place  so  near, 

'Twere  wrong  to  trouble  you. 
PEA.  God  speed  you  both. 

[Exit  Peasant. 
HER.  Idonea,  we  must  part.     Be  not  alarmed — 

'Tis  but  for  a  few  days — a  thought  has  struck  me. 
IDON.  That  I  should  leave  you  at  this  house,  and  thence 

Proceed  alone.     It  shall  be  so  ;  for  strength 

Would  fail  you  ere  our  journey's  end  be  reached. 

[Exit  HERBERT  supported  by  IDONEA. 

Re-enter  MARMADUKE  and  OSWALD 

MAR.  This  instant  will  we  stop  him 

Osw.  Be  not  hasty, 

For  sometimes,  in  despite  of  my  conviction, 

He  tempted  me  to  think  the  Story  true ;  230 

'Tis  plain  he  loves  the  Maid,  and  what  he  said 

That  savoured  of  aversion  to  thy  name 

Appeared  the  genuine  colour  of  his  soul — 

Anxiety  lest  mischief  should  befall  her 

After  his  death. 

MAR.  I  have  been  much  deceived. 

Osw.   But  sure  he  loves  the  Maiden,  and  never  love 

Could  find  delight  to  nurse  itself  so  strangely, 


58  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  [ACT  i 

Thus  to  torment  her  with  inventions  ! — death — 

There  must  be  truth  in  this. 
MAR.  Truth  in  his  story  ! 

He  must  have  felt  it  then,  known  what  it  was,  240 

And  in  such  wise  to  rack  her  gentle  heart 

Had  been  a  tenfold  cruelty. 
Osw.  Strange  pleasures 

Do  we  poor  mortals  cater  for  ourselves ! 

To  see  him  thus  provoke  her  tenderness 

With  tales  of  weakness  and  infirmity  ! 

I  'd  wager  on  his  life  for  twenty  years. 
MAR.  We  will  not  waste  an  hour  in  such  a  cause. 
Osw.  Why,  this  is  noble  !  shake  her  off  at  once. 
MAR.  Her  virtues  are  his  instruments. — A  Man 

Who  has  so  practised  on  the  world's  cold  sense,  250 

May  well  deceive  his  Child — What !  leave  her  thus, 

A  prey  to  a  deceiver  ? — no — no — no — 

'Tis  but  a  word  and  then 

Osw.  Something  is  here 

More  than  we  see,  or  whence  this  strong  aversion  ? 

Marmaduke  !  I  suspect  unworthy  tales 

Have  reached  his  ear — you  have  had  enemies. 
MAR.  Enemies  ! — of  his  own  coinage. 
Osw.  That  may  be, 

But  wherefore  slight  protection  such  as  you 

Have  power  to  yield  ?  perhaps  he  looks  elsewhere. — 

I  am  perplexed. 

MAR.  What  hast  thou  heard  or  seen  ?  260 

Osw.  No — no — the  thing  stands  clear  of  mystery ; 

(As  you  have  said)  he  coins  himself  the  slander 

With  which  he  taints  her  ear ; — for  a  plain  reason ; 

He  dreads  the  presence  of  a  virtuous  man 

Like  you ;  he  knows  your  eye  would  search  his  heart, 

Your  justice  stamp  upon  his  evil  deeds 

The  punishment  they  merit.     All  is  plain : 

It  cannot  be 

MAR.  What  cannot  be  ? 

Osw.  Yet  that  a  Father 

Should  in  his  love  admit  no  rivalship, 

And  torture  thus  the  heart  of  his  own  Child 270 

MAR.  Nay,  you  abuse  my  friendship  ! 

Osw.  Heaven  forbid  ! — 

There  was  a  circumstance,  trifling  indeed — 

It  struck  me  at  the  time — yet  I  believe 

I  never  should  have  thought  of  it  again 

But  for  the  scene  which  we  by  chance  have  witnessed. 
MAR.   What  is  your  meaning  ? 


ACT  i]  THE  BORDERERS  59 

Osw.  Two  days  gone  I  saw, 

Though  at  a  distance  and  he  was  disguised, 

Hovering  round  Herbert's  door,  a  man  whose  figure 

Resembled  much  that  cold  voluptuary, 

The  villain,  Clifford.     He  hates  you,  and  he  knows         280 

Where  he  can  stab  you  deepest. 
MAR.  Clifford  never 

Would  stoop  to  skulk  about  a  Cottage  door — 

It  could  not  be. 
Osw.  And  yet  I  now  remember 

That,  when  your  praise  was  warm  upon  my  tongue, 

And  the  blind  Man  was  told  how  you  had  rescued 

A  maiden  from  the  ruffian  violence 

Of  this  same  Clifford,  he  became  impatient 

And  would  not  hear  me. 
MAR.  No — it  cannot  be — 

I  dare  not  trust  myself  with  such  a  thought — 

Yet  whence  this  strange  aversion  ?     You  are  a  man        290 

Not  used  to  rash  conjectures 

Osw.  If  you  deem  it 

A  thing  worth  further  notice,  we  must  act 

With  caution,  sift  the  matter  artfully. 

[Exeunt  MARMADUKE  and  OSWALD. 


SCENE — The  door  of  the  Hostel 
HERBERT,  IDONEA,  and  Host 

HER.  (seated).  As  I  am  dear  to  you,  remember,  Child  ! 
This  last  request. 

IDON.  You  know  me,  Sire;  farewell ! 

HER.  And  are  you  going   then  ?     Come,  come,  Idonea, 
We  must  not  part, — I  have  measured  many  a  league 
When  these  old  limbs  had  need  of  rest, — and  now 
I  will  not  play  the  sluggard. 

IDON.  Nay,  sit  down. 

[Turning  to  Host. 

Good  Host,  such  tendance  as  you  would  expect  300 

From  your  own  Children,  if  yourself  were  sick, 
Let  this  old  Man  find  at  your  hands ;  poor  Leader, 

[Looking  at  the  dog. 

We  soon  shall  meet  again.     If  thou  neglect 
This  charge  of  thine,  then  ill  befall  thee  ! — Look, 
The  little  fool  is  loth  to  stay  behind. 
Sir  Host !  by  all  the  love  you  bear  to  courtesy, 
Take  care  of  him,  and  feed  the  truant  well. 

HOST.   Fear  not,  I  will  obey  you  ; — but  One  so  young, 


60  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  [ACT  i 

And  One  so  fair,  it  goes  against  my  heart 

That  you  should  travel  unattended,  Lady  ! —  310 

I  have  a  palfrey  and  a  groom  :  the  lad 

Shall  squire  you,  (would  it  not  be  better,  Sir  ?) 

And  for  less  fee  than  I  would  let  him  run 

For  any  lady  I  have  seen  this  twelvemonth. 
I  DON.  You  know,  Sir,  I  have  been  too  long  your  guard 

Not  to  have  learnt  to  laugh  at  little  fears. 

Why,  if  a  wolf  should  leap  from  out  a  thicket, 

A  look  of  mine  would  send  him  scouring  back, 

Unless  I  differ  from  the  thing  I  am 

When  you  are  by  my  side. 
HER.  Idonea,  wolves  320 

Are  not  the  enemies  that  move  my  fears. 
I  DON.   No  more,  I  pray,  of  this.     Three  days  at  farthest 

Will  bring  me  back — protect  him,  Saints — farewell ! 

[Exit  IDONEA. 

HOST.    'Tis  never  drought  with  us — St.   Cuthbert  and  his 
Pilgrims, 

Thanks  to  them,  are  to  us  a  stream  of  comfort : 

Pity  the  Maiden  did  not  wait  a  while ; 

She  could  not,  Sir,  have  failed  of  company. 
HER.  Now  she  is  gone,  I  fain  would  call  her  back. 
HOST,  (calling).     Holla ! 
HER.  No,  no,  the  business  must  be  done. — 

What  means  this  riotous  noise  ? 
HOST.  The  villagers  330 

Are  flocking  in — a  wedding  festival — 

That 's  all — God  save  you,  Sir. 

Enter  OSWALD 
Osw.  Ha  !  as  I  live, 

The  Baron  Herbert. 

HOST.  Mercy,  the  Baron  Herbert ! 

Osw.  So  far  into  your  journey  !  on  my  life, 

You  are  a  lusty  Traveller.    But  how  fare  you  ? 
HER.  Well  as  the  wreck  I  am  permits.     And  you,  Sir  ? 
Osw.  I  do  not  see  Idonea. 
HER.  Dutiful  Girl, 

She  is  gone  before,  to  spare  my  weariness. 

But  what  has  brought  you  hither? 
Osw.  A  slight  affair, 

That  will  be  soon  despatched. 
HER.  Did  Marmaduke  340 

Receive  that  letter  ? 
Osw.  Be  at  peace. — The  tie 

Is  broken,  you  will  hear  no  more  of  him. 


ACT  i]  THE  BORDERERS  61 

HER.  This  is  true  comfort,  thanks  a  thousand  times  ! — 
That  noise  ! — would  I  had  gone  with  her  as  far 
As  the  Lord  Clifford's  Castle :   I  have  heard 
That,  in  his  milder  moods,  he  has  expressed 
Compassion  for  me.     His  influence  is  great 
With  Henry,  our  good  King; — the  Baron  might 
Have  heard  my  suit,  and  urged  my  plea  at  Court. 
No  matter — he 's  a  dangerous  Man. — That  noise  ! —        350 
'Tis  too  disorderly  for  sleep  or  rest. 
Idonea  would  have  fears  for  me, — the  Convent 
Will  give  me  quiet  lodging.     You  have  a  boy,  good  Host, 
And  he  must  lead  me  back. 

Osw.  You  are  most  lucky  ; 

I  have  been  waiting  in  the  wood  hard  by 
For  a  companion — here  he  comes ;  our  journey 

Enter  MARMADUKE 

Lies  on  your  way ;  accept  us  as  your  Guides. 
HER.  Alas  !  I  creep  so  slowly. 
Osw.  Never  fear ; 

We  '11  not  complain  of  that. 
HER.  My  limbs  are  stiff 

And  need  repose.     Could  you  but  wait  an  hour  ?  360 

Osw.  Most  willingly ! — Come,  let  me  lead  you  in, 

And,  while  you  take  your  rest,  think  not  of  us ; 

We  '11  stroll  into  the  wood ;  lean  on  my  arm. 

[Conducts  HERBERT  into  the  house.     Exit 
MARMADUKE. 

Enter  Villagers 

Osw.  (to  himself  coming  out  of  the  hostel).  I  have  prepared  a 

most  apt  Instrument — 

The  Vagrant  must,  no  doubt,  be  loitering  somewhere 
About  this  ground  ;  she  hath  a  tongue  well  skilled, 
By  mingling  natural  matter  of  her  own 
With  all  the  daring  fictions  I  have  taught  her, 
To  win  belief,  such  as  my  plot  requires.  [Exit  OSWALD. 

Enter  more  Villagers,  a  Musician  among  them 

HOST  (to  them).  Into  the  court,  my  Friend,  and  perch  your- 
self 370 
Aloft  upon  the  elm  tree.     Pretty  Maids, 
Garlands  and  flowers,  and  cakes  and  merry  thoughts, 
Are  here,  to  send  the  sun  into  the  west 
More  speedily  than  you  belike  would  wish. 


62  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  [ACT  i 

SCENE  changes  to  the  Wood  adjoining  the  Hostel — MARMADUKE 
and  OSWALD  entering 

MAR.  I  would  fain  hope  that  we  deceive  ourselves : 
When  first  I  saw  him  sitting  there,  alone, 
It  struck  upon  my  heart  I  know  not  how. 

Osw.  To-day  will  clear  up  all. — You  marked  a  Cottage, 
That  ragged  Dwelling,  close  beneath  a  rock 
By  the  brook-side  :  it  is  the  abode  of  One,  380 

A  Maiden  innocent  till  ensnared  by  Clifford, 
Who  soon  grew  weary  of  her ;  but,  alas  ! 
What  she  had  seen  and  suffered  turned  her  brain. 
Cast  off  by  her  Betrayer,  she  dwells  alone, 
Nor  moves  her  hands  to  any  needful  work  : 
She  eats  her  food  which  every  day  the  peasants 
Bring  to  her  hut ;  and  so  the  Wretch  has  lived 
Ten  years  ;  and  no  one  ever  heard  her  voice ; 
But  every  night  at  the  first  stroke  of  twelve 
She  quits  her  house,  and,  in  the  neighbouring  Church- 
yard 390 
Upon  the  self-same  spot,  in  rain  or  storm, 
She  paces  out  the  hour  'twixt  twelve  and  one — 
She  paces  round  and  round  an  Infant's  grave, 
And  in  the  Churchyard  sod  her  feet  have  worn 

A  hollow  ring  ;  they  say  it  is  knee-deep 

Ah !  what  is  here  ? 

[A  female  Beggar  rises  up,  rubbing  her 
eyes  as  if  in  sleep — a  Child  in  her  arms. 

BEG.  Oh !  Gentlemen,  I  thank  you  ; 

I  've  had  the  saddest  dream  that  ever  troubled 
The  heart  of  living  creature. — My  poor  Babe 
Was  crying,  as  I  thought,  crying  for  bread 
When  I  had  none  to  give  him  ;  whereupon  400 

I  put  a  slip  of  foxglove  in  his  hand, 
Which  pleased  him  so,  that  he  was  hushed  at  once : 
When  into  one  of  those  same  spotted  bells 
A  bee  came  darting,  which  the  Child  with  joy 
Imprisoned  there,  and  held  it  to  his  ear, 
And  suddenly  grew  black,  as  he  would  die. 

MAR.  We  have  no  time  for  this,  my  babbling  Gossip ; 

Here's  what  will  comfort  you.  [Gives  her  money. 

BEG.  The  saints  reward  you 

For  this  good  deed  ! — Well,  Sirs,  this  passed  away; 
And  afterwards  I  fancied,  a  strange  dog,  410 

Trotting  alone  along  the  beaten  road, 
Came  to  my  child  as  by  my  side  he  slept, 
And,  fondling,  licked  his  face,  then  on  a  sudden 


ACT  i  ]  THE  BORDERERS  63 

Snapped  fierce  to  make  a  morsel  of  his  head : 

But  here  he  is  [kissing  the  Child],  it  must  have  been  a  dream. 

Osw.  When  next  inclined  to  sleep,  take  my  advice 
And  put  your  head,  good  Woman,  under  cover. 

BEG.  Oh,  Sir,  you  would  not  talk  thus,  if  you  knew 
What  life  is  this  of  ours,  how  sleep  will  master 
The  weary-worn. — You  gentlefolk  have  got  420 

Warm  chambers  to  your  wish.     I  'd  rather  be 
A  stone  than  what  I  am. — But  two  nights  gone, 
The  darkness  overtook  me — wind  and  rain 
Beat  hard  upon  my  head — and  yet  I  saw 
A  glow-worm,  through  the  covert  of  the  furze, 
Shine  calmly  as  if  nothing  ailed  the  sky  : 
At  which  I  half  accused  the  God  in  Heaven. — 
You  must  forgive  me. 

Osw.  Ay,  and  if  you  think 

The  Fairies  are  to  blame,  and  you  should  chide 
Your  favourite  saint — no  matter — this  good  day  430 

Has  made  amends. 

BEG.  Thanks  to  you  both  ;  but,  Oh  Sir  ! 

How  would  you  like  to  travel  on  whole  hours 
As  I  have  done,  my  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
Expecting  still,  I  know  not  how,  to  find 
A  piece  of  money  glittering  through  the  dust  ? 

MAR.  This  woman  is  a  prater.     Pray,  good  Lady  ! 
Do  you  tell  fortunes  ? 

BEG.  Oh  Sir,  you  are  like  the  rest. 

This  Little-one — it  cuts  me  to  the  heart — 
Well !  they  might  turn  a  beggar  from  their  doors, 
But  there  are  Mothers  who  can  see  the  Babe  440 

Here  at  my  breast,  and  ask  me  where  I  bought  it : 
This  they  can  do,  and  look  upon  my  face — 
But  you,  Sir,  should  be  kinder. 

MAR.  Come  hither,  Fathers, 

And  learn  what  nature  is  from  this  poor  Wretch  ! 

BEG.  Ay,  Sir,  there 's  nobody  that  feels  for  us. 
Why  now — but  yesterday  I  overtook 
A  blind  old  Greybeard  and  accosted  him, 
I'  th'  name  of  all  the  Saints,  and  by  the  Mass 
He  should  have  used  me  better  ! — Charity  ! 
If  you  can  melt  a  rock,  he  is  your  man ;  450 

But  I  '11  be  even  with  him — here  again 
Have  I  been  waiting  for  him. 

Osw.  Well,  but  softly, 

Who  is  it  that  hath  wronged  you  ? 

BEG.  Mark  you  me  ; 

I  '11  point  him  out ; — a  Maiden  is  his  guide, 


64  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  [ACT  i 

Lovely  as  Spring's  first  rose  ;  a  little  dog, 

Tied  by  a  woollen  cord,  moves  on  before 

With  look  as  sad  as  he  were  dumb  ;  the  cur, 

I  owe  him  no  ill  will,  but  in  good  sooth 

He  does  his  Master  credit. 
MAR.  As  I  live, 

Tis  Herbert  and  no  other  ! 
BEG.  'Tis  a  feast  to  see  him,          460 

Lank  as  a  ghost  and  tall,  his  shoulders  bent, 

And  long  beard  white  with  age — yet  evermore, 

As  if  he  were  the  only  Saint  on  earth, 

He  turns  his  face  to  heaven. 
Osw.  But  why  so  violent 

Against  this  venerable  Man  ? 
BEG.  I  '11  tell  you  : 

He  has  the  very  hardest  heart  on  earth ; 

I  had  as  lief  turn  to  the  Friar's  school 

And  knock  for  entrance,  in  mid  holiday. 
MAR.   But  to  your  story. 
BEG.  I  was  saying,  Sir — 

Well ! — he  has  often  spurned  me  like  a  toad,  470 

But  yesterday  was  worse  than  all ;  at  last 

I  overtook  him,  Sirs,  my  Babe  and  I, 

And  begged  a  little  aid  for  charity : 

But  he  was  snappish  as  a  cottage  cur. 

Well  then,  says  I — I  '11  out  with  it ;  at  which 

I  cast  a  look  upon  the  Girl,  and  felt 

As  if  my  heart  would  burst ;  and  so  I  left  him. 
Osw.  I  think,  good  Woman,  you  are  the  very  person 

Whom,  but  some  few  days  past,  I  saw  in  Eskdale, 

At  Herbert's  door. 
BEG.  Ay ;  and  if  truth  were  known         480 

I  have  good  business  there. 
Osw.  I  met  you  at  the  threshold, 

And  he  seemed  angry. 
BEG.  Angry  !  well  he  might ; 

And  long  as  I  can  stir  I  '11  dog  him. — Yesterday, 

To  serve  me  so,  and  knowing  that  he  owes 

The  best  of  all  he  has  to  me  and  mine. 

But  'tis  all  over  now.     That  good  old  Lady 

Has  left  a  power  of  riches ;  and  I  say  it, 

If  there  's  a  lawyer  in  the  land,  the  knave 

Shall  give  me  half. 
Osw.  What 's  this  ? — I  fear,  good  Woman, 

You  have  been  insolent. 
BEG.  And  there 's  the  Baron,  490 

I  spied  him  skulking  in  his  peasant's  dress. 


ACT  i]  THE  BORDERERS  65 

Osw.   How  say  you  ?  in  disguise  ? — 

MAR.  But  what 's  your  business 

With  Herbert  or  his  Daughter  ? 
BEG.  Daughter!  truly — 

But  how 's  the  day  ? — I  fear,  my  little  Boy, 

We  've  overslept  ourselves. — Sirs,  have  you  seen  him  ? 

[Offers  to  go. 
MAR.   I  must  have  more  of  this  ; — you  shall  not  stir 

An  inch,  till  I  am  answered.     Know  you  aught 

That  doth  concern  this  Herbert  ? 
BEG.  You  are  provoked, 

And  will  misuse  me,  Sir ! 

MAR.  No  trifling,  Woman  ! — 

Osw.  You  are  as  safe  as  in  a  sanctuary  ;  500 

Speak. 

MAR.  Speak ! 

BEG.  He  is  a  most  hard-hearted  Man. 

MAR.  Your  life  is  at  my  mercy. 
BEG.  Do  not  harm  me, 

And  I  will  tell  you  all ! — You  know  not,  Sir, 

What  strong  temptations  press  upon  the  Poor. 
Osw.  Speak  out. 

BEG.  Oh,  Sir,  I  've  been  a  wicked  Woman. 

Osw.  Nay,  but  speak  out ! 
BEG.  He  flattered  me,  and  said 

What  harvest  it  would  bring  us  both  ;  .and  so, 

I  parted  with  the  Child. 

MAR.  Parted  with  whom  ? 

BEG.  Idonea,  as  he  calls  her ;  but  the  Girl 

Is  mine. 

MAR.  Yours,  Woman  !  are  you  Herbert's  wife  ?        510 

BEG.  Wife,  Sir  !  his  wife — not  I ;  my  husband,  Sir, 

Was  of  Kirkoswald — many  a  snowy  winter 

We  've  weathered  out  together.     My  poor  Gilfred  ! 

He  has  been  two  years  in  his  grave. 
MAR.  Enough. 

Osw.  We  've  solved  the  riddle — Miscreant ! 
MAR.  Do  you, 

Good  Dame,  repair  to  Liddesdale  and  wait 

For  my  return ;  be  sure  you  shall  have  justice. 
Osw.  A  lucky  woman ! — go,  you  have  done  good  service. 

[Aside. 
MAR.  (to  himself").  Eternal  praises  on  the  power  that  saved 

her!— 

Osw.  (gives  her  money).     Here 's   for   your    little    boy — and 
when  you  christen  him  520 

I  '11  be  his  Godfather. 

l-E 


66  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  [ACT  n 

BEG.  Oh,  Sir,  you  are  merry  with  me. 

In  grange  or  farm  this  Hundred  scarcely  owns 
A  dog  that  does  not  know  me. — These  good  Folks, 
For  love  of  God,  I  must  not  pass  their  doors  ; 
But  I  '11  be  back  with  my  best  speed  :  for  you — 
God  bless  and  thank  you  both,  my  gentle  Masters. 

[Exit  Beggar. 

MAR.  (to  himself].  The  cruel  Viper  ! — Poor  devoted  Maid, 
Now  I  do  love  thee. 

Osw.  I  am  thunderstruck. 

MAR.  Where  is  she — holla ! 

[Calling  to  the  Beggar,  who  returns;  he 
looks  at  her  stedfostly. 

You  are  Idonea's  Mother? — 

Nay,  be  not  terrified — it  does  me  good  530 

To  look  upon  you. 

Osw.  (interrupting).       In  a  peasant's  dress 
You  saw,  who  was  it  ? 

BEG.  Nay,  I  dare  not  speak  ; 

He  is  a  man,  if  it  should  come  to  his  ears 
I  never  shall  be  heard  of  more. 

Osw.  Lord  Clifford  ? 

BEG.  What  can  I  do  ?  believe  me,  gentle  Sirs, 
I  love  her,  though  I  dare  not  call  her  daughter. 

Osw.  Lord  Clifford — did  you  see  him  talk  with  Herbert  ? 

BEG.   Yes,  to  my  sorrow — under  the  great  oak 
At  Herbert's  door — and  when  he  stood  beside 
The  blind  Man — at  the  silent  Girl  he  looked  540 

With  such  a  look — it  makes  me  tremble,  Sir, 
To  think  of  it. 

Osw.  Enough  !  you  may  depart. 

MAR.  (to  himself].    Father ! — to  God  himself  we  cannot  give 
A  holier  name ;  and,  under  such  a  mask, 
To  lead  a  Spirit,  spotless  as  the  blessed, 
To  that  abhorred  den  of  brutish' vice  ! — 
Oswald,  the  firm  foundation  of  my  life 
Is  going  from  under  me  ;  these  strange  discoveries — 
Looked  at  from  every  point  of  fear  or  hope, 
Duty,  or  love — involve,  I  feel,  my  ruin.  550 

ACT  II 

SCENE — A  Chamber  in  the  Hostel — OSWALD  alone,  rising  from  a 
Table  on  which  he  had  been  writing 

Osw.  They  chose  him  for  their  Chief ! — what  covert  part 
He,  in  the  preference,  modest  Youth,  might  take, 


ACT  n]  THE  BORDERERS  67 

I  neither  know  nor  care.     The  insult  bred 

More  of  contempt  than  hatred ;  both  are  flown  ; 

That  either  e'er  existed  is  my  shame  : 

'Twas  a  dull  spark — a  most  unnatural  fire 

That  died  the  moment  the  air  breathed  upon  it. 

— These  fools  of  feeling  are  mere  birds  of  winter 

That  haunt  some  barren  island  of  the  north, 

Where,  if  a  famishing  man  stretch  forth  his  hand,  560 

They  think  it  is  to  feed  them.     I  have  left  him 

To  solitary  meditation  ; — now 

For  a  few  swelling  phrases,  and  a  flash 

Of  truth,  enough  to  dazzle  and  to  blind, 

And  he  is  mine  for  ever — here  he  comes. 

Enter  MARMADUKE 

MAR.  These  ten  years  she  has  moved  her  lips  all  day 
And  never  speaks  ! 

Osw.  Who  is  it  ? 

MAR.  I  have  seen  her. 

Osw.  Oh  !  the  poor  tenant  of  that  ragged  homestead, 
Her  whom  the  Monster,  Clifford,  drove  to  madness. 

MAR.   I  met  a  peasant  near  the  spot ;  he  told  me,  570 

These  ten  years  she  had  sate  all  day  alone 
Within  those  empty  walls. 

Osw.  I  too  have  seen  her ; 

Chancing  to  pass  this  way  some  six  months  gone, 
At  midnight,  I  betook  me  to  the  Churchyard  : 
The  moon  shone  clear,  the  air  was  still,  so  still 
The  trees  were  silent  as  the  graves  beneath  them. 
Long  did  I  watch,  and  saw  her  pacing  round 
Upon  the  self-same  spot,  still  round  and  round, 
Her  lips  for  ever  moving. 

MAR.  At  her  door 

Rooted  I  stood ;  for,  looking  at  the  woman,  580 

I  thought  I  saw  the  skeleton  of  Idonea. 

Osw.     But  the  pretended  Father 

MAR.  Earthly  law 

Measures  not  crimes  like  his. 

Osw.  We  rank  not,  happily, 

With  those  who  take  the  spirit  of  their  rule 
From  that  soft  class  of  devotees  who  feel 
Reverence  for  life  so  deeply,  that  they  spare 
The  verminous  brood,  and  cherish  what  they  spare 
While  feeding  on  their  bodies.     Would  that  Idonea 
Were  present,  to  the  end  that  we  might  hear 
What  she  can  urge  in  his  defence  ;  she  loves  him.  590 


68  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  [ACT  n 

MAR.  Yes,  loves  him  ;  'tis  a  truth  that  multiplies 
His  guilt  a  thousand-fold. 

Osw.  "Tis  most  perplexing  : 

What  must  be  done  ? 

MAR.  We  will  conduct  her  hither  ; 

These  walls  shall  witness  it — from  first  to  last 
He  shall  reveal  himself. 

Osw.  Happy  are  we, 

Who  live  in  these  disputed  tracts,  that  own 
No  law  but  what  each  man  makes  for  himself; 
Here  justice  has  indeed  a  field  of  triumph. 

MAR.  Let  us  begone  and  bring  her  hither ; — here 

The  truth  shall  be  laid  open,  his  guilt  proved  600 

Before  her  face.     The  rest  be  left  to  me. 

Osw.  You  will  be  firm :  but  though  we  well  may  trust 
The  issue  to  the  justice  of  the  cause, 
Caution  must  not  be  flung  aside ;  remember, 
Yours  is  no  common  life.     Self-stationed  here, 
Upon  these  savage  confines,  we  have  seen  you 
Stand  like  an  isthmus  'twixt  two  stormy  seas 
That  oft  have  checked  their  fury  at  your  bidclin 
'  Mid  the  deep  holds  of  Sol  way 's  mossy  waste, 
Your  single  virtue  has  transformed  a  Band  610 

Of  fierce  barbarians  into  Ministers 
Of  peace  and  order.     Aged  men  with  tears 
Have  blessed  their  steps,  the  fatherless  retire 
For  shelter  to  their  banners.     But  it  is, 
As  you  must  needs  have  deeply  felt,  it  is 
In  darkness  and  in  tempest  that  we  seek 
The  majesty  of  Him  who  rules  the  world. 
Benevolence,  that  has  not  heart  to  use 
The  wholesome  ministry  of  pain  and  evil, 
Becomes  at  last  weak  and  contemptible.  fco 

Your  generous  qualities  have  won  due  praise, 
But  vigorous  Spirits  look  for  something  more 
Than  Youth's  spontaneous  products  ;  and  to-day 
You  will  not  disappoint  them  ;  and  hereafter 

MAR.  You  are  wasting  words ;  hear  me  then,  once  for  all : 
You  are  a  Man — and  therefore,  if  compassion, 
Which  to  our  kind  is  natural  as  life, 
Be  known  unto  you,  you  will  love  this  Woman, 
Even  as  I  do ;  but  I  should  loathe  the  light, 
If  I  could  think  one  weak  or  partial  feeling 630 

Osw.  You  will  forgive  me 

MAR.  If  I  ever  knew 

My  heart,  could  penetrate  its  inmost  core, 
'Tis  at  this  moment. — Oswald,  I  have  loved 


ACT  n]  THE  BORDERERS  69 

To  be  the  friend  and  father  of  the  oppressed, 

A  comforter  of  sorrow ; — there  is  something 

Which  looks  like  a  transition  in  my  soul. 

And  yet  it  is  not. — Let  us  lead  him  hither. 
Osw.  Stoop  for  a  moment ;  'tis  an  act  of  justice  ; 

And  where  's  the  triumph  if  the  delegate 

Must  fall  in  the  execution  of  his  office  ?  640 

The  deed  is  done — if  you  will  have  it  so — 

Here  where  we  stand — that  tribe  of  vulgar  wretches 

(You  saw  them  gathering  for  the  festival) 

Rush  in — the  villains  seize  us 

MAR.  Seize ! 

Osw.  Yes,  they — 

Men  who  are  little  given  to  sift  and  weigh — 

Would  wreak  on  us  the  passion  of  the  moment. 
MAR.  The  cloud  will  soon  disperse — farewell — but  stay, 

Thou  wilt  relate  the  story. 
Osw.  Am  I  neither 

To  bear  a  part  in  this  Man's  punishment, 

Nor  be  its  witness  ? 
MAR.  I  had  many  hopes  650 

That  were  most  dear  to  me,  and  some  will  bear 

To  be  transferred  to  thee. 

Osw.  When  I  'm  dishonoured  ! 

MAR.  I  would  preserve  thee.     How  may  this  be  done  ? 
Osw.  By  showing  that  you  look  beyond  the  instant. 

A  few  leagues  hence  we  shall  have  open  ground, 

And  nowhere  upon  earth  is  place  so  fit 

To  look  upon  the  deed.     Before  we  enter 

The  barren  Moor,  hangs  from  a  beetling  rock 

The  shattered  Castle  in  which  Clifford  oft 

Has  held  infernal  orgies — with  the  gloom,  660 

The  very  superstition  of  the  place, 

Seasoning  his  wickedness.     The  Debauchee 

Would  there  perhaps  have  gathered  the  first  fruits 

Of  this  mock  Father's  guilt. 

Enter  Host  conducting  HERBERT 

HOST.  The  Baron  Herbert 

Attends  your  pleasure. 
Osw.  (to  Host).  WTe  are  ready —  4 

(to  HERBERT)  Sir ! 

I  hope  you  are  refreshed. — I  have  just  written 
A  notice  for  your  Daughter,  that  she  may  know 
What  is  become  of  you. — You  '11  sit  down  and  sign  it ; 
'Twill  glad  her  heart  to  see  her  father's  signature. 

[Gives  the  letter  he  had  written. 


70  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  [ACT  n 

HER.  Thanks  for  your  care.  [Sits  down  and  writes.    Exit  Host. 
Osw.  (aside  to  MARMADUKE).  Perhaps  it  would  be  useful     670 
That  you  too  should  subscribe  your  name. 

[MARMADUKE    overlooks   HERBERT — then  writes — 

examines  the  letter  eagerly. 

MAR.  I  cannot  leave  this  paper.  [He  puts  it  up,  agitated. 

Osw.  (aside).  Dastard  !     Come. 

[MARMADUKE  goes  towards  HERBERT  and  supports 
him — MARMADUKE  tremblingly  beckons  OSWALD 
to  take  his  place. 

MAR.  (as  he  quits  HERBERT).  There  is  a  palsy  in  his  limbs — 
he  shakes. 

[Exeunt  OSWALD  and  HERBERT — MARMADUKE  following. 


SCENE  changes  to  a  Wood — a  Group  of  Pilgrims  and 
IDONEA  with  them 

FIRST  PIL.  A  grove  of  darker  and  more  lofty  shade 
I  never  saw. 

SEC.  PIL.  The  music  of  the  birds 

Drops  deadened  from  a  roof  so  thick  with  leaves. 

OLD  PIL.  This  news  !  it  made  my  heart  leap  up  with  joy. 

IDON.     I  scarcely  can  believe  it. 

OLD  PIL.  Myself,  I  heard 

The  Sheriff  read,  in  open  Court,  a  letter 
Which  purported  it  was  the  royal  pleasure  680 

The  Baron  Herbert,  who,  as  was  supposed, 
Had  taken  refuge  in  this  neighbourhood, 
Should  be  forthwith  restored.     The  hearing,  Lady, 
Filled  my  dim  eyes  with  tears. — When  I  returned 
From  Palestine,  and  brought  with  me  a  heart, 
Though  rich  in  heavenly,  poor  in  earthly,  comfort, 
I  met  your  Father,  then  a  wandering  Outcast : 
He  had  a  Guide,  a  Shepherd's  boy ;  but  grieved 
He  was  that  One  so  young  should  pass  his  youth 
In  such  sad  service ;  and  he  parted  with  him.  690 

We  joined  our  tales  of  wretchedness  together, 
And  begged  our  daily  bread  from  door  to  door. 
I  talk  familiarly  to  you,  sweet  Lady  ! 
For  once  you  loved  me. 

IDON.  You  shall  back  with  me 

And  see  your  Friend  again.     The  good  old  Man 
Will  be  rejoiced  to  greet  you. 

OLD  PIL.  It  seems  but  yesterday 

That  a  fierce  storm  o'ertook  us,  worn  with  travel, 
In  a  deep  wood  remote  from  any  town. 


ACT  H]  THE  BORDERERS  71 

A  cave  that  opened  to  the  road  presented 

A  friendly  shelter,  and  we  entered  in.  700 

I  DON.  And  I  was  with  you  ? 
OLD  PIL.  If  indeed  'twas  you — 

But  you  were  then  a  tottering  Little-one — 

We  sate  us  down.     The  sky  grew  dark  and  darker  : 

I  struck  my  flint,  and  built  up  a  small  fire 

With  rotten  boughs  and  leaves,  such  as  the  winds 

Of  many  autumns  in  the  cave  had  piled. 

Meanwhile  the  storm  fell  heavy  on  the  woods ; 

Our  little  fire  sent  forth  a  cheering  warmth 

And  we  were  comforted,  and  talked  of  comfort ; 

But  'twas  an  angry  night,  and  o'er  our  heads  710 

The  thunder  rolled  in  peals  that  would  have  made 

A  sleeping  man  uneasy  in  his  bed. 

0  Lady,  you  have  need  to  love  your  Father. 
His  voice — methinks  I  hear  it  now,  his  voice 
When,  after  a  broad  flash  that  filled  the  cave, 
He  said  to  me,  that  he  had  seen  his  Child, 

A  face  (no  cherub's  face  more  beautiful) 
Revealed  by  lustre  brought  with  it  from  Heaven  ; 
And  it  was  you,  dear  Lady  ! 
I  DON.  God  be  praised, 

That  I  have  been  his  comforter  till  now  !  720 

And  will  be  so  through  every  change  of  fortune 
And  every  sacrifice  his  peace  requires. — 
Let  us  be  gone  with  speed,  that  he  may  hear 
These  joyful  tidings  from  no  lips  but  mine. 

[Exeunt  IDONEA  and  Pilgrims. 

SCENE — The  Area  of  a  half-ruined  Castle — on  one  side  the 
entrance  to  a  dungeon — OSWALD  and  MARMADUKE  pacing 
backwards  and  forwards 

MAR.  'Tis  a  wild  night. 

Osw.  I  'd  give  my  cloak  and  bonnet 

For  sight  of  a  warm  fire. 
MAR.  The  wind  blows  keen  ; 

My  hands  are  numb. 
Osw.  Ha  !  ha  !  'tis  nipping  cold. 

[Blowing  hisjivgers. 

1  long  for  news  of  our  brave  Comrades  ;  Lacy 
Would  drive  those  Scottish  Rovers  to  their  dens 

If  once  they  blew  a  horn  this  side  the  Tweed.  730 

MAR.   I  think  I  see  a  second  range  of  Towers ; 
This  castle  has  another  Area — come, 
Let  us  examine  it. 


72  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  [ACT  11 

Osw.  'Tis  a  bitter  night ; 

I  hope  Idonea  is  well  housed.     That  horseman, 

Who  at  full  speed  swept  by  us  where  the  wood 

Roared  in  the  tempest,  was  within  an  ace 

Of  sending  to  his  grave  our  precious  Charge  : 

That  would  have  been  a  vile  mischance. 
MAR.  It  would. 

Osw.  Justice  had  been  most  cruelly  defrauded. 
MAR.  Most  cruelly. 
Osw.  As  up  the  steep  we  clomb,  740 

I  saw  a  distant  fire  in  the  north-east ; 

I  took  it  for  the  blaze  of  Cheviot  Beacon  : 

With  proper  speed  our  quarters  may  be  gained 

To-morrow  evening. 

[Looks  restlessly  towards  the  mouth  of  the 

dungeon. 
MAR.  When,  upon  the  plank, 

I  had  led  him  'cross  the  torrent,  his  voice  blessed  me : 

You  could  not  hear,  for  the  foam  beat  the  rocks 

With  deafening  noise, — the  benediction  fell 

Back  on  himself;  but  changed  into  a  curse. 
Osw.  As  well  indeed  it  might. 
MAR.  And  this  you  deem 

The  fittest  place  ? 

Osw.  (aside).  He  is  growing  pitiful.  750 

MAR.  (listening).     What  an  odd  moaning  that  is  ! — 
Osw.  Mighty  odd 

The  wind  should  pipe  a  little,  while  we  stand 

Cooling  our  heels  in  this  way  ! — I  '11  begin 

And  count  the  stars. 
MAR.  (still  listening).        That  dog  of  his,  you  are  sure, 

Could  not  come  after  us — he  must  have  perished ; 

The  torrent  would  have  dashed  an  oak  to  splinters. 

You  said  you  did  not  like  his  looks — that  he 

Would  trouble  us  ;  if  he  were  here  again, 

I  swear  the  sight  of  him  would  quail  me  more 

Than  twenty  armies. 
Osw.  How  ? 

MAR.  The  old  blind  Man,         760 

When  you  had  told  him  the  mischance,  was  troubled 

Even  to  the  shedding  of  some  natural  tears 

Into  the  torrent  over  which  he  hung, 

Listening  in  vain. 
Osw.  He  has  a  tender  heart ! 

[OSWALD  offers  to  go  down  into  the  dungeon. 
MAR.  How  now,  what  mean  you  ? 
Osw.  Truly,  I  was  going 


ACT  nj  THE  BORDERERS  73 

To  waken  our  stray  Baron.     Were  there  not 
A  farm  or  dwelling-house  within  five  leagues, 
We  should  deserve  to  wear  a  cap  and  bells, 
Three  good  round  years,  for  playing  the  fool  here 
In  such  a  night  as  this. 

MAR.  Stop,  stop. 

Osw.  Perhaps,  770 

You  'd  better  like  we  should  descend  together, 
And  lie  down  by  his  side — what  say  you  to  it  ? 
Three  of  us — we  should  keep  each  other  warm  : 
I  '11  answer  for  it  that  our  four-legged  friend 
Shall  not  disturb  us ;  further  I  '11  not  engage  ; 
Come,  come,  for  manhood's  sake  ! 

MAR.  These  drowsy  shiverings, 

This  mortal  stupor  which  is  creeping  over  me, 
What  do  they  mean  ?  were  this  my  single  body 
Opposed  to  armies,  not  a  nerve  would  tremble  : 
Why  do  I  tremble  now  ? — Is  not  the  depth  780 

Of  this  Man's  crimes  beyond  the  reach  of  thought  ? 
And  yet,  in  plumbing  the  abyss  for  judgment, 
Something  I  strike  upon  which  turns  my  mind 
Back  on  herself,  I  think,  again — my  breast 
Concentres  all  the  terrors  of  the  Universe : 
I  look  at  him  and  tremble  like  a  child. 

Osw.  Is  it  possible  ? 

MAR.  One  thing  you  noticed  not : 

Just  as  we  left  the  glen  a  clap  of  thunder 
Burst  on  the  mountains  with  hell-rousing  force. 
This  is  a  time,  said  he,  when  guilt  may  shudder ;  790 

But  there 's  a  Providence  for  them  who  walk 
In  helplessness,  when  innocence  is  with  them. 
At  this  audacious  blasphemy,  I  thought 
The  spirit  of  vengeance  seemed  to  ride  the  air. 

Osw.  Why  are  you  not  the  man  you  were  that  moment  ? 

[He  draws  MARMADUKE  to  the  dungeon. 

MAR.  You  say  he  was  asleep, — look  at  this  arm, 
And  tell  me  if  'tis  fit  for  such  a  work. 
Oswald,  Oswald  !  [Leans  upon  OSWALD. 

Osw.  This  is  some  sudden  seizure ! 

MAR.  A  most  strange  faintness, — will  you  hunt  me  out 
A  draught  of  water  ? 

Osw.  Nay,  to  see  you  thus  800 

Moves  me  beyond  my  bearing. — I  will  try 
To  gain  the  torrent's  brink. 

[Exit  OSWALD. 

MAR.  (after  a  pause).  It  seems  an  age 

Since  that  Man  left  me. — No,  I  am  not  lost. 


74  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  [ACT  it 

HER.  (at  the  mouth  of  the  dungeon).     Give  me  your  hand  ; 
where  are  you,  Friends  ?  and  tell  me 

How  goes  the  night. 
MAR.  'Tis  hard  to  measure  time, 

In  such  a  weary  night,  and  such  a  place. 
HER.  I  do  not  hear  the  voice  of  my  friend  Oswald. 
MAR.  A  minute  past,  he  went  to  fetch  a  draught 

Of  water  from  the  torrent.     'Tis,  you  '11  say, 

A  cheerless  beverage. 
HER.  How  good  it  was  in  you  810 

To  stay  behind  ! — Hearing  at  first  no  answer, 

I  was  alarmed. 
MAR.  No  wonder  ;  this  is  a  place 

That  well  may  put  some  fears  into  your  heart. 
HER.   Why  so  ?  a.  roofless  rock  had  been  a  comfort, 

Storm-beaten  and  bewildered  as  we  were ; 

And  in  a  night  like  this  to  lend  your  cloaks 

To  make  a  bed  for  me ! — My  Girl  will  weep 

When  she  is  told  of  it. 
MAR.  This  Daughter  of  yours 

Is  very  dear  to  you. 
HER.  Oh  !  but  you  are  young  ; 

Over  your  head  twice  twenty  years  must  roll,  820 

With  all  their  natural  weight  of  sorrow  and  pain, 

Ere  can  be  known  to  you  how  much  a  Father 

May  love  his  Child. 
MAR.  Thank  you,  old  Man,  for  this  ! 

[Aside. 
HER.  Fallen  am  I,  and  worn  out,  a  useless  Man  ; 

Kindly  have  you  protected  me  to-night, 

And  no  return  have  I  to  make  but  prayers ; 

May  you  in  age  be  blest  with  such  a  daughter ! — 

When  from  the  Holy  Land  I  had  returned 

Sightless,  and  from  my  heritage  was  driven, 

A  wretched  Outcast — but  this  strain  of  thought  830 

Would  lead  me  to  talk  fondly. 
MAR.  Do  not  fear ; 

Your  words  are  precious  to  my  ears ;  go  on. 
HER.  You  will  forgive  me,  but  my  heart  runs  over. 

When  my  old  Leader  slipped  into  the  flood 

And  perished,  what  a  piercing  outcry  you 

Sent  after  him.     I  have  loved  you  ever  since. 

You  start — where  are  we  ? 
MAR.  Oh,  there  is  no  danger ; 

The  cold  blast  struck  me. 

HER.  'Twas  a  foolish  question. 

MAR.  But  when  you  were  an  Outcast? — Heaven  is  just; 


ACT  11]  THE  BORDERERS  75 

Your  piety  would  not  miss  its  due  reward ;  840 

The  little  Orphan  then  would  be  your  succour, 

And  do  good  service,  though  she  knew  it  not. 
HER.  I  turned  me  from  the  dwellings  of  my  Fathers, 

Where  none  but  those  who  trampled  on  my  rights 

Seemed  to  remember  me.     To  the  wide  world 

I  bore  her,  in  my  arms  ;  her  looks  won  pity  ; 

She  was  my  Raven  in  the  wilderness, 

And  brought  me  food.     Have  I  not  cause  to  love  her  ? 
MAR.  Yes. 

HER.  More  than  ever  Parent  loved  a  Child? 

MAR.  Yes,  yes. 
HER.  I  will  not  murmur,  merciful  God !  850 

I  will  not  murmur ;  blasted  as  I  have  been, 

Thou  hast  left  me  ears  to  hear  my  Daughter's  voice, 

And  arms  to  fold  her  to  my  heart.     Submissively 

Thee  I  adore,  and  find  my  rest  in  faith. 

Enter  OSWALD 

Osw.  Herbert ! — confusion  !  (aside).     Here  it  is,  my  Friend, 

[Presents  the  Horn. 

A  charming  beverage  for  you  to  carouse, 

This  bitter  night. 
HER.  Ha !  Oswald  !  ten  bright  crosses 

I  would  have  given,  not  many  minutes  gone, 

To  have  heard  your  voice. 
Osw.  Your  couch,  I  fear,  good  Baron, 

Has  been  but  comfortless ;  and  yet  that  place,  860 

When  the  tempestuous  wind  first  drove  us  hither, 

Felt  warm  as  a  wren's  nest.     You  'd  better  turn 

And  under  covert  rest  till  break  of  day, 

Or  till  the  storm  abate. 

(To  MARMADUKE  aside).     He  has  restored  you. 

No  doubt  you  have  been  nobly  entertained  ? 

But  soft ! — how  came  he  forth  ?      The  Night-mare  Con- 
science 

Has  driven  him  out  of  harbour  ? 
MAR.  I  believe 

You  have  guessed  right. 
HER.  The  trees  renew  their  murmur : 

Come,  let  us  house  together. 

[OSWALD  conducts  him  to  the  dungeon. 
Osw.  (returns}.  Had  I  not 

Esteemed  you  worthy  to  conduct  the  affair  870 

To  its  most  fit  conclusion,  do  you  think 

I  would  so  long  have  struggled  with  my  Nature, 

And  smothered  all  that 's  man  in  me  ? — away  ! — 

[Looking  towards  the  dungeon 


76  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  [ACT  n 

This  man 's  the  property  of  him  who  best 

Can  feel  his  crimes.     I  have  resigned  a  privilege  ; 

It  now  becomes  my  duty  to  resume  it. 

MAR.  Touch  not  a  finger 

Osw.  What  then  must  be  done  ? 

MAR.  Which  way  soe'er  I  turn,  I  am  perplexed. 

Osw.  Now,  on  my  life,  I  grieve  for  you.     The  misery 

Of  doubt  is  insupportable.     Pity,  the  facts  880 

Did  not  admit  of  stronger  evidence  ; 
Twelve  honest  men,  plain  men,  would  set  us  right ; 
Their  verdict  would  abolish  these  weak  scruples. 

MAR.  Weak  !  I  am  weak — there  does  my  torment  lie, 
Feeding  itself. 

Osw.  Verily,  when  he  said 

How  his  old  heart  would  leap  to  hear  her  steps, 
You  thought  his  voice  the  echo  of  Idonea's. 

MAR.  And  never  heard  a  sound  so  terrible. 

Osw.  Perchance  you  think  so  now  ? 

MAR.  I  cannot  do  it : 

Twice  did  I  spring  to  grasp  his  withered  throat,  890 

When  such  a  sudden  weakness  fell  upon  me, 
I  could  have  dropped  asleep  upon  his  breast. 

Osw.  Justice — is  there  not  thunder  in  the  word  ? 
Shall  it  be  law  to  stab  the  petty  robber 
Who  aims  but  at  our  purse  ;  and  shall  this  Parricide — 
Worse  is  he  far,  far  worse  (if  foul  dishonour 
Be  worse  than  death)  to  that  confiding  Creature 
Whom  he  to  more  than  filial  love  and  duty 
Hath  falsely  trained — shall  he  fulfil  his  purpose  ? 
But  you  are  fallen. 

MAR.  Fallen  should  I  be  indeed —  900 

Murder — perhaps  asleep,  blind,  old,  alone, 
Betrayed,  in  darkness!     Here  to  strike  the  blow — 
Away  !  away  ! [Flings  away  his  stvord. 

Osw.  Nay,  I  have  done  with  you  : 

We  '11  lead  him  to  the  Convent.     He  shall  live, 
And  she  shall  love  him.     With  unquestioned  title 
He  shall  be  seated  in  his  Barony, 
And  we  too  chant  the  praise  of  his  good  deeds. 
I  now  perceive  we  do  mistake  our  masters, 
And  most  despise  the  men  who  best  can  teach  us : 
Henceforth  it  shall  be  said  that  bad  men  only  910 

Are  brave  :  Clifford  is  brave  ;  and  that  old  Man 
Is  brave.      [Taking  MARMADUKE'S  srvord  and  giving  it  to  him. 

To  Clifford's  arms  he  would  have  led 
His  Victim — haply  to  this  desolate  house. 

MAR.  (advancing  to  the  dungeon).     It  must  be  ended  ! — 


ACT  n]  THE  BORDERERS  77 

Osw.  Softly  ;  do  not  rouse  him  ; 

He  will  deny  it  to  the  last.     He  lies 
Within  the  Vault,  a  spear's  length  to  the  left. 

[MARMADUKE  descends  to  the  dungeon. 
(Alone).  The  Villains  rose  in  mutiny  to  destroy  me ; 
I  could  have  quelled  the  Cowards,  but  this  Stripling 
Must  needs  step  in,  and  save  my  life.     The  look 
With  which  he  gave  the  boon — I  see  it  now  !  920 

The  same  that  tempted  me  to  loathe  the  gift. — 
For  this  old  venerable  Grey-beard — faith 
'Tis  his  own  fault  if  he  hath  got  a  face 
Which  doth  play  tricks  with  them  that  look  on  it : 
'Twas  this  that  put  it  in  my  thoughts — that  countenance — 
His  staff — his  figure — Murder ! — what,  of  whom  ? 
We  kill  a  worn-out  horse,  and  who  but  women 
Sigh  at  the  deed  ?     Hew  down  a  withered  tree, 
And  none  look  grave  but  dotards.     He  may  live 
To  thank  me  for  this  service.      Rainbow  arches,  930 

Highways  of  dreaming  passion,  have  too  long, 
Young  as  he  is,  diverted  wish  and  hope 
From  the  unpretending  ground  we  mortals  tread  ; — 
Then  shatter  the  delusion,  break  it  up 
And  set  him  free.     What  follows  ?     I  have  learned 
That  things  will  work  to  ends  the  slaves  o'  the  world 
Do  never  dream  of.     I  have  been  what  he — 
This  Boy — when  he  comes  forth  with  bloody  hands — 
Might  envy,  and  am  now, — but  he  shall  know 
What  I  am  now —  [Goes  and  listens  at  the  dungeon. 

Praying  or  parleying  ? — tut !  940 

Is  he  not  eyeless  ?     He  has  been  half-dead 
These  fifteen  years 

Enter  female  Beggar  with  two  or  three  of  her  Companions 

(Turning  abruptly).  Ha  !  speak — what  Thing  art  thou  ? 

(Recognises  her).     Heavens  !  my  good  Friend  !         [To  her. 

BEG.  Forgive  me,  gracious  Sir  ! — 

Osw.  (to  her  companions).      Begone,  ye  slaves,  or  I  will  raise 

a  whirlwind 
And  send  ye  dancing  to  the  clouds,  like  leaves. 

[They  retire  affrighted. 

BEG.   Indeed  we  meant  no  harm ;  we  lodge  sometimes 
In  this  deserted  Castle — /  repent  me. 

[OSWALD  goes  to  the  dungeon — listens — 

returns  to  the  Beggar. 

Osw.  Woman,  thou  hast  a  helpless  Infant — keep 
Thy  secret  for  its  sake,  or  verily 
That  wretched  life  of  thine  shall  be  the  forfeit.  95° 


78  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  [ACT  IT 

BEG.  I  do  repent  me,  Sir  ;  I  fear  the  curse 

Of  that  blind  Man.     'Twas  not  your  money,  Sir, 

Osw.  Begone ! 

BEG.  (going).        There  is  some  wicked  deed  in  hand  :  [Aside. 
Would  I  could  find  the  old  Man  and  his  Daughter. 

[Exit  Beggar. 

MARMADUKE  re-enters  from  the  dungeon 
Osw.  It  is  all  over  then ; — your  foolish  fears 

Are  hushed  to  sleep,  by  your  own  act  and  deed, 

Made  quiet  as  he  is. 
MAR.  Why  came  you  down  ? 

And  when  I  felt  your  hand  upon  my  arm 

And  spake  to  you,  why  did  you  give  no  answer  ? 

Feared  you  to  waken  him  ?  he  must  have  been  960 

In  a  deep  sleep.     I  whispered  to  him  thrice. 

There  are  the  strangest  echoes  in  that  place  ! 
Osw.  Tut !  let  them  gabble  till  the  day  of  doom. 
MAR.  Scarcely,  by  groping,  had  I  reached  the  Spot, 

When  round  my  wrist  I  felt  a  cord  drawn  tight, 

As  if  the  blind  Man's  dog  were  pulling  at  it. 
Osw.  But  after  that  ? 
MAR.  The  features  of  Idonea 

Lurked  in  his  face 

Osw.  Psha !  Never  to  these  eyes 

Will  retribution  show  itself  again 

With  aspect  so  inviting.     Why  forbid  me  970 

To  share  your  triumph  ? 
MAR.  Yes,  her  very  look, 

Smiling  in  sleep 

Osw.  A  pretty  feat  of  Fancy ! 

MAR.  Though  but  a  glimpse,  it  sent  me  to  my  prayers. 
Osw.  Is  he  alive  ? 

MAR.  What  mean  you  ?  who  alive  ? 

Osw.  Herbert !  since  you  will  have  it,  Baron  Herbert  ; 

He  who  will  gain  his  Seignory  when  Idonea 

Hath  become  Clifford's  harlot — is  he  living? 
MAR.  The  old  Man  in  that  dungeon  is  alive. 
Osw.    Henceforth,  then,  will  I  never  in  camp  or  field 

Obey  you  more.     Your  weakness,  to  the  Band,  980 

Shall  be  proclaimed :  brave  Men,  they  all  shall  hear  it. 

You  a  protector  of  humanity  ! 

Avenger  you  of  outraged  innocence  ! 
MAR.  'Twas  dark — dark  as  the  grave  ;  yet  did  I  see, 

Saw  him — his  face  turned  toward  me  ;  and  I  tell  thee 

Idonea's  filial  countenance  was  there 

To  baffle  me — it  put  me  to  my  prayers. 


ACT  n]  THE  BORDERERS  79 

Upwards  I  cast  my  eyes,  and,  through  a  crevice, 

Beheld  a  star  twinkling  above  my  head, 

And,  by  the  living  God,  I  could  not  do  it.  990 

[Sinks  exhausted. 
Osw.  (to  himself).     Now  may  I  perish  if  this  turn  do  more 

Than  make  me  change  my  course. 

(To  MARMADUKE).  Dear  Marmaduke, 

My  words  were  rashly  spoken ;  I  recall  them  : 

I  feel  my  error;  shedding  human  blood 

Is  a  most  serious  thing. 
MAR.  Not  I  alone, 

Thou  too  art  deep  in  guilt. 
Osw.  We  have  indeed 

Been  most  presumptuous.     There  is  guilt  in  this, 

Else  could  so  strong  a  mind  have  ever  known 

These  trepidations  ?     Plain  it  is  that  Heaven 

Has  marked  out  this  foul  Wretch  as  one  whose  crimes 

Must  never  come  before  a  mortal  judgment-seat,  1001 

Or  be  chastised  by  mortal  instruments. 
MAR.  A  thought  that 's  worth  a  thousand  worlds  ! 

[Goes  towards  the  dungeon. 
Osw.  I  grieve 

That,  in  my  zeal,  I  have  caused  you  so  much  pain. 
MAR.  Think  not  of  that !  'tis  over — we  are  safe. 
Osw.  (as  if  to  himself,  yet  speaking  aloud}.  The  truth  is  hideous, 
but  how  stifle  it?  [Turning  to  MARMADUKE. 

Give  me  your  sword — nay,  here  are  stones  and  fragments, 

The  least  of  which  would  beat  out  a  man's  brains  ; 

Or  you  might  drive  your  head  against  that  wall. 

No  !  this  is  not  the  place  to  hear  the  tale :  1010 

It  should  be  told  you  pinioned  in  your  bed, 

Or  on  some  vast  and  solitary  plain 

Blown  to  you  from  a  trumpet. 
MAR.  Why  talk  thus  ? 

Whate'er  the  monster  brooding  in  your  breast 

I  care  not :  fear  I  have  none,  and  cannot  fear 

\The  sound  of  a  horn  is  heard. 

That  horn  again — 'Tis  some  one  of  our  Troop  ; 

What  do  they  here  ?     Listen ! 
Osw.  What !  dogged  like  thieves  ! 

Enter  WALLACE  and  LACY,  etc. 

LACY.  You  are  found  at  last,  thanks  to  the  vagrant  Troop 

For  not  misleading  us. 
Osw.  (looking  at  WALLACE).  That  subtle  Grey-beard — 

I  'd  rather  see  my  father's  ghost. 


80  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  [ACT  n 

LACY  (to  MARMADUKE).  My  Captain,  1020 

We  come  by  order  of  the  Band.     Belike 
You  have  not  heard  that  Henry  has  at  last 
Dissolved  the  Barons'  League,  and  sent  abroad 
His  Sheriffs  with  fit  force  to  reinstate 
The  genuine  owners  of  such  Lands  and  Baronies 
As,  in  these  long  commotions,  have  been  seized. 
His  Power  is  this  way  tending.      It  befits  us 
To  stand  upon  our  guard,  and  with  our  swords 
Defend  the  innocent. 

MAR.  Lacy !  we  look 

But  at  the  surfaces  of  things ;  we  hear  1030 

Of  towns  in  flames,  fields  ravaged,  young  and  old 

Driven  out  in  troops  to  want  and  nakedness ; 

Then  grasp  our  swords  and  rush  upon  a  cure 

That  flatters  us,  because  it  asks  not  thought : 

The  deeper  malady  is  better  hid ; 

The  world  is  poisoned  at  the  heart. 

LACY.  What  mean  you  ? 

WAL.  (whose  eye  has  been  fixed  suspiciously  upon  OSWALD).  Ay, 
what  is  it  you  mean  ? 

MAR.  Harkee,  my  Friends; — 

[Appearing  gay. 

Were  there  a  Man  who,  being  weak  and  helpless 
And  most  forlorn,  should  bribe  a  Mother,  pressed 
By  penury,  to  yield  him  up  her  Daughter,  1040 

A  little  Infant,  and  instruct  the  Babe, 
Prattling  upon  his  knee,  to  call  him  Father 

LACY.  Why,  if  his  heart  be  tender,  that  offence 
I  could  forgive  him. 

MAR.  (going  on).  And  should  he  make  the  Child 
An  instrument  of  falsehood,  should  he  teach  her 
To  stretch  her  arms,  and  dim  the  gladsome  light 
Of  infant  playfulness  with  piteous  looks 
Of  misery  that  was  not 

LACY.  Troth,  'tis  hard — 

But  in  a  world  like  ours 

MAR.  (changing  his  tone).  This  self-same  Man — 

Even  while  he  printed  kisses  on  the  cheek  1050 

Of  this  poor  Babe,  and  taught  its  innocent  tongue 
To  lisp  the  name  of  Father — could  he  look 
To  the  unnatural  harvest  of  that  time 
When  he  should  give  her  up,  a  Woman  grown, 
To  him  who  bid  the  highest  in  the  market 
Of  foul  pollution 

LACY.  The  whole  visible  world 

Contains  not  such  a  Monster ! 


ACT  n]  THE  BORDERERS  81 

MAR.  For  this  purpose 

Should  he  resolve  to  taint  her  Soul  by  means 

Which  bathe  the  limbs  in  sweat  to  think  of  them  ; 

Should  he,  by  tales  which  would  draw  tears  from  iron, 

Work  on  her  nature,  and  so  turn  compassion  1061 

And  gratitude  to  ministers  of  vice, 

And  make  the  spotless  spirit  of  filial  love 

Prime  mover  in  a  plot  to  damn  his  Victim 

Both  soul  and  body 

WAL.  'Tis  too  horrible ; 

Oswald,  what  say  you  to  it  ? 
LACY.  Hew  him  down, 

And  fling  him  to  the  ravens. 
MAR.  But  his  aspect, 

It  is  so  meek,  his  countenance  so  venerable. 
WAL.  (with  an  appearance  of  mistrust).  But  how,  what  say  you, 

Oswald  ? 
LACY  (at  the  same  moment).  Stab  him,  were  it 

Before  the  Altar. 
MAR.  What,  if  he  were  sick,  1070 

Tottering  upon  the  very  verge  of  life, 

And  old,  and  blind 

LACY.  Blind,  say  you  ? 

Osw.  (coming forward).  Are  we  Men, 

Or  own  we  baby  Spirits  ?    Genuine  courage 

Is  not  an  accidental  quality, 

A  thing  dependent  for  its  casual  birth 

On  opposition  and  impediment. 

Wisdom,  if  Justice  speak  the  word,  beats  down 

The  giant's  strength  ;  and,  at  the  voice  of  Justice, 

Spares  not  the  worm.     The  giant  and  the  worm — 

She  weighs  them  in  one  scale.     The  wiles  of  woman,    1080 

And  craft  of  age,  seducing  reason,  first 

Made  weakness  a  protection,  and  obscured 

The  moral  shapes  of  things.     His  tender  cries 

And  helpless  innocence — do  they  protect 

The  infant  lamb  ?  and  shall  the  infirmities, 

Which  have  enabled  this  enormous  Culprit 

To  perpetrate  his  crimes,  serve  as  a  Sanctuary 

To  cover  him  from  punishment  ?     Shame  ! — Justice, 

Admitting  no  resistance,  bends  alike 

The  feeble  and  the  strong.     She  needs  not  here  1090 

Her   bonds   and   chains,   which    make    the    mighty 
feeble. 

— We  recognise  in  this  old  Man  a  victim 

Prepared  already  for  the  sacrifice. 
LACY.  By  heaven,  his  words  are  reason  ! 
1— F 


82  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  [ACT  n 

Osw.  Yes,  my  Friends, 

His  countenance  is  meek  and  venerable  ; 

And,  by  the  Mass,  to  see  him  at  his  prayers  ! — 

I  am  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  may  I  perish 

When  my  heart  does  not  ache  to  think  of  it ! — 

Poor  Victim  !  not  a  virtue  under  heaven 

But  what  was  made  an  engine  to  ensnare  thee  ;  noo 

But  yet  I  trust,  Idonea,  thou  art  safe. 
LACY.  Idonea! 
WAL.  How  !  what  ?  your  Idonea  ? 

[To  MARMADUKE. 
MAR.  Mine ; 

But  now  no  longer  mine.     You  know  Lord  Clifford ; 

He  is  the  Man  to  whom  the  Maiden — pure 

As  beautiful,  and  gentle  and  benign, 

And  in  her  ample  heart  loving  even  me — 

Was  to  be  yielded  up. 
LACY.  Now,  by  the  head 

Of  my  own  child,  this  Man  must  die ;  my  hand, 

A  worthier  wanting,  shall  itself  entwine 

In  his  grey  hairs ! — 
MAR.  (to  LACY).  I  love  the  Father  in  thee.  mo 

You  know  me,  Friends  ;  I  have  a  heart  to  feel, 

And  I  have  felt,  more  than  perhaps  becomes  me 

Or  duty  sanctions. 
LACY.  We  will  have  ample  justice. 

Who  are  we,  Friends  ?     Do  we  not  live  on  ground 

Where  Souls  are  self-defended,  free  to  grow 

Like  mountain  oaks  rocked  by  the  stormy  wind. 

Mark  the  Almighty  Wisdom,  which  decreed 

This  monstrous  crime  to  be  laid  open — here, 

Where  Reason  has  an  eye  that  she  can  use, 

And  Men  alone  are  Umpires.     To  the  Camp  nao 

He  shall  be  led,  and  there,  the  Country  round 

All  gathered  to  the  spot,  in  open  day 

Shall  Nature  be  avenged. 
Osw.  'Tis  nobly  thought; 

His  death  will  be  a  monument  for  ages. 

MAR.    (to  LACY).  I  thank  you  for  that  hint.      He  shall  be 
brought 

Before  the  Camp,  and  would  that  best  and  wisest 

Of  every  country  might  be  present.     There 

His  crime  shall  be  proclaimed  ;  and  for  the  rest 

It  shall  be  done  as  Wisdom  shall  decide : 

Meanwhile,  do  you  two  hasten  back  and  see 

That  all  is  well  prepared. 


ACT  in]  THE  BORDERERS  83 

WAL.  We  will  obey  you. 

(Aside).     But  softly  !  we  must  look  a  little  nearer. 
MAR.  Tell  where  you  found  us.     At  some  future  time 

I  will  explain  the  cause.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  III 

SCENE — The  door  of  the  Hostel,  a  group  of  Pilgrims  as  before  ; 
IDONEA  and  the  Host  among  them 

HOST.  Lady,  you  '11  find  your  Father  at  the  Convent 
As  I  have  told  you :  He  left  us  yesterday 
With  two  Companions;  one  of  them,  as  seemed, 
His  most  familiar  Friend.     (Going.)    There  was  a  letter 
Of  which  I  heard  them  speak,  but  that  I  fancy 
Has  been  forgotten. 

I  DON.  (to  Host).  Farewell ! 

HOST.  Gentle  pilgrims,         1140 

St.  Cuthbert  speed  you  on  your  holy  errand. 

[Exeunt  IDONEA  and  Pilgrims. 

SCENE — A  desolate  Moor 
OSWALD  (alone) 

Osw.  Carry  him  to  the  Camp  !     Yes,  to  the  Camp. 
Oh,  Wisdom  !  a  most  wise  resolve !  and  then, 
That  half  a  word  should  blow  it  to  the  winds  ! 
This  last  device  must  end  my  work. — Methinks 
It  were  a  pleasant  pastime  to  construct 
A  scale  and  table  of  belief — as  thus — 
Two  columns,  one  for  passion,  one  for  proof; 
Each  rises  as  the  other  falls  :  and  first, 
Passion  a  unit  and  against  us — proof —  1150 

Nay,  we  must  travel  in  another  path, 
Or  we  're  stuck  fast  for  ever ; — passion,  then, 
Shall  be  a  unit  for  us;  proof — no,  passion  ! 
We  '11  not  insult  thy  majesty  by  time, 
Person,  and  place — the  where,  the  when,  the  how, 
And  all  particulars  that  dull  brains  require 
To  constitute  the  spiritless  shape  of  Fact, 
They  bow  to,  calling  the  idol,  Demonstration. 
A  whipping  to  the  Moralists  who  preach 
That  misery  is  a  sacred  thing  :  for  me,  1160 

I  know  no  cheaper  engine  to  degrade  a  man, 
Nor  any  half  so  sure.     This  Stripling's  mind 


84  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH          [ACT  in 

Is  shaken  till  the  dregs  float  on  the  surface ; 

And,  in  the  storm  and  anguish  of  the  heart, 

He  talks  of  a  transition  in  his  Soul, 

And  dreams  that  he  is  happy.     We  dissect 

The  senseless  body,  and  why  not  the  mind  ? — 

These  are  strange  sights — the  mind  of  man,  upturned, 

Is  in  all  natures  a  strange  spectacle ; 

In  some  a  hideous  one — hem  !  shall  I  stop  ?  1170 

No. — Thoughts  and  feelings  will  sink  deep,  but  then 

They  have  no  substance.     Pass  but  a  few  minutes, 

And  something  shall  be  done  which  Memory 

May  touch,  whene'er  her  Vassals  are  at  work. 

Enter  MARMADUKE,  from  behind 

Osw.  (turning  to  meet  him).     But  listen,  for  my  peace 

MAR.  Why,  I  believe  you. 

Osw.  But  hear  the  proofs 

MAR.  Ay,  prove  that  when  two  peas 

Lie  snugly  in  a  pod,  the  pod  must  then 

Be  larger  than  the  peas — prove  this — 'twere  matter 

Worthy  the  hearing.     Fool  was  I  to  dream 

It  ever  could  be  otherwise  ! 
Osw.  Last  night,  1180 

When  I  returned  with  water  from  the  brook, 

I  overheard  the  Villains — every  word 

Like  red-hot  iron  burnt  into  my  heart. 

Said  one,  '  It  is  agreed  on.     The  blind  Man 

Shall  feign  a  sudden  illness,  and  the  Girl, 

Who  on  her  journey  must  proceed  alone, 

Under  pretence  of  violence,  be  seized. 

She  is,'  continued  the  detested  Slave, 

'  She  is  right  willing — strange  if  she  were  not ! — 

They  say,  Lord  Clifford  is  a  savage  man ;  1190 

But,  faith,  to  see  him  in  his  silken  tunic, 

Fitting  his  low  voice  to  the  minstrel's  harp, 

There  's  witchery  in  't.     I  never  knew  a  maid 

That  could  withstand  it.     True,'  continued  he, 

'  When  we  arranged  the  affair,  she  wept  a  little 

(Not  the  less  welcome  to  my  Lord  for  that) 

And  said,  "  My  Father  he  will  have  it  so."  ' 
MAR.  I  am  your  hearer. 
Osw.  This  I  caught,  and  more 

That  may  not  be  retold  to  any  ear. 

The  obstinate  bolt  of  a  small  iron  door  1200 

Detained  them  near  the  gateway  of  the  Castle. 

By  a  dim  lantern's  light  I  saw  that  wreaths 


ACT  m]  THE  BORDERERS  85 

Of  flowers  were  in  their  hands,  as  if  designed 

For  festive  decoration  ;  and  they  said, 

With  brutal  laughter  and  most  foul  allusion, 

That  they  should  share  the  banquet  with  their  Lord 

And  his  new  Favorite. 
MAR.  Misery ! — 

Osw.  I  knew 

How  you  would  be  disturbed  by  this  dire  news, 

And  therefore  chose  this  solitary  Moor, 

Here  to  impart  the  tale,  of  which,  last  night,  1210 

I  strove  to  ease  my  mind,  when  our  two  Comrades, 

Commissioned  by  the  Band,  burst  in  upon  us. 
MAR.  Last  night,  when  moved  to  lift  the  avenging  steel, 

I  did  believe  all  things  were  shadows — yea, 

Living  or  dead  all  things  were  bodiless, 

Or  but  the  mutual  mockeries  of  body, 

Till  that  same  star  summoned  me  back  again. 

Now  I  could  laugh  till  my  ribs  ached.     Oh  Fool ! 

To  let  a  creed,  built  in  the  heart  of  things, 

Dissolve  before  a  twinkling  atom  ! — Oswald,  1220 

I  could  fetch  lessons  out  of  wiser  schools 

Than  you  have  entered,  were  it  worth  the  pains. 

Young  as  I  am,  I  might  go  forth  a  teacher, 

And  you  should  see  how  deeply  I  could  reason 

Of  love  in  all  its  shapes,  beginnings,  ends ; 

Of  moral  qualities  in  their  diverse  aspects  ; 

Of  actions,  and  their  laws  and  tendencies. 

Osw.  You  take  it  as  it  merits 

MAR.  One  a  King, 

General  or  Cham,  Sultan  or  Emperor, 

Strews  twenty  acres  of  good  meadow-ground  1230 

With  carcases,  in  lineament  and  shape 

And  substance,  nothing  differing  from  his  own, 

But  that  they  cannot  stand  up  of  themselves  ; 

Another  sits  i'  th'  sun,  and  by  the  hour 

Floats  kingcups  in  the  brook — a  Hero  one 

We  call,  and  scorn  the  other  as  Time's  spendthrift 

But  have  they  not  a  world  of  common  ground 

To  occupy — both  fools,  or  wise  alike, 

Each  in  his  way  ? 

Osw.  Troth,  I  begin  to  think  so. 

MAR.  Now  for  the  corner-stone  of  my  philosophy  :  1240 

I  would  not  give  a  denier  for  the  man 

Who,  on  such  provocation  as  this  earth 

Yields,  could  not  chuck  his  babe  beneath  the  chin, 

And  send  it  with  a  fillip  to  its  grave. 
Osw.  Nay,  you  leave  me  behind. 


86  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH          [ACT  m 

MAR.  That  such  a  One, 

So  pious  in  demeanour  !  in  his  look 

So  saintly  and  so  pure  ! Hark'ee,  my  Friend, 

I  '11  plant  myself  before  Lord  Clifford's  Castle, 

A  surly  mastiff  kennels  at  the  gate, 

And  he  shall  howl  and  I  will  laugh,  a  medley  1250 

Most  tunable. 

Osw.  In  faith,  a  pleasant  scheme ; 

But  take  your  sword  along  with  you,  for  that 
Might  in  such  neighbourhood  find  seemly  use. — 
But  first,  how  wash  our  hands  of  this  old  Man  ? 

MAR.  Oh  yes,  that  mole,  that  viper  in  the  path  ; 
Plague  on  my  memory,  him  I  had  forgotten. 

Osw.  You  know  we  left  him  sitting — see  him  yonder. 

MAR.  Ha !  ha  !— 

Osw.  As  'twill  be  but  a  moment's  work, 

I  will  stroll  on  ;  you  follow  when  'tis  done.  \Exeunt. 


SCENE  cJianges  to  another  part  of  the  Moor  at  a  short  distance — 
HERBERT  is  discovered  seated  on  a  stone 

HER.  A  sound  of  laughter,  too  ! — 'tis  well — I  feared,        1260 
The  Stranger  had  some  pitiable  sorrow 
Pressing  upon  his  solitary  heart. 
Hush  ! — 'tis  the  feeble  and  earth-loving  wind 
That  creeps  along  the  bells  of  the  crisp  heather. 
Alas  !  'tis  cold — I  shiver  in  the  sunshine — 
What  can  this  mean  ?     There  is  a  psalm  that  speaks 
Of  God's  parental  mercies — with  Idonea 
I  used  to  sing  it. — Listen  ! — what  foot  is  there  ? 

Enter  MARMADUKE 

MAR.  (aside — looking  at  HERBERT).     And  I  have  loved  this 
Man !  and  she  hath  loved  him  ! 

And  I  loved  her,  and  she  loves  the  Lord  Clifford  !          1270 

And  there  it  ends ; — if  this  be  not  enough 

To  make  mankind  merry  for  evermore, 

Then  plain  it  is  as  day,  that  eyes  were  made 

For  a  wise  purpose — verily  to  weep  with  I    [Looking  round. 

A  pretty  prospect  this,  a  masterpiece 

Of  Nature,  finished  with  most  curious  skill ! 

(To   HERBERT).      Good   Baron,  have   you  ever   practised 
tillage  ? 

Pray  tell  me  what  this  land  is  worth  by  the  acre. 
HER.  How  glad  I  am  to  hear  your  voice  !     I  know  not 

Wherein  I  have  offended  you  ; — last  night  ,  1280 


ACT  in]  THE  BORDERERS  87 

I  found  in  you  the  kindest  of  Protectors  ; 
This  morning,  when  I  spoke  of  weariness, 
You  from  my  shoulder  took  my  scrip  and  threw  it 
About  your  own ;  but  for  these  two  hours  past 
Once  only  have  you  spoken,  when  the  lark 
Whirred  from  among  the  fern  beneath  our  feet, 
And  I,  no  coward  in  my  better  days, 
Was  almost  terrified. 

MAR.  That 's  excellent ! — 

So,  you  bethought  you  of  the  many  ways 
In  which  a  man  may  come  to  his  end,  whose  crimes       1290 
Have  roused  all  Nature  up  against  him — pshaw  ! — 

HER.  For  mercy's  sake,  is  nobody  in  sight  ? 
No  traveller,  peasant,  herdsman  ? 

MAR.  Not  a  soul : 

Here  is  a  tree,  ragged,  and  bent,  and  bare, 
That  turns  its  goat's-beard  flakes  of  pea-green  moss 
From  the  stern  breathing  of  the  rough  sea-wind; 
This  have  we,  but  no  other  company  : 
Commend  me  to  the  place.     If  a  man  should  die 
And  leave  his  body  here,  it  were  all  one 
As  he  were  twenty  fathoms  underground.  1300 

HER.  Where  is  our  common  Friend  ? 

MAR.  A  ghost,  methinks — 

The  Spirit  of  a  murdered  man,  for  instance — 
Might  have  fine  room  to  ramble  about  here, 
A  grand  domain  to  squeak  and  gibber  in. 

HER.  Lost  Man  !  if  thou  have  any  close-pent  guilt 
Pressing  upon  thy  heart,  and  this  the  hour 
Of  visitation 

MAR.  A  bold  word  from  you  I 

HER.  Restore  him,  Heaven  ! 

MAR.                                   The  desperate  Wretch  ! — A  Flower, 
Fairest  of  all  flowers,  was  she  once,  but  now 
They  have  snapped  her  from  the  stem — Poh !  let  her  lie 
Besoiled  with  mire,  and  let  the  houseless  snail  1311 

Feed  on  her  leaves.     You  knew  her  well — ay,  there, 
Old  Man  !  you  were  a  very  Lynx,  you  knew 
The  worm  was  in  her 

HER.  Mercy  !  Sir,  what  mean  you  ? 

MAR.  You  have  a  Daughter  ! 

HER.  Oh  that  she  were  here ! — 

She  hath  an  eye  that  sinks  into  all  hearts, 
And  if  I  have  in  aught  offended  you, 
Soon  would  her  gentle  voice  make  peace  between  us. 

MAR.   (aside).      I    do    believe    he    weeps — I    could    weep 
too — 


88  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH          [ACT  m 

There  is  a  vein  of  her  voice  that  runs  through  his  :        1320 

Even  such  a  Man  my  fancy  bodied  forth 

From  the  first  moment  that  I  loved  the  Maid ; 

And  for  his  sake  I  loved  her  more  :  these  tears — 

I  did  not  think  that  aught  was  left  in  me 

Of  what  I  have  been — yes,  I  thank  thee,  Heaven  ! 

One  happy  thought  has  passed  across  my  mind. 

— It  may  not  be — I  am  cut  off  from  man  ; 

No  more  shall  I  be  man — no  more  shall  I 

Have  human  feelings  ! — (To  HERBERT) — Now,  for  a  little 

more 
About  your  Daughter ! 

HER.  Troops  of  armed  men,  1330 

Met  in  the  roads,  would  bless  us  ;  little  children, 
Rushing  along  in  the  full  tide  of  play, 
Stood  silent  as  we  passed  them  !    I  have  heard 
The  boisterous  carman,  in  the  miry  road, 
Check  his  loud  whip  and  hail  us  with  mild  voice, 
And  speak  with  milder  voice  to  his  poor  beasts. 

MAR.  And  whither  were  you  going  ? 

HER.  Learn,  young  Man, — 

To  fear  the  virtuous,  and  reverence  misery, 
Whether  too  much  for  patience,  or,  like  mine, 
Softened  till  it  becomes  a  gift  of  mercy.  1340 

MAR.  Now,  this  is  as  it  should  be ! 

HER.                                                           I  am  weak  ! — 
My  Daughter  does  not  know  how  weak  I  am ; 
And,  as  thou  see'st,  under  the  arch  of  heaven 
Here  do  I  stand,  alone,  to  helplessness, 
By  the  good  God,  our  common  Father,  doomed  ! — 
But  I  had  once  a  spirit  and  an  arm 

MAR.  Now,  for  a  word  about  your  Barony  : 
I  fancy  when  you  left  the  Holy  Land, 
And  came  to — what's  your  title — eh  ?  your  claims 
Were  undisputed ! 

HER.  Like  a  mendicant,  1350 

Whom  no  one  comes  to  meet,  I  stood  alone ; — 
I  murmured — but,  remembering  Him  who  feeds 
The  pelican  and  ostrich  of  the  desert, 
From  my  own  threshold  I  looked  up  to  Heaven 
And  did  not  want  glimmerings  of  quiet  hope. 
So,  from  the  court  I  passed,  and  down  the  brook, 
Led  by  its  murmur,  to  the  ancient  oak 
I  came ;  and  when  I  felt  its  cooling  shade, 
I  sate  me  down,  and  cannot  but  believe — 
While  in  my  lap  I  held  my  little  Babe  1360 

And  clasped  her  to  my  heart,  my  heart  that  ached 


ACT  in]  THE  BORDERERS  89 

More  with  delight  than  grief — I  heard  a  voice 

Such  as  by  Cherith  on  Elijah  called ; 

It  said,  '  I  will  be  with  thee.'     A  little  boy, 

A  shepherd-lad,  ere  yet  my  trance  was  gone, 

Hailed  us  as  if  he  had  been  sent  from  heaven, 

And  said,  with  tears,  that  he  would  be  our  guide  : 

I  had  a  better  guide — that  innocent  Babe — 

Her,  who  hath  saved  me,  to  this  hour,  from  harm, 

From  cold,  from  hunger,  penury,  and  death  ;  1370 

To  whom  I  owe  the  best  of  all  the  good 

I  have,  or  wish  for,  upon  earth — and  more 

And  higher  far  than  lies  within  earth's  bounds  : 

Therefore  I  bless  her :  when  I  think  of  Man, 

I  bless  her  with  sad  spirit, — when  of  God, 

I  bless  her  in  the  fulness  of  my  joy  ! 

MAR.  The  name  of  daughter  in  his  mouth,  he  prays  ! 
With  nerves  so  steady,  that  the  very  flies 
Sit  unmolested  on  his  staff. — Innocent ! — 
If  he  were  innocent — then  he  would  tremble  1380 

And  be  disturbed,  as    I    am.     (Turning  aside).      I    have 

read 

In  Story,  what  men  now  alive  have  witnessed, 
How.  when  the  People's  mind  was  racked  with  doubt, 
Appeal  was  made  to  the  great  Judge  :  the  Accused 
With  naked  feet  walked  over  burning  ploughshares. 
Here  is  a  Man  by  Nature's  hand  prepared 
For  a  like  trial,  but  more  merciful. 
Why  else  have  I  been  led  to  this  bleak  Waste  ? 
Bare  is  it,  without  house  or  track,  and  destitute 
Of  obvious  shelter,  as  a  shipless  sea.  1390 

Here  will  I  leave  him — here — All-seeing  God  ! 
Such  as  he  is,  and  sore  perplexed  as  I  am, 
I  will  commit  him  to  this  final  Ordeal ! — 
He  heard  a  voice — a  shepherd-lad  came  to  him 
And  was  his  guide  ;  if  once,  why  not  again, 
And  in  this  desert  ?     If  never — then  the  whole 
Of  what  he  says,  and  looks,  and  does,  and  is, 
Makes  up  one  damning  falsehood.     Leave  him  here 
To  cold  and  hunger  ! — Pain  is  of  the  heart, 
And  what  are  a  few  throes  of  bodily  suffering  1400 

If  they  can  waken  one  pang  of  remorse  ? 

[Goes  up  to  HERBERT. 

Old  Man  !  my  wrath  is  as  a  flame  burnt  out, 
It  cannot  be  rekindled.     Thou  art  here 
Led  by  my  hand  to  save  thee  from  perdition ; 
Thou  wilt  have  time  to  breathe  and  think 

HER.  Oh,  Mercy! 


90  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH          [ACT  m 

MAR.  I  know  the  need  that  all  men  have  of  mercy, 
And  therefore  leave  thee  to  a  righteous  judgment. 

HER.  My  Child,  my  blessed  Child  ! 

MAR.  No  more  of  that ; 

Thou  wilt  have  many  guides  if  thou  art  innocent ; 
Yea,  from  the  utmost  corners  of  the  earth,  1410 

That  Woman  will  come  o'er  this  Waste  to  save  thee. 

[He  pauses  and  looks  at  HERBERT'S  staff. 
Ha  !  what  is  here  ?  and  carved  by  her  own  hand  ! 

[Reads  upon  the  staff. 
'  I  am  eyes  to  the  blind,  saith  the  Lord. 
He  that  puts  his  trust  in  me  shall  not  fail ! ' 
Yes,  be  it  so ; — repent  and  be  forgiven — 
God  and  that  staff  are  now  thy  only  guides. 

[He  leaves  HERBERT  on  the  Moor 


SCENE — An  eminence,  a  Beacon  on  the  summit 
LACY,  WALLACE,  LENNOX,  etc.  etc. 

SEVERAL  op  THE  BAND  (confusedly).     But  patience  ! 

ONE  OF  THE  BAND.  Curses  on  that  Traitor,  Oswald  ! — 

Our  Captain  made  a  prey  to  foul  device  ! — 
LEN.  (to    WALLACE).     His    tool,   the    wandering    Beggar, 

made  last  night 

A  plain  confession,  such  as  leaves  no  doubt,  1420 

Knowing  what  otherwise  we  know  too  well, 
That  she  revealed  the  truth.     Stand  by  me  now ; 
For  rather  would  I  have  a  nest  of  vipers 
Between  my  breast-plate  and  my  skin,  than  make 
Oswald  my  special  enemy,  if  you 
Deny  me  your  support. 

LACY.  We  have  been  fooled — 

But  for  the  motive  ? 

WAL.  Natures  such  as  his 

Spin  motives  out  of  their  own  bowels,  Lacy  ! 
I  learn'd  this  when  I  was  a  Confessor. 
I  know  him  well ;  there  needs  no  other  motive  1430 

Than  that  most  strange  incontinence  in  crime 
Which  haunts  this  Oswald.     Power  is  life  to  him 
And  breath  and  being ;  where  he  cannot  govern, 
He  will  destroy. 

LACY.  To  have  been  trapped  like  moles ! — 

Yes,  you  are  right,  we  need  not  hunt  for  motives : 
There  is  no  crime  from  which  this  man  would  shrink ; 
He  recks  not  human  law ;  and  I  have  noticed 


ACT  m]  THE  BORDERERS  91 

That  often,  when  the  name  of  God  is  uttered, 

A  sudden  blankness  overspreads  his  face. 
LEN.  Yet,  reasoner  as  he  is,  his  pride  has  built  1440 

Some  uncouth  superstition  of  its  own. 
WAL.  I  have  seen  traces  of  it. 
LEN.  Once  he  headed 

A  band  of  Pirates  in  the  Norway  seas ; 

And  when  the  King  of  Denmark  summoned  him 

To  the  oath  of  fealty,  I  well  remember, 

'Twas  a  strange  answer  that  he  made  ;  he  said, 

'  I  hold  of  Spirits,  and  the  Sun  in  heaven.' 
LACY.  He  is  no  madman. 
WAL.  A  most  subtle  doctor 

Were  that  man,  who  could  draw  the  line  that  parts 

Pride  and  her  daughter,  Cruelty,  from  Madness,  1450 

That  should  be  scourged,  not  pitied.     Restless  Minds, 

Such  Minds  as  find  amid  their  fellow-men 

No  heart  that  loves  them,  none  that  they  can  love, 

Will  turn  perforce  and  seek  for  sympathy 

In  dim  relation  to  imagined  Beings. 
ONE  OF  THE  BAND.  What  if  he  mean  to  offer  up  our  Captain 

An  expiation  and  a  sacrifice 

To  those  infernal  fiends  ! 
WAL.  Now,  if  the  event 

Should  be  as  Lennox  has  foretold,  then  swear, 

My  Friends,  his  heart  shall  have  as  many  wounds          1460 

As  there  are  daggers  here. 

LACY.  What  need  of  swearing  ! 

ONE  OF  THE  BAND.  Let  us  away  ! 
ANOTHER.  Away ! 

A  THIRD.  Hark !  how  the  horns 

Of  those  Scotch  Rovers  echo  through  the  vale. 
LACY.  Stay  you  behind ;  and  when  the  sun  is  down, 

Light  up  this  beacon. 
ONE  OF  THE  BAND.  You  shall  be  obeyed. 

[They  go  out  together. 

SCENE — The  Wood  on  the  edge  of  the  Moor 
MARMADUKE  (alone) 

MAR.  Deep,  deep  and  vast,  vast  beyond  human  thought, 
Yet  calm. — I  could  believe,  that  there  was  here 
The  only  quiet  heart  on  earth.     In  terror, 
Remembered  terror,  there  is  peace  and  rest. 

Enter  OSWALD 
Osw.   Ha  !  my  dear  Captain. 


92  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH         [ACT  m 

MAR.  A  later  meeting,  Oswald, 

Would  have  been  better  timed. 
Osw.  Alone,  I  see ;  1471 

You  have  done  your  duty.     I  had  hopes,  which  now 

I  feel  that  you  will  justify. 
MAR.  I  had  fears, 

From  which  I  have  freed  myself — but  'tis  my  wish 

To  be  alone,  and  therefore  we  must  part. 
Osw.  Nay,  then — I  am  mistaken.     There  's  a  weakness 

About  you  still ;  you  talk  of  solitude — 

I  am  your  friend. 
MAR.  What  need  of  this  assurance 

At  any  time  ?  and  why  given  now  ? 
Osw.  Because 

You  are  now  in  truth  my  Master ;  you  have  taught  me 

What  there  is  not  another  living  man  1481 

Had  strength  to  teach  ; — and  therefore  gratitude 

Is  bold,  and  would  relieve  itself  by  praise. 
MAR.  Wherefore  press  this  on  me  ? 
Osw.  Because  I  feel 

That  you  have  shown,  and  by  a  signal  instance, 

How  they  who  would  be  just  must  seek  the  rule 

By  diving  for  it  into  their  own  bosoms. 

To-day  you  have  thrown  off  a  tyranny 

That  lives  but  in  the  torpid  acquiescence 

Of  our  emasculated  souls,  the  tyranny  1490 

Of  the  world's  masters,  with  the  musty  rules 

By  which  they  uphold  their  craft  from  age  to  age : 

You  have  obeyed  the  only  law  that  sense 

Submits  to  recognise ;  the  immediate  law, 

From  the  clear  light  of  circumstances,  flashed 

Upon  an  independent  Intellect. 

Henceforth  new  prospects  open  on  your  path ; 

Your  faculties  should  grow  with  the  demand  ; 

I  still  will  be  your  friend,  will  cleave  to  you 

Through  good  and  evil,  obloquy  and  scorn,  1500 

Oft  as  they  dare  to  follow  on  your  steps. 
MAR.  I  would  be  left  alone. 
Osw.  (exultingly).  I  know  your  motives  ! 

I  am  not  of  the  world's  presumptuous  judges, 

Who  damn  where  they  can  neither  see  nor  feel, 

With  a  hard-hearted  ignorance  ;  your  struggles 

I  witness'd,  and  now  hail  your  victory. 
MAR.  Spare  me  awhile  that  greeting. 
Osw.  It  may  be, 

That  some  there  are,  squeamish  half-thinking  cowards, 

Who  will  turn  pale  upon  you,  call  you  murderer, 


ACT  m]  THE  BORDERERS  93 

And  you  will  walk  in  solitude  among  them.  1510 

A  mighty  evil  for  a  strong-built  mind  ! — 

Join  twenty  tapers  of  unequal  height 

And  light  them  joined,  and  you  will  see  the  less 

How  'twill  burn  down  the  taller ;  and  they  all 

Shall  prey  upon  the  tallest.     Solitude ! — 

The  Eagle  lives  in  Solitude  ! 
MAR.  Even  so, 

The  Sparrow  so  on  the  house-top,  and  I, 

The  weakest  of  God's  creatures,  stand  resolved 

To  abide  the  issue  of  my  act,  alone. 
Osw.  Now  would  you  ?  and  for  ever  ? — My  young  Friend, 

As  time  advances  either  we  become  1521 

The  prey  or  masters  of  our  own  past  deeds. 

Fellowship  we  must  have,  willing  or  no ; 

And  if  good  Angels  fail,  slack  in  their  duty, 

Substitutes,  turn  our  faces  where  we  may, 

Are  still  forthcoming;  some  which,  though  they  bear 

111  names,  can  render  no  ill  services, 

In  recompense  for  what  themselves  required. 

So  meet  extremes  in  this  mysterious  world, 

And  opposites  thus  melt  into  each  other.  1530 

MAR.  Time,  since  Man  first  drew  breath,  has  never  moved 

With  such  a  weight  upon  his  wings  as  now ; 

But  they  will  soon  be  lightened. 
Osw.  Ay,  look  up — 

Cast  round  you  your  mind's  eye,  and  you  will  learn 

Fortitude  is  the  child  of  Enterprise  : 

Great  actions  move  our  admiration,  chiefly 

Because  they  carry  in  themselves  an  earnest 

That  we  can  suffer  greatly. 
MAR.  Very  true. 

Osw.  Action  is  transitory — a  step,  a  blow, 

The  motion  of  a  muscle — this  way  or  that —  1540 

'Tis  done,  and  in  the  after-vacancy 

We  wonder  at  ourselves  like  men  betrayed : 

Suffering  is  permanent,  obscure  and  dark, 

And  shares  the  nature  of  infinity. 
MAR.  Truth— and  I  feel  it. 
Osw.  What !  if  you  had  bid 

Eternal  farewell  to  unmingled  joy 

And  the  light  dancing  of  the  thoughtless  heart ; 

It  is  the  toy  of  fools,  and  little  fit 

For  such  a  world  as  this.     The  wise  abjure 

All  thoughts  whose  idle  composition  lives  155° 

In  the  entire  forgetfulness  of  pain. 

— I  see  I  have  disturbed  you. 


94  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH          [ACT  in 

MAR.  By  no  means. 

Osw.  Compassion  ! — pity ! — pride  can  do  without  them  ; 

And  what  if  you  should  never  know  them  more ! — 

He  is  a  puny  soul  who,  feeling  pain, 

Finds  ease  because  another  feels  it  too. 

If  e'er  I  open  out  this  heart  of  mine 

It  shall  be  for  a  nobler  end — to  teach 

And  not  to  purchase  puling  sympathy. 

— Nay,  you  are  pale. 
MAR.  It  may  be  so. 

Osw.  Remorse —        1560 

It  cannot  live  with  thought ;  think  on,  think  on, 

And  it  will  die.     What !  in  this  universe, 

Where  the  least  things  control  the  greatest,  where 

The  faintest  breath  that  breathes  can  move  a  world ; 

What !  feel  remorse,  where,  if  a  cat  had  sneezed, 

A  leaf  had  fallen,  the  thing  had  never  been 

Whose  very  shadow  gnaws  us  to  the  vitals. 
MAR.  Now,  whither  are  you  wandering  ?     That  a  man, 

So  used  to  suit  his  language  to  the  time, 

Should  thus  so  widely  differ  from  himself —  1570 

It  is  most  strange. 
Osw.  Murder! — what 's  in  the  word ! — 

I  have  no  cases  by  me  ready  made 

To  fit  all  deeds.     Carry  him  to  the  Camp ! — 

A  shallow  project; — you  of  late  have  seen 

More  deeply,  taught  us  that  the  institutes 

Of  Nature,  by  a  cunning  usurpation 

Banished  from  human  intercourse,  exist 

Only  in  our  relations  to  the  brutes 

That  make  the  fields  their  dwelling.     If  a  snake 

Crawl  from  beneath  our  feet  we  do  not  ask  1580 

A  license  to  destroy  him  :  our  good  governors 

Hedge  in  the  life  of  every  pest  and  plague 

That  bears  the  shape  of  man  ;  and  for  what  purpose, 

But  to  protect  themselves  from  extirpation  ? — 

This  flimsy  barrier  you  have  overleaped. 
MAR.  My  Office  is  fulfilled — the  Man  is  now 

Delivered  to  the  Judge  of  all  things. 
Osw.  Dead ! 

MAR.  I  have  borne  my  burthen  to  its  destined  end. 
Osw.  This  instant  we  '11  return  to  our  Companions — 

Oh  how  I  long  to  see  their  faces  again  !  159° 

Enter  IDONEA,  with  Pilgrims  who  continue  their  journey 

I  DON.  (after  some  time).     What,  Marmaduke  !  now  thou  art 
mine  for  ever. 


ACT  in]  THE  BORDERERS  95 

And  Oswald,  too  !  (To  MARMADUKE).     On  will  we  to  my 
Father 

With  the  glad  tidings  which  this  day  hath  brought ; 

We'll  go  together,  and,  such  proof  received 

Of  his  own  rights  restored,  his  gratitude 

To  God  above  will  make  him  feel  for  ours. 
Osw.  I  interrupt  you  ? 
IDON.  Think  not  so. 

MAR.  Idonea, 

That  I  should  ever  live  to  see  this  moment ! 
IDON.  Forgive  me. — Oswald  knows  it  all — he  knows, 

Each  word  of  that  unhappy  letter  fell  1600 

As  a  blood-drop  from  my  heart. 
Osw.  'Twas  even  so. 

MAR.  I  have  much  to  say,  but  for  whose  ear  ? — not  thine. 
IDON.  Ill  can  I  bear  that  look — Plead  for  me,  Oswald  ! 

You  are  my  Father's  Friend.    (To  MARMADUKE).  Alas,  you 
know  not, 

And  never  can  you  know,  how  much  he  loved  me. 

Twice  had  he  been  to  me  a  father,  twice 

Had  given  me  breath,  and  was  I  not  to  be 

His  daughter,  once  his  daughter?  could  I  withstand 

His  pleading  face,  and  feel  his  clasping  arms, 

And  hear  his  prayer  that  I  would  not  forsake  him          1610 

In  his  old  age [Hides  her  face. 

MAR.  Patience — Heaven  grant  me  patience  ! — 

She  weeps,  she  weeps — my  brain  shall  burn  for  hours 

Ere  /  can  shed  a  tear. 
IDON.  I  was  a  woman; 

And,  balancing  the  hopes  that  are  the  dearest 

To  womankind  with  duty  to  my  Father, 

I  yielded  up  those  precious  hopes,  which  nought 

On  earth  could  else  have  wrested  from  me ; — if  erring, 

Oh  let  me  be  forgiven  ! 

MAR.  I  do  forgive  thee. 

IDON.  But  take  me  to  your  arms — this  breast,  alas  ! 

It  throbs,  and  you  have  a  heart  that  does  not  feel  it.     1620 
MAR.  (exultingly).     She  is  innocent.  [He  embraces  her. 

Osw.  (aside).  Were  I  a  Moralist, 

I  should  make  wondrous  revolution  here  ; 

It  were  a  quaint  experiment  to  show 

The  beauty  of  truth —  [Addressing  them. 

I  see  I  interrupt  you ; 

I  shall  have  business  with  you,  Marmaduke ; 

Follow  me  to  the  Hostel.  [Exit  OSWALD. 

IDON.  Marmaduke, 

This  is  a  happy  day.     My  Father  soon 


96  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  [ACT  iv 

Shall  sun  himself  before  his  native  doors  ; 

The  lame,  the  hungry,  will  be  welcome  there. 

No  more  shall  he  complain  of  wasted  strength,  1630 

Of  thoughts  that  fail,  and  a  decaying  heart; 

His  good  works  will  be  balm  and  life  to  him. 
MAR.  This  is  most  strange ! — I  know  not  what  it  was, 

But  there  was  something  which  most  plainly  said, 

That  thou  wert  innocent. 
IDON.  How  innocent ! — 

Oh  heavens  !  you  Ve  been  deceived. 
MAR.  Thou  art  a  Woman, 

To  bring  perdition  on  the  universe. 
IDON.  Already  I  've  been  punished  to  the  height 

Of  my  offence.  [Smiling  affectionately. 

I  see  you  love  me  still, 

The  labours  of  my  hand  are  still  your  joy  ;  1640 

Bethink  you  of  the  hour  when  on  your  shoulder 

I  hung  this  belt. 

[Pointing  to  the  belt  on  which  was  suspended 

HERBERT'S  scrip. 

MAR.  Mercy  of  Heaven !  [Sinks. 

IDON.  What  ails  you ! 

[Distractedly. 
MAR.  The  scrip  that  held  his  food,  and  I  forgot 

To  give  it  back  again  ! 

IDON.  What  mean  your  words  ? 

MAR.  I  know  not  what  I  said — all  may  be  well. 
IDON.  That  smile  hath  life  in  it ! 
MAR.  This  road  is  perilous  ; 

I  will  attend  you  to  a  Hut  that  stands 

Near  the  wood's  edge — rest  there  to-night,  I  pray  you  : 

For  me,  I  have  business,  as  you  heard,  with  Oswald, 

But  will  return  to  you  by  break  of  day.  1650 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  IV 

SCENE — A  desolate  prospect — a  ridge  of  rocks — a  Chapel  on  the 
summit  of  one  —  Moon  behind  the  rocks  —  night  stormy  — 
irregular  sound  of  a  bell — HERBERT  enters  exhausted 

HER.  That  Chapel-bell  in  mercy  seemed  to  guide  me, 
But  now  it  mocks  my  steps  ;  its  fitful  stroke 
Can  scarcely  be  the  work  of  human  hands. 
Hear  me,  ye  Men  upon  the  cliffs,  if  such 
There  be  who  pray  nightly  before  the  Altar. 
Oh  that  I  had  but  strength  to  reach  the  place ! 


ACTIV]  THE  BORDERERS  97 

My  Child — my  Child — dark — dark — I  faint — this  wind — 
These  stifling  blasts — God  help  me  ! 

Enter  ELDRED 

ELD.  Better  this  bare  rock, 

Though  it  were  tottering  over  a  man's  head, 
Than  a  tight  case  of  dungeon  walls  for  shelter  1660 

From  such  rough  dealing.  \A  moaning  voice  is  heard. 

Ha  !  what  sound  is  that  ? 

Trees  creaking  in  the  wind  (but  none  are  here) 
Send  forth  such  noises — and  that  weary  bell ! 
Surely  some  evil  Spirit  abroad  to-night 
Is  ringing  it — 'twould  stop  a  Saint  in  prayer, 
And  that — what  is  it  ?  never  was  sound  so  like 
A  human  groan.     Ha  !  what  is  here  ?     Poor  Man — 
Murdered !  alas  !  speak — speak,  I  am  your  friend  : 
No  answer — hush — lost  wretch,  he  lifts  his  hand 
And  lays  it  to  his  heart — (Kneels  to  him.)     I  pray  you 
speak !  1670 

What  has  befallen  you  ? 

HER.  (feebly}.  A  stranger  has  done  this, 

And  in  the  arms  of  a  stranger  I  must  die. 

ELD.  Nay,  think  not  so :  come,  let  me  raise  you  up  : 

[Raises  him. 

This  is  a  dismal  place — well — that  is  well — 
I  was  too  fearful — take  me  for  your  guide 
And  your  support — my  hut  is  not  far  off. 

[Draws  him  gently  off  the  stage. 

SCENE — A  room  in  the  Hostel — MARMADUKE  and  OSWALD 

MAR.  But  for  Idonea  ! — I  have  cause  to  think 
That  she  is  innocent. 

Osw.  Leave  that  thought  awhile, 

As  one  of  those  beliefs  which  in  their  hearts 
Lovers  lock  up  as  pearls,  though  oft  no  better  1680 

Than  feathers  clinging  to  their  points  of  passion. 
This  day's  event  has  laid  on  me  the  duty 
Of  opening  out  my  story  ;  you  must  hear  it, 
And  without  further  preface. — In  my  youth, 
Except  for  that  abatement  which  is  paid 
By  envy  as  a  tribute  to  desert, 
I  was  the  pleasure  of  all  hearts,  the  darling 
Of  every  tongue — as  you  are  now.     You  've  heard 
That  I  embarked  for  Syria.     On  our  voyage 
Was  hatched  among  the  crew  a  foul  Conspiracy  1690 

Against  my  honour,  in  the  which  our  Captain 
1— G 


98  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH          [ACT  iv 

Was,  I  believed,  prime  Agent.     The  wind  fell ; 

We  lay  becalmed  week  after  week,  until 

The  water  of  the  vessel  was  exhausted ; 

I  felt  a  double  fever  in  my  veins, 

Yet  rage  suppressed  itself ; — to  a  deep  stillness 

Did  my  pride  tame  my  pride ; — for  many  days, 

On  a  dead  sea  under  a  burning  sky, 

I  brooded  o'er  my  injuries,  deserted 

By  man  and  nature ; — if  a  breeze  had  olown,  1700 

It  might  have  found  its  way  into  my  heart, 

And  I  had  been — no  matter — do  you  mark  me  ? 

MAR.  Quick — to  the  point — if  any  untold  crime 
Doth  haunt  your  memory. 

Osw.  Patience,  hear  me  further ! — 

One  day  in  silence  did  we  drift  at  noon 
By  a  bare  rock,  narrow,  and  white,  and  bare  ; 
No  food  was  there,  no  drink,  no  grass,  no  shade, 
No  tree,  no  jutting  eminence,  nor  form 
Inanimate  large  as  the  body  of  man, 

Nor  any  living  thing  whose  lot  of  life  1710 

Might  stretch  beyond  the  measure  of  one  moon. 
To  dig  for  water  on  the  spot,  the  Captain 
Landed  with  a  small  troop,  myself  being  one : 
There  I  reproached  him  with  his  treachery. 
Imperious  at  all  times,  his  temper  rose  ; 
He  struck  me ;  and  that  instant  had  I  killed  him, 
And  put  an  end  to  his  insolence,  but  my  Comrades 
Rushed  in  between  us :  then  did  I  insist 
(All  hated  him,  and  I  was  stung  to  madness) 
That  we  should  leave  him  there,  alive  ! — we  did  so.       1720 

MAR.  And  he  was  famished  ? 

Osw.  Naked  was  the  spot ; 

Methinks  I  see  it  now — how  in  the  sun 
Its  stony  surface  glittered  like  a  shield  ; 
And  in  that  miserable  place  we  left  him, 
Alone  but  for  a  swarm  of  minute  creatures 
Not  one  of  which  could  help  him  while  alive, 
Or  mourn  him  dead. 

MAR.  A  man  by  men  cast  off, 

Left  without  burial !  nay,  not  dead  nor  dying, 
But  standing,  walking,  stretching  forth  his  arms, 
In  all  things  like  ourselves,  but  in  the  agony  1730 

With  which  he  called  for  mercy ;  and — even  so — 
He  was  forsaken  ? 

Osw.                                There  is  a  power  in  sounds  : 
The  cries  he  uttered  might  have  stopped  the  boat 
That  bore  us  through  the  water 


ACTIV]  THE  BORDERERS  99 

MAR.  You  returned 

Upon  that  dismal  hearing — did  you  not  ? 
Osw.  Some  scoffed  at  him  with  hellish  mockery, 
And  laughed  so  loud  it  seemed  that  the  smooth  sea 
Did  from  some  distant  region  echo  us. 
MAR.  We  all  are  of  one  blood,  our  veins  are  filled 

At  the  same  poisonous  fountain  ! 

Osw.  'Twas  an  island         1740 

Only  by  sufferance  of  the  winds  and  waves, 
Which  with  their  foam  could  cover  it  at  will. 
I  know  not  how  he  perished ;  but  the  calm, 
The  same  dead  calm,  continued  many  days. 
MAR.  But  his  own  crime  had  brought  on  him  this  doom. 
His  wickedness  prepared  it ;  these  expedients 
Are  terrible,  yet  ours  is  not  the  fault. 
Osw.  The  man  was  famished,  and  was  innocent ! 
MAR.  Impossible  ! 

Osw.  The  man  had  never  wronged  me. 

MAR.  Banish  the  thought,  crush  it,  and  be  at  peace.          1750 
His  guilt  was  marked — these  things  could  never  be 
Were  there  not  eyes  that  see,  and  for  good  ends, 
Where  ours  are  baffled. 

Osw.  I  had  been  deceived. 

MAR.  And  from  that  hour  the  miserable  man 

No  more  was  heard  of? 

Osw.  I  had  been  betrayed. 

MAR.  And  he  found  no  deliverance  ! 
Osw.  The  Crew 

Gave  me  a  hearty  welcome ;  they  had  laid 
The  plot  to  rid  themselves,  at  any  cost, 
Of  a  tyrannic  Master  whom  they  loathed. 
So  we  pursued  our  voyage :  when  we  landed,  1760 

The  tale  was  spread  abroad ;  my  power  at  once 
Shrunk  from  me  ;  plans  and  schemes,  and  lofty  hopes — 
All  vanished.     I  gave  way — do  you  attend  ? 
MAR.  The  Crew  deceived  you  ? 

Osw.  Nay,  command  yourself. 

MAR.  It  is  a  dismal  night — how  the  wind  howls  ! 
Osw.  I  hid  my  head  within  a  Convent,  there 
Lay  passive  as  a  dormouse  in  mid  winter. 
That  was  no  life  for  me — I  was  o'erthrown, 
But  not  destroyed. 

MAR.  The  proofs — you  ought  to  have  seen 

The  guilt — have  touched  it — felt  it  at  your  heart —       177° 
As  I  have  done. 

Osw.  A  fresh  tide  of  Crusaders 

Drove  by  the  place  of  my  retreat :  three  nights 


100  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH          [ACT  iv 

Did  constant  meditation  dry  my  blood ; 

Three  sleepless  nights  I  passed  in  sounding  on, 

Through  words  and  things,  a  dim  and  perilous  way ; 

And,  wheresoe'er  I  turned  me,  I  beheld 

A  slavery  compared  to  which  the  dungeon 

And  clanking  chains  are  perfect  liberty. 

You  understand  me — I  was  comforted ; 

I  saw  that  every  possible  shape  of  action  1780 

Might  lead  to  good — I  saw  it  and  burst  forth, 

Thirsting  for  some  of  those  exploits  that  fill 

The  earth  for  sure  redemption  of  lost  peace. 

[Marking  MARMADUKE'S  countenance. 
Nay,  you  have  had  the  worst.     Ferocity 
Subsided  in  a  moment,  like  a  wind 
That  drops  down  dead  out  of  a  sky  it  vexed. 
And  yet  I  had  within  me  evermore 
A  salient  spring  of  energy  ;  I  mounted 
From  action  up  to  action  with  a  mind 
That  never  rested — without  meat  or  drink  1790 

Have  I  lived  many  days — my  sleep  was  bound 
To  purposes  of  reason — not  a  dream 
But  had  a  continuity  and  substance 
That  waking  life  had  never  power  to  give. 

MAR.  O  wretched  Human-kind  ! — Until  the  mystery 
Of  all  this  world  is  solved,  well  may  we  envy 
The  worm,  that,  underneath  a  stone  whose  weight 
Would  crush  the  lion's  paw  with  mortal  anguish, 
Doth  lodge,  and  feed,  and  coil,  and  sleep,  in  safety. 
Fell  not  the  wrath  of  Heaven  upon  those  traitors  ?         1800 

Osw.  Give  not  to  them  a  thought.     From  Palestine 
We  marched  to  Syria  :  oft  I  left  the  Camp, 
When  all  that  multitude  of  hearts  was  still, 
And  followed  on,  through  woods  of  gloomy  cedar, 
Into  deep  chasms  troubled  by  roaring  streams ; 
Or  from  the  top  of  Lebanon  surveyed 
The  moonlight  desert,  and  the  moonlight  sea  : 
In  these  my  lonely  wanderings  I  perceived 
What  mighty  objects  do  impress  their  forms 
To  elevate  our  intellectual  being ;  1810 

And  felt,  if  ought  on  earth  deserves  a  curse, 
'Tis  that  worst  principle  of  ill  which  dooms 
A  thing  so  great  to  perish  self-consumed. 
— So  much  for  my  remorse  ' 

MAR.  Unhappy  man ! 

Osw.  When  from  these  forms  I  turned  to  contemplate 
The  world's  opinions  and  her  usages, 
I  seemed  a  Being  who  had  passed  alone 


ACTIV]  THE  BORDERERS  101 

Into  a  region  of  futurity, 

Whose  natural  element  was  freedom 

MAR.  Stop — 

I  may  not,  cannot,  follow  thee. 
Osw.  You  must.  1820 

I  had  been  nourished  by  the  sickly  food 

Of  popular  applause.     I  now  perceived 

That  we  are  praised,  only  as  men  in  us 

Do  recognise  some  image  of  themselves, 

An  abject  counterpart  of  what  they  are, 

Or  the  empty  thing  that  they  would  wish  to  be. 

I  felt  that  merit  has  no  surer  test 

Than  obloquy ;  that,  if  we  wish  to  serve 

The  world  in  substance,  not  deceive  by  show. 

We  must  become  obnoxious  to  its  hate,  1830 

Or  fear  disguised  in  simulated  scorn. 
MAR.  I  pity,  can  forgive,  you ;  but  those  wretches — 

That  monstrous  perfidy  ! 
Osw.  Keep  down  your  wrath. 

False  Shame  discarded,  spurious  Fame  despised, 

Twin  sisters  both  of  Ignorance,  I  found 

Life  stretched  before  me  smooth  as  some  broad  way 

Cleared  for  a  monarch's  progress.     Priests  might  spin 

Their  veil,  but  not  for  me — 'twas  in  fit  place 

Among  its  kindred  cobwebs.     I  had  been, 

And  in  that  dream  had  left  my  native  land,  1840 

One  of  Love's  simple  bondsmen — the  soft  chain 

Was  off  for  ever ;  and  the  men,  from  whom 

This  liberation  came,  you  would  destroy : 

Join  me  in  thanks  for  their  blind  services. 
MAR.  'Tis  a  strange  aching  that,  when  we  would  curse 

And  cannot. — You  have  betrayed  me — I  have  done — 

I  am  content — I  know  that  he  is  guiltless — 

That  both  are  guiltless,  without  spot  or  stain, 

Mutually  consecrated.     Poor  old  Man  ! 

And  I  had  heart  for  this,  because  thou  lovedst  1850 

Her  who  from  very  infancy  had  been 

Light  to  thy  path,  warmth  to  thy  blood  ! — Together 

[Turning  to  OSWALD. 

We  propped  his  steps,  he  leaned  upon  us  both. 
Osw.  Ay,  we  are  coupled  by  a  chain  of  adamant; 

Let  us  be  fellow-labourers,  then,  to  enlarge 

Man's  intellectual  empire.     We  subsist 

In  slavery  ;  all  is  slavery ;  we  receive 

Laws,  but  we  ask  not  whence  those  laws  have  come  ; 

We  need  an  inward  sting  to  goad  us  on. 
MAR.  Have  you  betrayed  me  ?     Speak  to  that. 


102  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH          [ACT  iv 

Osw.  The  mask, 

Which  for  a  season  I  have  stooped  to  wear,  1861 

Must  be  cast  off. — Know  then  that  I  was  urged, 
(For  other  impulse  let  it  pass)  was  driven, 
To  seek  for  sympathy,  because  I  saw 
In  you  a  mirror  of  my  youthful  self ; 
I  would  have  made  us  equal  once  again, 
But  that  was  a  vain  hope.     You  have  struck  home, 
With  a  few  drops  of  blood  cut  short  the  business ; 
Therein  for  ever  you  must  yield  to  me. 
But  what  is  done  will  save  you  from  the  blank  1870 

Of  living  without  knowledge  that  you  live : 
Now  you  are  suffering — for  the  future  day, 
'Tis  his  who  will  command  it. — Think  of  my  story — 
Herbert  is  innocent. 

MAR.  (in  a  faint  voice,  and  doubtinglyj.     You  do  but  echo 
My  own  wild  words  ? 

Osw.  Young  Man,  the  seed  must  lie 

Hid  in  the  earth,  or  there  can  be  no  harvest ; 
'Tis  Nature's  law.     What  I  have  done  in  darkness 
I  will  avow  before  the  face  of  day. 
Herbert  is  innocent. 

MAR.  What  fiend  could  prompt 

This  action  ?     Innocent ! — oh,  breaking  heart ! —  1880 

Alive  or  dead,  I  '11  find  him.  \Exit. 

Osw.  Alive — perdition !          [Exit. 


SCENE — The  inside  of  a  poor  Cottage 
ELEANOR  and  IDONEA  seated 

I  DON.  The  storm  beats  hard — Mercy  for  poor  or  rich, 

Whose  heads  are  shelterless  in  such  a  night ! 
A  VOICE  WITHOUT.     Holla  !  to  bed,  good  Folks,  within  ! 
ELEA.  O  save  us ! 

I  DON.  What  can  this  mean  ? 
ELEA.  Alas,  for  my  poor  husband  ! — 

We  '11  have  a  counting  of  our  flocks  to-morrow ; 

The  wolf  keeps  festival  these  stormy  nights : 

Be  calm,  sweet  Lady,  they  are  wassailers 

[The  voices  die  away  in  the  distance. 

Returning  from  their  Feast — my  heart  beats  so — 

A  noise  at  midnight  does  so  frighten  me. 
IDON.  Hush  !  [Listening. 

ELEA.  They  are  gone.     On  such  a  night,  my  husband, 

Dragged  from  his  bed,  was  cast  into  a  dungeon,  1892 

Where,  hid  from  me,  he  counted  many  years, 


ACT  iv]  THE  BORDERERS  103 

A  criminal  in  no  one's  eyes  but  theirs — 

Not  even  in  theirs — whose  brutal  violence 

So  dealt  with  him. 
IDON.  I  have  a  noble  Friend 

First  among  youths  of  knightly  breeding,  One 

Who  lives  but  to  protect  the  weak  or  injured. 

There  again !  [Listening. 

ELBA.  'Tis  my  husband's  foot.     Good  Eldred 

Has  a  kind  heart ;  but  his  imprisonment  1900 

Has  made  him  fearful,  and  he  '11  never  be 

The  man  he  was. 
IDON.  I  will  retire ; — good  night ! 

[She  goes  within. 

Enter  ELDRED  (hides  a  bundle] 

ELD.  Not  yet  in  bed,  Eleanor  ! — there  are  stains  in  that 
frock  which  must  be  washed  out. 

ELBA.  What  has  befallen  you  ? 

ELD.  I  am  belated,  and  you  must  know  the  cause — (speaking 
low)  that  is  the  blood  of  an  unhappy  Man. 

ELEA.  Oh  !  we  are  undone  for  ever. 

ELD.  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  lift  my  hand  against  any 
man.  Eleanor,  I  have  shed  tears  to-night,  and  it  comforts 
me  to  think  of  it.  1911 

ELBA.  Where,  where  is  he  ? 

ELD.  I  have  done  him  no  harm,  but — it  will  be  forgiven  me ; 
it  would  not  have  been  so  once. 

ELBA.  You  have  not  buried  anything  ?  You  are  no  richer 
than  when  you  left  me  ? 

ELD.  Be  at  peace  ;  I  am  innocent. 

ELBA.  Then  God  be  thanked 

[A  short  pause  ;  she  falls  upon  his  neck. 

ELD.  To-night  I  met  with  an  old  Man  lying  stretched  upon 
the  ground — a  sad  spectacle  :  I  raised  him  up  with  the 
hope  that  we  might  shelter  and  restore  him.  1921 

ELBA,  (as  if  ready  to  ruji).  Where  is  he  ?  You  were  not  able 
to  bring  him  all  the  way  with  you  ;  let  us  return,  I  can 
help  you.  [ELDRED  shakes  his  head. 

ELD.  He  did  not  seem  to  wish  for  life :  as  I  was  struggling 
on,  by  the  light  of  the  moon  I  saw  the  stains  of  blood 
upon  my  clothes — he  waved  his  hand,  as  if  it  were  all  use- 
less; and  I  let  him  sink  again  to  the  ground. 

ELBA.  Oh  that  I  had  been  by  your  side !  1929 

ELD.  I  tell  you  his  hands  and  his  body  were  cold — how 
could  I  disturb  his  last  moments  ?  he  strove  to  turn  from 
me  as  if  he  wished  to  settle  into  sleep. 

ELBA.  But,  for  the  stains  of  blood 


104  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  [ACT  iv 

ELD.  He  must  have  fallen,  I  fancy,  for  his  head  was  cut; 

but  I  think  his  malady  was  cold  and  hunger. 
ELBA.  Oh,  Eldred,  I  shall  never  be  able  to  look  up  at  this 

roof  in  storm  or  fair  but  I  shall  tremble. 
ELD.  Is  it  not  enough  that  my  ill  stars  have  kept  me  abroad 

to-night  till  this  hour?    I   come  home,  and  this  is   my 

comfort !  1940 

ELBA.  But  did  he  say  nothing  which  might  have  set  you  at 

ease  ? 
ELD.  I  thought  he  grasped  my  hand  while  he  was  muttering 

something  about  his  Child — his  Daughter — (starting  as  if 

he  heard  a  noise).     What  is  that  ? 
ELEA.  Eldred,  you  are  a  father. 
ELD.  God  knows  what  was  in  my  heart,  and  will  not  curse 

my  son  for  my  sake. 
ELEA.  But  you  prayed  by  him  ?  you  waited  the  hour  of  his 

release  ?  1950 

ELD.  The  night  was  wasting  fast ;  I  have  no  friend ;   I  am 

spited  by  the  world — his  wound  terrified  me — if   I   had 

brought  him  along  with  me,  and  he  had  died  in  my  arms ! 

— I  am  sure  I  heard  something  breathing — and  this  chair  ! 
ELEA.  Oh,  Eldred,  you  will  die  alone.     You  will  have  no- 
body to  close  your  eyes — no  hand  to  grasp  your  dying 

hand — I  shall  be  in  my  grave.     A  curse  will  attend  us  all. 
ELD.  Have  you  forgot  your  own  troubles  when  I  was  in  the 

dungeon  ? 

ELEA.  And  you  left  him  alive  ?  1960 

ELD.  Alive  ! — the  damps  of  death  were  upon  him — he  could 

not  have  survived  an  hour. 
ELEA.  In  the  cold,  cold  night. 
ELD.  (in  a  savage  tone).  Ay,  and  his  head  was  bare  ;  I  suppose 

you  would  have  had  me  lend  my  bonnet  to  cover  it. — You 

will  never  rest  till  I  am  brought  to  a  felon's  end. 
ELEA.  Is  there  nothing  to  be  done  ?    cannot  we  go  to  the 

Convent  ? 

ELD.  Ay,  and  say  at  once  that  I  murdered  him  !  1669 

ELEA.  Eldred,  I  know  that  ours  is  the  only  house  upon  the 

Waste;  let  us  take  heart ;  this  Man  may  be  rich  ;  and  could 

he  be  saved  by  our  means,  his  gratitude  may  reward  us. 
ELD.  'Tis  all  in  vain. 
ELEA.   But  let  us  make  the  attempt.     This  old   Man   may 

have  a  wife,  and  he  may  have  children — let  us  return  to 

the  spot ;  we  may  restore  him,  and  his  eyes  may  yet  open 

upon  those  that  love  him. 
ELD.  He  will  never  open  them  more ;  even  when  he  spoke 

to  me,  he  kept  them  firmly  sealed,  as  if  he  had  been  blind. 
I  DON.  (rushing  out).  It  is,  it  is,  my  Father —  1980 


ACT  v]  THE  BORDERERS  105 

ELD.  We  are  betrayed  !  [Looking  at  IDONEA. 

ELBA.   His  Daughter  ! — God  have  mercy  ! 

[Turning  to  IDONEA. 
I  DON.  (sinking  down}.    Oh !  lift  me  up  and  carry  me  to  the 

place. 

You  are  safe ;  the  whole  world  shall  not  harm  you. 
ELBA.  This  Lady  is  his  Daughter. 
ELD.  (moved).  I  '11  lead  you  to  the  spot. 
I  DON.  (springing  up).  Alive !  you  heard  him  breathe  ?  quick, 

quick —  [Exeunt. 


ACT  V 

SCENE — A  Wood  on  the  edge  oj  the  Waste 
Enter  OSWALD  and  a  Forester 

FOR.  He  leaned  upon  the  bridge  that  spans  the  glen,       1990 
And  down  into  the  bottom  cast  his  eye, 
That  fastened  there,  as  it  would  check  the  current. 

Osw.  He  listened  too  ;  did  you  not  say  he  listened  ? 

FOR.  As  if  there  came  such  moaning  from  the  flood 
As  is  heard  often  after  stormy  nights. 

Osw.  But  did  he  utter  nothing  ? 

FOR.  See  him  there ! 

MARMADUKE  appearing 

MAR.  Buzz,  buzz,  ye  black  and  winged  freebooters  ; 

That  is  no  substance  which  ye  settle  on  ! 
FOR.  His  senses  play  him  false ;  and  see,  his  arms 

Outspread,  as  if  to  save  himself  from  falling  ! —  2000 

Some  terrible  phantom  I  believe  is  now 

Passing  before  him,  such  as  God  will  not 

Permit  to  visit  any  but  a  man 

Who  has  been  guilty  of  some  horrid  crime. 

[MARMADUKE  disappears. 
Osw.  The  game  is  up  ! — 
FOR.  If  it  be  needful,  Sir, 

I  will  assist  you  to  lay  hands  upon  him. 
Osw.  No,  no,  my  Friend,  you  may  pursue  your  business — 

'Tis  a  poor  wretch  of  an  unsettled  mind, 

Who  has  a  trick  of  straying  from  his  keepers  ; 

We  must  be  gentle.     Leave  him  to  my  care.  2010 

[Exit  Forester. 

If  his  own  eyes  play  false  with  him,  these  freaks 

Of  fancy  shall  be  quickly  tamed  by  mine ; 

The  goal  is  reached.     My  Master  shall  become 

A  shadow  of  myself — made  by  myself. 


106  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  [ACT  v 

SCENE — The  edge  of  the  Moor 
MARMADUKE  and  ELDRED  enter  from  opposite  sides 

MAR.  (raising  his  eyes  and  perceiving  ELDRED).  In  any  corner 
of  this  savage  Waste, 

Have  you,  good  Peasant,  seen  a  blind  old  Man  ? 

ELD.  I  heard 

MAR.  You  heard  him,  where  ?  when  heard  him  ? 

ELD.  As  you  know, 

The  first  hours  of  last  night  were  rough  with  storm  : 

I  had  been  out  in  search  of  a  stray  heifer ; 

Returning  late,  I  heard  a  moaning  sound  ;  2020 

Then,  thinking  that  my  fancy  had  deceived  me, 

I  hurried  on,  when  straight  a  second  moan, 

A  human  voice  distinct,  struck  on  my  ear. 

So  guided,  distant  a  few  steps,  I  found 

An  aged  Man,  and  such  as  you  describe. 
MAR.  You  heard  ! — he  called  you  to  him  ?     Of  all  men 

The  best  and  kindest ! — but  where  is  he  ?  guide  me, 

That  I  may  see  him. 
ELD.  On  a  ridge  of  rocks 

A  lonesome  Chapel  stands,  deserted  now  : 

The  bell  is  left,  which  no  one  dares  remove ;  2030 

And,  when  the  stormy  wind  blows  o'er  the  peak, 

It  rings,  as  if  a  human  hand  were  there 

To  pull  the  cord.     I  guess  he  must  have  heard  it ; 

And  it  had  led  him  towards  the  precipice, 

To  climb  up  to  the  spot  whence  the  sound  came ; 

But  he  had  failed  through  weakness.     From  his  hand 

His  staff  had  dropped,  and  close  upon  the  brink 

Of  a  small  pool  of  water  he  was  laid, 

As  if  he  had  stooped  to  drink,  and  so  remained 

Without  the  strength  to  rise. 
MAR.  Well,  well,  he  lives,       2040 

And  all  is  safe  :  what  said  he  ? 
ELD.  But  few  words : 

He  only  spake  to  me  of  a  dear  Daughter, 

Who,  so  he  feared,  would  never  see  him  more ; 

And  of  a  Stranger  to  him,  One  by  whom 

He  had  been  sore  misused ;  but  he  forgave 

The  wrong  and  the  wrong-doer.     You  are  troubled — 

Perhaps  you  are  his  son  ? 
MAR.  The  All-seeing  knows, 

I  did  not  think  he  had  a  living  Child. — 

But  whither  did  you  carry  him  ? 
ELD.  He  was  torn, 

His  head  was  bruised,  and  there  was  blood  about  him 


ACT  v]  THE  BORDERERS  107 

MAR.  That  was  no  work  of  mine. 

ELD.  Nor  was  it  mine.          2051 

MAR.  But  had  he  strength  to  walk  ?  I  could  have  borne  him 
A  thousand  miles. 

ELD.  I  am  in  poverty, 

And  know  how  busy  are  the  tongues  of  men  ; 
My  heart  was  willing,  Sir,  but  I  am  one 
Whose  good  deeds  will  not  stand  by  their  own  light ; 
And,  though  it  smote  me  more  than  words  can  tell, 
I  left  him. 

MAR.                  I  believe  that  there  are  phantoms, 
That  in  the  shape  of  man  do  cross  our  path 
On  evil  instigation,  to  make  sport  2060 

Of  our  distress — and  thou  art  one  of  them  ! 
But  things  substantial  have  so  pressed  on  me 

ELD.  My  wife  and  children  came  into  my  mind. 

MAR.  Oh  Monster !  Monster  !  there  are  three  of  us, 
And  we  shall  howl  together. 

[After  a  pause  and  in  a  feeble  voice. 

I  am  deserted 

At  my  worst  need,  my  crimes  have  in  a  net 
(Pointing  to  ELDRED)  Entangled  this  poor  man. — Where 
was  it  ?  where  ?  [Dragging  him  along. 

ELD.  'Tis  needless;  spare  your  violence.    His  Daughter 

MAR.  Ay,  in  the  word  a  thousand  scorpions  lodge  : 
This  old  man  had  a  Daughter. 

ELD.  To  the  spot  2070 

I  hurried  back  with  her. — Oh  save  me,  Sir, 

From  such  a  journey ! there  was  a  black  tree, 

A  single  tree  ;  she  thought  it  was  her  Father. — 

Oh  Sir,  I  would  not  see  that  hour  again 

For  twenty  lives.     The  daylight  dawned,  and  now — 

Nay  ;  hear  my  tale,  'tis  fit  that  you  should  hear  it — 

As  we  approached,  a  solitary  crow 

Rose  from  the  spot ; — the  Daughter  clapped  her  hands, 

And  then  I  heard  a  shriek  so  terrible 

[MARMADUKE  shrinks  back. 
The  startled  bird  quivered  upon  the  wing.  2080 

MAR.  Dead,  dead! — 

ELD.  (after  a  pause).       A  dismal  matter,  Sir,  for  me, 
And  seems  the  like  for  you  ;  if  'tis  your  wish, 
I  '11  lead  you  to  his  Daughter ;  but  'twere  best 
That  she  should  be  prepared ;  I  '11  go  before. 

MAR.  There  will  be  need  of  preparation.       [ELDRED  goes  off. 

ELEA.  (enters).  Master ! 

Your  limbs  sink  under  you,  shall  I  support  you  ? 

MAR.  (taking  her  arm).  Woman,  I've  lent  my  body  to  the  service 


108  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  [ACT  v 

Which  now  thou  tak'st  upon  thee.     God  forbid 
That  thou  shouldst  ever  meet  a  like  occasion 
With  such  a  purpose  in  thine  heart  as  mine  was.  2090 

ELBA.  Oh,  why  have  I  to  do  with  things  like  these  ?  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  changes  to  the  door  O/ELD  RED'S  cottage — IDONEA  seated 
— enter  ELDRED 

ELD.  Your  Father,  Lady,  from  a  wilful  hand 

Has  met  unkindness ;  so  indeed  he  told  me, 

And  you  remember  such  was  my  report : 

From  what  has  just  befallen  me  I  have  cause 

To  fear  the  very  worst. 
I  DON.  My  Father  is  dead ; 

Why  dost  thou  come  to  me  with  words  like  these  ? 
ELD.  A  wicked  Man  should  answer  for  his  crimes 
IDON.  Thou  seest  me  what  I  am. 
ELD.  It  was  most  heinous, 

And  doth  call  out  for  vengeance. 
IDON.  Do  not  add,  2100 

I  prithee,  to  the  harm  thou  'st  done  already. 
ELD.   Hereafter  you  will  thank  me  for  this  service. 

Hard  by,  a  Man  I  met,  who,  from  plain  proofs 

Of  interfering  Heaven,  I  have  no  doubt, 

Laid  hands  upon  your  Father.     Fit  it  were 

You  should  prepare  to  meet  him. 
IDON.  I  have  nothing 

To  do  with  others ;  help  me  to  my  Father — 

[She  turns  and  sees  MARMADUKE  leaning  on  ELEANOR — 
throws  herself  upon  his  neck,  and  after  some  time, 

In  joy  I  met  thee,  but  a  few  hours  past ; 

And  thus  we  meet  again ;  one  human  stay 

Is  left  me  still  in  thee.     Nay,  shake  not  so.  ano 

MAR.  In  such  a  wilderness — to  see  no  thing, 

No,  not  the  pitying  moon  ! 
IDON.  And  perish  so. 

MAR.  Without  a  dog  to  moan  for  him. 
IDON.  Think  not  of  it, 

But  enter  there  and  see  him  how  he  sleeps, 

Tranquil  as  he  had  died  in  his  own  bed. 
MAR.  Tranquil — why  not  ? 
IDON.  Oh,  peace ! 

MAR.  He  is  at  peace  ; 

His  body  is  at  rest :  there  was  a  plot, 

A  hideous  plot,  against  the  soul  of  man : 

It  took  effect — and  yet  I  baffled  it, 

In  some  degree. 


ACTV]  THE  BORDERERS  109 

I  DON.  Between  us  stood,  I  thought,  2120 

A  cup  of  consolation,  filled  from  Heaven 
For  both  our  needs ;  must  I,  and  in  thy  presence, 
Alone  partake  of  it  ? — Beloved  Marmaduke  ! 

MAR.  Give  me  a  reason  why  the  wisest  thing 
That  the  earth  owns  shall  never  choose  to  die, 
But  some  one  must  be  near  to  count  his  groans. 
The  wounded  deer  retires  to  solitude, 
And  dies  in  solitude :  all  things  but  man, 
All  die  in  solitude.  [Moving  towards  the  cottage  door. 

Mysterious  God, 
If  she  had  never  lived  I  had  not  done  it ! —  2130 

IDON.  Alas,  the  thought  of  such  a  cruel  death 
Has  overwhelmed  him. — I  must  follow. 

ELD.  Lady ! 

You  will  do  well ;  (she  goes)  unjust  suspicion  may 
Cleave  to  this  Stranger :  if,  upon  his  entering, 
The  dead  Man  heave  a  groan,  or  from  his  side 
Uplift  his  hand — that  would  be  evidence. 

ELBA.  Shame  !  Eldred,  shame  ! 

MAR.  (both  returning).  The  dead  have  but  one  face. 

(To    himself^).    And    such    a    Man  —  so    meek    and    un- 
offending— 

Helpless  and  harmless  as  a  babe  :  a  Man 
By  obvious  signal  to  the  world's  protection  2140 

Solemnly  dedicated — to  decoy  him  ! — 

IDON.  Oh,  had  you  seen  him  living ! — 

MAR.  I  (so  filled 

With  horror  is  this  world)  am  unto  thee 
The  thing  most  precious  that  it  now  contains : 
Therefore  through  me  alone  must  be  revealed 
By  whom  thy  Parent  was  destroyed,  Idonea  ! 
I  have  the  proofs ! — 

IDON.  O  miserable  Father  ! 

Thou  didst  command  me  to  bless  all  mankind ; 
Nor  to  this  moment  have  I  ever  wished 
Evil  to  any  living  thing ;  but  hear  me,  2150 

Hear  me,  ye  Heavens  ! — (kneeling) — may  vengeance  haunt 

the  fiend 

For  this  most  cruel  murder :  let  him  live 
And  move  in  terror  of  the  elements ; 
The  thunder  send  him  on  his  knees  to  prayer 
In  the  open  streets,  and  let  him  think  he  sees, 
If  e'er  he  entei-eth  the  house  of  God, 
The  roof,  self-moved,  unsettling  o'er  his  head  ; 
And  let  him,  when  he  would  lie  down  at  night, 
Point  to  his  wife  the  blood-drops  on  his  pillow! 


110  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  [ACT  v 

MAR.   My  voice  was  silent,  but  my  heart  hath  joined  thee. 
IDON.    (leaning  on  MAKMADUKE).  Left  to  the  mercy  of  that 
savage  Man  '  2161 

How  could  he  call  upon  his  Child  ! — O  Friend ! 

[Turns  to  MARMADUKE. 
My  faithful  true  and  only  Comforter. 
MAR.  Ay,  come  to  me  and  weep.    (He  kisses  her.) 

(To  ELDRED).  Yes,  Varlet,  look, 

The  devils  at  such  sights  do  clap  their  hands. 

[ELDRED  retires  alarmed. 
IDON.  Thy  vest  is  torn,  thy  cheek  is  deadly  pale  ; 

Hast  thou  pursued  the  monster  ? 
MAR.  I  have  found  him. — 

Oh !  would  that  thou  hadst  perished  in  the  flames  ! 
IDON.  Here  art  thou,  then  can  I  be  desolate  ? — 
MAR.  There  was  a  time,  when  this  protecting  hand  aiyo 

Availed  against  the  mighty  ;  never  more 
Shall  blessings  wait  upon  a  deed  of  mine. 
IDON.  Wild  words  for  me  to  hear,  for  me,  an  orphan, 
Committed  to  thy  guardianship  by  Heaven  ; 
And,  if  thou  hast  forgiven  me,  let  me  hope, 
In  this  deep  sorrow,  trust,  that  I  am  thine 
For  closer  care ; — here,  is  no  malady.  [  Taking  his  arm. 

MAR.  There,  is  a  malady — 

(Striking  his  heart  and  forehead.)  And  here,  and  here, 
A  mortal  malady. — I  am  accurst : 

All  nature  curses  me,  and  in  my  heart  2180 

Thy  curse  is  fixed ;  the  truth  must  be  laid  bare. 
It  must  be  told,  and  borne.     I  am  the  man, 
(Abused,  betrayed,  but  how  it  matters  not) 
Presumptuous  above  all  that  ever  breathed, 
Who,  casting  as  I  thought  a  guilty  Person 
Upon  Heaven's  righteous  judgment,  did  become 
An  instrument  of  Fiends.     Through  me,  through  me, 
Thy  Father  perished. 

IDON.  Perished — by  what  mischance  ? 

MAR.  Beloved ! — if  I  dared,  so  would  I  call  thee — 

Conflict  must  cease,  and,  in  thy  frozen  heart,  2190 

The  extremes  of  suffering  meet  in  absolute  peace. 

[He  gives  her  a  letter. 

IDON.  (reads)  'Be  not  surprised  if  you  hear  that  some  signal 
judgment  has  befallen  the  man  who  calls  himself  your 
father ;  he  is  now  with  me,  as  his  signature  will  shew  : 
abstain  from  conjecture  till  you  see  me. 

'  HERBERT. 
'  MARMADUKE.  ' 
The  writing  Oswald's ;  the  signature  my  Father's : 


ACT  v]  THE  BORDERERS  111 

(Looks  steadily  at  the  paper)  And  here  is  yours, — or  do  my 
eyes  deceive  me  ? 

You  have  then  seen  my  Father  ? 
MAR.  He  has  leaned 

Upon  this  arm. 

IDON.  You  led  him  towards  the  Convent  ?       2200 

MAR.  That  Convent  was  Stone-Arthur  Castle.     Thither 

We  were  his  guides.     I  on  that  night  resolved 

That  he  should  wait  thy  coming  till  the  day 

Of  resurrection. 
IDON.  Miserable  Woman, 

Too  quickly  moved,  too  easily  giving  way, 

I  put  denial  on  thy  suit,  and  hence, 

With  the  disastrous  issue  of  last  night, 

Thy  pei'turbation,  and  these  frantic  words. 

Be  calm,  I  pray  thee ! 

MAR.  Oswald 

IDON.  Name  him  not. 

Enter  female  Beggar. 

BEG.  And  he  is  dead ! — that  Moor — how  shall  I  cross  it  ? 

By  night,  by  day,  never  shall  I  be  able  2211 

To  travel  half  a  mile  alone. — Good  Lady  ! 

Forgive  me  ! — Saints  forgive  me.     Had  I  thought 

It  would  have  come  to  this ! — 

IDON.  What  brings  you  hither  ?  speak  ! 

BEG.    (pointing  to  MARMADUKE).    This   innocent   Gentleman. 
Sweet  heavens  !  I  told  him 

Such  tales  of  your  dead  Father ! — God  is  my  judge, 

I  thought  there  was  no  harm  :  but  that  bad  Man, 

He  bribed  me  with  his  gold,  and  looked  so  fierce. 

Mercy  !  I  said  I  know  not  what — oh  pity  me — 

I  said,  sweet  Lady,  you  were  not  his  Daughter —  2220 

Pity  me,  I  am  haunted ; — thrice  this  day 

My  conscience  made  me  wish  to  be  struck  blind  ; 

And  then  I  would  have  prayed,  and  had  no  voice. 
IDON.  (to  MARMADUKE).  Was  it  my  Father  ? — no,  no,  no,  for  he 

Was  meek  and  patient,  feeble,  old  and  blind, 

Helpless,  and  loved  me  dearer  than  his  life. 

— But  hear  me.     For  one  question,  I  have  a  heart 

That  will  sustain  me.     Did  you  murder  him  ? 
MAR.  No,  not  by  stroke  of  arm.     But  learn  the  process  : 

Proof  after  proof  was  pressed  upon  me  ;  guilt  2230 

Made  evident,  as  seemed,  by  blacker  guilt, 

Whose  impious  folds  enwrapped  even  thee  ;  and  truth 

And  innocence,  embodied  in  his  looks, 


112  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  [ACT  v 

His  words  and  tones  and  gestures,  did  but  serve 
With  me  to  aggravate  his  crimes,  and  heaped 
Ruin  upon  the  cause  for  which  they  pleaded. 
Then  pity  crossed  the  path  of  my  resolve  : 
Confounded,  I  looked  up  to  Heaven,  and  cast, 
Idonea  !  thy  blind  Father  on  the  Ordeal 
Of  the  bleak  Waste — left  him — and  so  he  died  ! —         2240 
[IDONEA  sinks  senseless;  Beggar,  ELEANOR,  etc., 

crowd  round,  and  bear  her  off. 

Why  may  we  speak  these  things,  and  do  no  more  ; 
Why  should  a  thrust  of  the  arm  have  such  a  power, 
And  words  that  tell  these  things  be  heard  in  vain  ? 
She  is  not  dead.     Why ! — if  I  loved  this  Woman, 
I  would  take  care  she  never  woke  again  ; 
But  she  WILL  wake,  and  she  will  weep  for  me, 
And  say,  no  blame  was  mine — and  so,  poor  fool, 
Will  waste  her  curses  on  another  name. 

[He  walks  about  distractedly. 

Enter  OSWALD 

OSWALD     (to   himself).    Strong   to   o'erturn,   strong   also    to 
build  up.  [To  MARMADUKE. 

The  starts  and  sallies  of  our  last  encounter  2250 

Were  natural  enough  ;  but  that,  I  trust, 

Is  all  gone  by.     You  have  cast  off  the  chains 

That  fettered  your  nobility  of  mind — 

Delivered  heart  and  head  ! 

Let  us  to  Palestine  j 

This  is  a  paltry  field  for  enterprise. 
MAR.  Ay,  what  shall  we  encounter  next  ?     This  issue — 

'Twas  nothing  more  than  darkness  deepening  darkness, 

And  weakness  crowned  with  the  impotence  of  death  ! — 

Your  pupil  is,  you  see,  an  apt  proficient  (ironically). 

Start  not ! — Here  is  another  face  hard  by  ;  2260 

Come,  let  us  take  a  peep  at  both  together, 

And,  with  a  voice  at  which  the  dead  will  quake, 

Resound  the  praise  of  your  morality — 

Of  this  too  much. 

[Drawing  OSWALD  towards  the  Cottage — 

stops  short  at  the  door. 
Men  are  there,  millions,  Oswald, 

Who  with  bare  hands  would  have  plucked  out  thy  heart 

And  flung  it  to  the  dogs  :  but  I  am  raised 

Above,  or  sunk  below,  all  further  sense 

Of  provocation.    Leave  me,  with  the  weight 

Of  that  old  Man's  forgiveness  on  thy  heart, 

Pressing  as  heavily  as  it  doth  on  mine.  227° 


ACTV]  THE  BORDERERS  113 

Coward  I  have  been ;  know,  there  lies  not  now 

Within  the  compass  of  a  mortal  thought, 

A  deed  that  I  would  shrink  from  ; — but  to  endure, 

That  is  my  destiny.     May  it  be  thine  : 

Thy  office,  thy  ambition,  be  henceforth 

To  feed  remorse,  to  welcome  every  sting 

Of  penitential  anguish,  yea  with  tears. 

When  seas  and  continents  shall  lie  between  us — 

The  wider  space  the  better — we  may  find 

In  such  a  course  fit  links  of  sympathy,  2280 

An  incommunicable  rivalship 

Maintained,  for  peaceful  ends  beyond  our  view. 

[Confused  voices — several  of  the  band  enter 
— rush  upon  OSWALD  and  seise  him. 

ONE  OF  THEM.    I   would  have  dogged  him  to  the  jaws  of 
hell— 

Osw.  Ha  !  is  it  so ! — That  vagrant  Hag  ! — this  comes 

Of  having  left  a  thing  like  her  alive  !  [Aside. 

SEVERAL  VOICES.  Despatch  him ! 

Osw.  If  I  pass  beneath  a  rock 

And  shout,  and,  with  the  echo  of  my  voice, 
Bring  down  a  heap  of  rubbish,  and  it  crush  me, 
I  die  without  dishonour.     Famished,  starved, 
A  Fool  and  Coward  blended  to  my  wish  !  2290 

[Smiles  scornfully  and  exultingly  at  MARMADUKE. 

WAL.  'Tis  done  !  (stabs  him). 

ANOTHER  OF  THE  BAND.  The  ruthless  traitor  ! 

MAR.  A  rash  deed  ! — 

With  that  reproof  I  do  resign  a  station 
Of  which  I  have  been  proud. 

WIL.  (approaching  MARMADUKE).     O  my  poor  Master ! 

MAR.  Discerning  Monitor,  my  faithful  Wilfred, 

Why  art  thou  here  ?  [Turning  to  WALLACE. 

Wallace,  upon  these  Borders, 
Many  there  be  whose  eyes  will  not  want  cause 
To  weep  that  I  am  gone.     Brothers  in  arms  ! 
Raise  on  that  dreary  Waste  a  monument 
That  may  record  my  story  :  nor  let  words — 
Few  must  they  be,  and  delicate  in  their  touch  2300 

As  light  itself — be  there  withheld  from  Her 
Who,  through  most  wicked  arts,  was  made  an  orphan 
By  One  who  would  have  died  a  thousand  times, 
To  shield  her  from  a  moment's  harm.     To  you, 
Wallace  and  Wilfred,  I  commend  the  Lady, 
By  lowly  nature  reared,  as  if  to  make  her 
In  all  things  worthier  of  that  noble  birth, 
Whose  long-suspended  rights  are  now  on  the  eve 
i— H 


114  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  [ACT  v 

Of  restoration  :  with  your  tenderest  care 
Watch  over  her,  I  pray — sustain  her 

SEVERAL  OF  THE  BAND  (eagerly).  Captain  ! 

MAR.  No  more  of  that ;  in  silence  hear  my  doom  :  2311 

A  hermitage  has  furnished  fit  relief 
To  some  offenders ;  other  penitents, 
Less  patient  in  their  wretchedness,  have  fallen, 
Like  the  old  Roman,  on  their  own  sword's  point. 
They  had  their  choice  :  a  wanderer  must  I  go, 
The  Spectre  of  that  innocent  Man,  my  guide. 
No  human  ear  shall  ever  hear  me  speak  ; 
No  human  dwelling  ever  give  me  food, 
Or  sleep,  or  rest :  but,  over  waste  and  wild,  2320 

In  search  of  nothing,  that  this  earth  can  give, 
But  expiation,  will  I  wander  on — 
A  Man  by  pain  and  thought  compelled  to  live, 
Yet  loathing  life — till  anger  is  appeased 
In  Heaven,  and  Mercy  gives  me  leave  to  die. 

1795-6. 


TO  A  BUTTERFLY  115 


POEMS  REFERRING  TO  THE  PERIOD 
OF  CHILDHOOD 

I 

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, 

Or  let  me  die  ! 

The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man ; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

March  26,  1802 


II 

TO  A  BUTTERFLY 

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 ! 
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,  to 

The  time,  when,  in  our  childish  plays, 

My  sister  Emmeline  and  I 

Together  chased  the  butterfly  ' 

A  very  hunter  did  I  rush 

Upon  the  prey  : — with  leaps  and  springs 

I  followed  on  from  brake  to  bush ; 

But  she,  God  love  her  !  feared  to  brush 

The  dust  from  off  its  wings. 

March  14,  1802 


116  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

III 
THE  SPARROW'S  NEST 

TfJ  EHOLD,  within  the  leafy  shade, 
L)     Those  bright  blue  eggs  together  laid  ! 
On  me  the  chance-discovered  sight 
Gleamed  like  a  vision  of  delight. 
I  started — seeming  to  espy 
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. 

She  looked  at  it  and  seemed  to  fear  it ; 
Dreading,  tho'  wishing,  to  be  near  it : 
Such  heart  was  in  her,  being  then 
A  little  Prattler  among  men. 
The  Blessing  of  my  later  years 
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. 

1801 


IV 
FORESIGHT 

THAT  is  work  of  waste  and  ruin — 
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, 
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. 

— Here  are  daisies,  take  your  fill , 

Pansies,  and  the  cuckoo-flower : 

Of  the  lofty  daffodil 

Make  your  bed,  or  make  your  bower  ; 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  A  CHILD         117 

Fill  your  lap,  and  fill  your  bosom  ; 
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. 

God  has  given  a  kindlier  power 

To  the  favoured  strawberry-flower. 

Hither  soon  as  spring  is  fled 

You  and  Charles  and  I  will  walk  ; 

Lurking  berries,  ripe  and  red, 

Then  will  hang  on  every  stalk,  30 

Each  within  its  leafy  bower; 

And  for  that  promise  spare  the  flower  ! 

April  28,  1802 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  A  CHILD  THREE 
YEARS  OLD 

E~  VING  she  is,  and  tractable,  though  wild  ; 
And  Innocence  hath  privilege  in  her 
To  dignify  arch  looks  and  laughing  eyes  ; 
And  feats  of  cunning ;  and  the  pretty  round 
Of  trespasses,  affected  to  provoke 
Mock-chastisement  and  partnership  in  play. 
And,  as  a  faggot  sparkles  on  the  hearth, 
Not  less  if  unattended  and  alone 
Than  when  both  young  and  old  sit  gathered  round 
And  take  delight  in  its  activity ;  i< 

Even  so  this  happy  Creature  of  herself 
Is  all-sufficient ;  solitude  to  her 
Is  blithe  society,  who  fills  the  air 
With  gladness  and  involuntary  songs. 
Light  are  her  sallies  as  the  tripping  fawn's 
Forth-startled  from  the  fern  where  she  lay  couched  ; 
Unthought-of,  unexpected,  as  the  stir 
Of  the  soft  breeze  ruffling  the  meadow-flowers, 
Or  from  before  it  chasing  wantonly 
The  many-coloured  images  imprest  21 

Upon  the  bosom  of  a  placid  lake. 

1811 


118  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

VI 
ADDRESS  TO  A  CHILD 

DURING  A  BOISTEROUS  WINTER  EVENING 
BY  MY  SISTER 

WHAT  way  does  the  Wind  come  ?    What  way  does 
he  go? 

He  rides  over  the  water,  and  over  the  snow, 
Through  wood,  and  through  vale  ;  and  o'er  rocky  height, 
Which  the  goat  cannot  climb,  takes  his  sounding  flight ; 
He  tosses  about  in  every  bare  tree, 
As,  if  you  look  up,  you  plainly  may  see  ; 
But  how  he  will  come,  and  whither  he  goes, 
There 's  never  a  scholar  in  England  knows. 

He  will  suddenly  stop  in  a  cunning  nook, 

And  ring  a  sharp  'larum  ; — but,  if  you  should  look,        10 

There  's  nothing  to  see  but  a  cushion  of  snow, 

Round  as  a  pillow,  and  whiter  than  milk, 

And  softer  than  if  it  were  covered  with  silk. 

Sometimes  he  '11  hide  in  the  cave  of  a  rock, 

Then  whistle  as  shrill  as  the  buzzard  cock ; 

— Yet  seek  him, — and  what  shall  you  find  in  the  place  ? 

Nothing  but  silence  and  empty  space  ; 

Save,  in  a  corner,  a  heap  of  dry  leaves, 

That  he 's  left,  for  a  bed,  to  beggars  or  thieves  ! 

As  soon  as  'tis  daylight  to-morrow,  with  me  20 

You  shall  go  to  the  orchard,  and  then  you  will  see 
That  he  has  been  there,  and  made  a  great  rout, 
And  cracked  the  branches,  and  strewn  them  about ; 
Heaven  grant  that  he  spare  but  that  one  upright  twig 
That  looked  up  at  the  sky  so  proud  and  big 
All  last  summer,  as  well  you  know, 
Studded  with  apples,  a  beautiful  show  ' 

Hark  !  over  the  roof  he  makes  a  pause, 

And  growls  as  if  he  would  fix  his  claws 

Right  in  the  slates,  and  with  a  huge  rattle  30 

Drive  them  down,  like  men  in  a  battle : 

— But  let  him  range  round  ;  he  does  us  no  harm, 

We  build  up  the  fire,  we  're  snug  and  warm ; 

Untouched  by  his  breath  see  the  candle  shines  bright, 

And  burns  with  a  clear  and  steady  light ; 

Books  have  we  to  read, — but  that  half-stifled  knell, 

Alas  !  'tis  the  sound  of  the  eight  o'clock  bell. 


THE  MOTHER'S  RETURN  119 

— Come  now  we  '11  to  bed  !  and  when  we  are  there 
He  may  work  his  own  will,  and  what  shall  we  care  ? 
He  may  knock  at  the  door, — we  '11  not  let  him  in ;       40 
May  drive  at  the  windows, — we'll  laugh  at  his  din; 
Let  him  seek  his  own  home  wherever  it  be ; 
Here 's  a  cozie  warm  house  for  Edward  and  me. 

1806 


VII 
THE  MOTHER'S  RETURN 

BY  THE  SAME 

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

0  blessed  tidings  !  thought  of  joy ! 
The  eldest  heard  with  steady  glee ; 
Silent  he  stood ;  then  laughed  amain, — 
And  shouted,  '  Mother,  come  to  me  ! ' 

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

1  told  of  hills,  and  far-off  towns, 

And  long,  long  vales  to  travel  through ; — 
He  listens,  puzzled,  sore  perplexed, 
But  he  submits ;  what  can  he  do  ? 

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

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

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


120  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Then,  settling  into  fond  discourse, 

We  rested  in  the  garden  bower ;  30 

While  sweetly  shone  the  evening  sun 

In  his  departing  hour. 

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

We  talked  of  change,  of  winter  gone, 

Of  green  leaves  on  the  hawthorn  spray, 

Of  birds  that  build  their  nests  and  sing, 

And  all '  since  Mother  went  away ! '  40 

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

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

'Tis  gone — and  in  a  merry  fit 

They  run  up  stairs  in  gamesome  race  j  50 

I,  too,  infected  by  their  mood, 

I  could  have  joined  the  wanton  chase. 

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

1807 

VIII 
ALICE  FELL;  OR,  POVERTY 

/"T"SHE  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. 

As  if  the  wind  blew  many  ways, 
I  heard  the  sound, — and  more  and  more  ; 
It  seemed  to  follow  with  the  chaise, 
And  still  I  heard  it  as  before. 


ALICE  FELL  121 

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 
The  cry,  I  bade  him  halt  again. 

Forthwith  alighting  on  the  ground, 

'  Whence  comes,'  said  I,  '  this  piteous  moan  ?  ' 

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  ; 
And  down  from  off  her  seat  she  leapt. 

'  What  ails  you,  child  ? ' — she  sobbed,  '  Look  here  ! ' 

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, 

A  miserable  rag  indeed  ! 

'  And  whither  are  you  going,  child, 
To-night  along  these  lonesome  ways  ? ' 
'  To  Durham,'  answered  she,  half  wild — 
'  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 

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.' 
Again,  as  if  the  thought  would  choke 
Her  very  heart,  her  grief  grew  strong ; 
And  all  was  for  her  tattered  cloak  ! 


122  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

The  chaise  drove  on ;  our  journey's  end 

Was  nigh  ;  and,  sitting  by  my  side,  50 

As  if  she  had  lost  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, 
To  buy  a  new  cloak  for  the  old. 

'  And  let  it  be  of  duffil  grey, 
As  warm  a  cloak  as  man  can  sell  1 ' 
Proud  creature  was  she  the  next  day, 
The  little  orphan.  Alice  Fell !  60 

March  12,  13,  1802 


IX 

LUCY  GRAY;  OR,  SOLITUDE 

OFT  I  had  heard  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  ; 
She  dwelt  on  a  wide  moor, 
— The  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew 
Beside  a  human  door  ! 

You  yet  may  spy  the  fawn  at  play, 
The  hare  upon  the  green ; 
But  the  sweet  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 
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 ! ' 


LUCY  GRAY  123 

At  this  the  Father  raised  his  hook, 
And  snapped  a  faggot-band  ; 
He  plied  his  work  ; — and  Lucy  took 
The  lantern  in  her  hand. 

Not  blither  is  the  mountain  roe : 
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 
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, 
'  In  heaven  we  all  shall  meet ' ; 
— When  in  the  snow  the  mother  spied 
The  print  of  Lucy's  feet. 

Then  downwards  from  the  steep  hill's  edge 
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  to  the  bridge  they  came. 

They  followed  from  the  snowy  bank 
Those  footmarks,  one  by  one, 
Into  the  middle  of  the  plank ; 
And  further  there  were  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 


124  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

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

1799 


X 

WE  ARE  SEVEN 

A  simple  Child, 

That  lightly  draws  its  breath, 
And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb, 
What  should  it  know  of  death  ? 

I  met  a  little  cottage  girl  ; 
She  was  eight  years  old,  she  said  ; 
Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a  curl 
That  clustered  round  her  head. 

She  had  a  rustic,  woodland  air, 
And  she  was  wildly  clad : 
Her  eyes  were  fair,  and  very  fair ; 
— Her  beauty  made  me  glad. 

'  Sisters  and  brothers,  little  Maid, 
How  many  may  you  be  ? ' 
'  How  many  ?     Seven  in  all,'  she  said, 
And  wondering  looked  at  me. 

'And  where  are  they?  I  pray  you  tell.' 
She  answered,  '  Seven  are  we ; 
And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell, 
And  two  are  gone  to  sea. 

'  Two  of  us  in  the  church-yard  lie, 
My  sister  and  my  brother  ; 
And,  in  the  church-yard  cottage,  I 
Dwell  near  them  with  my  mother.' 

'  You  say  that  two  at  Conway  dwell, 
And  two  are  gone  to  sea, 
Yet  ye  are  seven  !     I  pray  you  tell, 
Sweet  Maid,  how  this  may  be.' 

Then  did  the  little  Maid  reply, 
'  Seven  boys  and  girls  are  we ; 


WE  ARE  SEVEN  125 

Two  of  us  in  the  church-yard  lie, 
Beneath  the  church-yard  tree.' 

'  You  run  about,  my  little  Maid, 
Your  limbs  they  are  alive ; 
If  two  are  in  the  church-yard  laid, 
Then  ye  are  only  five.' 

'  Their  graves  are  green,  they  may  be  seen/ 
The  little  Maid  replied, 

'  Twelve  steps  or  more  from  my  mother's  door, 
And  they  are  side  by  side.  40 

'  My  stockings  there  I  often  knit, 
My  kerchief  there  I  hem ; 
And  there  upon  the  ground  I  sit, 
And  sing  a  song  to  them. 

'  And  often  after  sun-set,  Sir, 
When  it  is  light  and  fair, 
I  take  my  little  porringer, 
And  eat  my  supper  there. 

'  The  first  that  died  was  sister  Jane ; 

In  bed  she  moaning  lay,  50 

Till  God  released  her  of  her  pain  ; 

And  then  she  went  away. 

'  So  in  the  church-yard  she  was  laid  ; 
And,  when  the  grass  was  dry, 
Together  round  her  grave  we  played, 
My  brother  John  and  I. 

'  And  when  the  ground  was  white  with  snow, 

And  I  could  run  and  slide, 

My  brother  John  was  forced  to  go, 

And  he  lies  by  her  side.'  60 

'  How  many  are  you,  then,'  said  I, 
'  If  they  two  are  in  heaven  ?  ' 
Quick  was  the  little  Maid's  reply, 
'  O  Master  !  we  are  seven.' 

'  But  they  are  dead  ;  those  two  are  dead  ! 
Their  spirits  are  in  heaven ! ' 
'Twas  throwing  words  away  ;  for  still 
The  little  Maid  would  have  her  will, 
And  said,  '  Nay,  we  are  seven  ! ' 

1798 


126  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

XI 

THE  IDLE  SHEPHERD-BOYS 
OR,  DUNGEON-GHYLL  FORCE  » 

A  PASTORAL 

r  I  ^HE  valley  rings  with  mirth  and  joy ; 

Among  the  hills  the  echoes  play 
A  never  never  ending  song, 
To  welcome  in  the  May. 
The  magpie  chatters  with  delight ; 
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  to 

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. 

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  :  ao 

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, 

And  carols  loud  and  strong. 

A  thousand  lambs  are  on  the  rocks, 

All  newly  born  !  both  earth  and  sky 

Keep  jubilee,  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. 

1  Ghytt,  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. 


THE  IDLE  SHEPHERD-BOYS  127 

Said  Walter,  leaping  from  the  ground, 
*  Down  to  the  stump  of  yon  old  yew 
We  '11  for  our  whistles  run  a  race.' 

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  '11  find  a  task  for  half  a  year. 

'  Cross,  if  you  dare,  where  I  shall  cross — 

Come  on,  and  tread  where  I  shall  tread.' 

The  other  took  him  at  his  word, 

And  followed  as  he  led. 

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. 

With  staff  in  hand  across  the  cleft 

The  challenger  pursued  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, 

And,  looking  down,  espies 

A  lamb,  that  in  the  pool  is  pent 

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, 

The  lamb,  still  swimming  round  and  round, 

Made  answer  to  that  plaintive  sound. 


128  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

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, 

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, 

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  ; 

Then  up  the  steep  ascent  they  hied, 

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. 

1800 

XII 
ANECDOTE  FOR  FATHERS 

4  Eetine  vim  istam,  falsa  cnim  dicam,  si  coges.' — EUSEBIUB 

I   HAVE  a  boy  of  five  years  old ; 
His  face  is  fair  and  fresh  to  see ; 
His  limbs  are  cast  in  beauty's  mould, 
And  dearly  he  loves  me. 

One  morn  we  strolled  on  our  dry  walk, 
Our  quiet  home  all  full  in  view, 
And  held  such  intermitted  talk 
As  we  are  wont  to  do. 

My  thoughts  on  former  pleasures  ran  ; 

I  thought  of  Kilve's  delightful  shore,  10 

Our  pleasant  home  when  spring  began, 

A  long,  long  year  before. 

A  day  it  was  when  I  could  bear 
Some  fond  regrets  to  entertain  ; 
With  so  much  happiness  to  spare, 
I  could  not  feel  a  pain, 


ANECDOTE  FOR  FATHERS  129 

The  green  earth  echoed  to  the  feet 

Of  lambs  that  bounded  through  the  glade, 

From  shade  to  sunshine,  and  as  fleet 

From  sunshine  back  to  shade.  20 

Birds  warbled  round  me — and  each  trace 
Of  inward  sadness  had  its  charm  ; 
Kilve,  thought  I,  was  a  favoured  place, 
And  so  is  Liswyn  farm. 

My  boy  beside  me  tripped,  so  slim 
And  graceful  in  his  rustic  dress ! 
And,  as  we  talked,  I  questioned  him, 
In  very  idleness. 

'  Now  tell  me,  had  you  rather  be,' 

I  said,  and  took  him  by  the  arm,  30 

'  On  Kilve's  smooth  shore,  by  the  green  sea, 

Or  here  at  Liswyn  farm  ?  ' 

In  careless  mood  he  looked  at  me, 
While  still  I  held  him  by  the  arm, 
And  said,  '  At  Kilve  I  'd  rather  be 
Than  here  at  Liswyn  farm.' 

'  Now,  little  Edward,  say  why  so : 

My  little  Edward,  tell  me  why.' — 

'  I  cannot  tell,  I  do  not  know.' — 

'  Why,  this  is  strange,'  said  I ;  40 

'  For,  here  are  woods,  hills  smooth  and  warm  : 
There  surely  must  some  reason  be 
Why  you  would  change  sweet  Liswyn  farm 
For  Kilve  by  the  green  sea.' 

At  this,  my  boy  hung  down  his  head, 
He  blushed  with  shame,  nor  made  reply  ; 
And  three  times  to  the  child  I  said, 
'  Why,  Edward,  tell  me  why  ? ' 

His  head  he  raised — there  was  in  sight, 

It  caught  his  eye,  he  saw  it  plain —  50 

Upon  the  house-top,  glittering  bright, 

A  broad  and  gilded  vane. 

Then  did  the  boy  his  tongue  unlock, 
And  eased  his  mind  with  this  reply  : 
1-1 


130  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

'  At  Kilve  there  was  no  weather-cock ; 
And  that 's  the  reason  why.' 

O  dearest,  dearest  boy  !  my  heart 
For  better  lore  would  seldom  yearn, 
Could  I  but  teach  the  hundredth  part 
Of  what  from  thee  I  learn.  60 

1798 


XIII 
RURAL  ARCHITECTURE 


'S    George   Fisher,   Charles   Fleming,  and 
Reginald  Shore, 
Three  rosy-cheeked  school-boys,  the  highest  not  more 
Than  the  height  of  a  counsellor's  bag  ; 
To  the  top  of  GREAT  How  l  did  it  please  them  to  climb  : 
And  there  they  built  up,  without  mortar  or  lime, 
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, 

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,  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  '11  build  up  a  giant  with  you. 

1800 

1  GREAT  How  is  a  single  and  conspicuous  hill,  which  rises  towards  the 
foot  of  Thirlmere,  on  the  western  side  of  the  beautiful  dale  of  Legberthwaite, 
along  the  high  road  between  Keswick  and  Ambleside. 


THE  PET-LAMB  131 

XIV 
THE  PET-LAMB 

A  PASTORAL 

r  f  "HE  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  were  near ;  the  lamb  was  all  alone, 
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.  10 

'  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  : 
But  ere  ten  yards  were  gone  her  footsteps  did  she  stay. 

Right  towards  the  lamb  she  looked;  and  from  a  shady 

place 

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 : 

'  What  ails  thee,  young  One  ?  what  ?     Why  pull  so  at  thy 
cord  ?  21 

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  ? 

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  ! 


132  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

'  If  the  sun  be  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  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  on  the  hills,  but  thou  wert  owned  by 

none, 
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, 
Then  I  '11  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  ? 
Things  that  I  know  not  of  belike  to  thee  are  dear,  51 

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, 
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  !'  60 


TO  H.  C.  133 

— 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. 

Again,  and  once  again,  did  I  repeat  the  song ; 

'  Nay/  said  I,  '  more  than  half  to  the  damsel  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.' 

1800 


XV 
TO  H.  C. 

SIX  YEARS  OLD 

OTHOU  !  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 
In  such  clear  water,  that  thy  boat 
May  rather  seem 

To  brood  on  air  than  on  an  earthly  stream ; 
Suspended  in  a  stream  as  clear  as  sky, 
Where  earth  and  heaven  do  make  one  imagery ;        10 

0  blessed  vision  !  happy  child  ! 
Thou  art  so  exquisitely  wild, 

1  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, 
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, 
Or  the  injuries  of  to-morrow  ? 

Thou  art  a  dew-drop,  which  the  morn  brings  forth, 
111  fitted  to  sustain  unkindly  shocks, 
Or  to  be  trailed  along  the  soiling  earth  ; 


134  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

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. 

1802 


XVI 

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.  ] 

WISDOM  and  Spirit  of  the  universe  ! 
Thou    Soul,    that    art    the    Eternity   of 

thought ! 

And  giv'st  to  forms  and  images  a  breath 
And  everlasting  motion  !  not  in  vain, 
By  day  or  star-light,  thus  from  my  first  dawn 
Of  childhood  didst  thou  intertwine  for  me 
The  passions  that  build  up  our  human  soul ; 
Not  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 
With  stinted  kindness.     In  November  days, 
When  vapours  rolling  down  the  valleys  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 
In  solitude,  such  intercourse  was  mine : 
Mine  was  it  in  the  fields  both  day  and  night, 
And  by  the  waters,  all  the  summer  long. 
And  in  the  frosty  season,  when  the  sun 
Was  set,  and,  visible  for  many  a  mile, 
The  cottage-windows  through  the  twilight  blazed, 
I  heeded  not  the  summons :  happy  time 
It  was  indeed  for  all  of  us ;  for  me 


THE  LONGEST  DAY  135 

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. — All  shod  with  steel 

We  hissed  along  the  polished  ice,  in  games 

Confederate,  imitative  of  the  chase 

And  woodland  pleasures, — the  resounding  horn, 

The  pack  loud-chiming,  and  the  hunted  hare. 

So  through  the  darkness  and  the  cold  we  flew, 

And  not  a  voice  was  idle  ;  with  the  din 

Smitten,  the  precipices  rang  aloud  ;  40 

The  leafless  trees  and  every  icy  crag 

Tinkled  like  iron  ;  while  far-distant  hills 

Into  the  tumult  sent  an  alien  sound 

Of  melancholy ,  not  unnoticed  while  the  stars, 

Eastward,  were  sparkling  clear,  and  in  the  west 

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  of  a  star ;  50 

Image,  that,  flying  still  before  me,  gleamed 
Upon  the  glassy  plain  :  and  oftentimes, 
When  we  had  given  our  bodies  to  the  wind, 
And  all  the  shadowy  banks  on  either  side 
Came  sweeping  through  the  darkness,  spinning  still 
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. 

1799 


XVII 
THE  LONGEST  DAY 

ADDRESSED  TO  MY  DAUGHTER,  DORA 

ET  us  quit  the  leafy  arbour, 
And  the  torrent  murmuring  by ; 
For  the  sun  is  in  his  harbour, 
Weary  of  the  open  sky. 


136  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Evening  now  unbinds  the  fetters 
Fashioned  by  the  glowing  light ; 
All  that  breathe  are  thankful  debtors 
To  the  harbinger  of  night. 

Yet  by  some  grave  thoughts  attended 

Eve  renews  her  calm  career ;  10 

For  the  day,  that  now  is  ended, 

Is  the  longest  of  the  year. 

Dora  !  sport,  as  now  thou  sportest, 
On  this  platform,  light  and  free ; 
Take  thy  bliss,  while  longest,  shortest, 
Are  indifferent  to  thee  ! 

Who  would  check  the  happy  feeling 

That  inspires  the  linnet's  song  ? 

Who  would  stop  the  swallow,  wheeling 

On  her  pinions  swift  and  strong  ?  ao 

Yet,  at  this  impressive  season, 
Words  which  tenderness  can  speak 
From  the  truths  of  homely  reason 
Might  exalt  the  loveliest  cheek ; 

And,  while  shades  to  shades  succeeding 
Steal  the  landscape  from  the  sight, 
I  would  urge  this  moral  pleading, 
Last  forerunner  of '  Good  night ! ' 

SUMMER  ebbs ; — each  day  that  follows 

Is  a  reflux  from  on  high,  30 

Tending  to  the  darksome  hollows 

Where  the  frosts  of  winter  lie. 

He  who  governs  the  creation, 
In  his  providence,  assigned 
Such  a  gradual  declination 
To  the  life  of  human  kind. 

Yet  we  mark  it  not ; — fruits  redden, 

Fresh  flowers  blow,  as  flowers  have  blown, 

And  the  heart  is  loth  to  deaden 

Hopes  that  she  so  long  hath  known.  40 

Be  thou  wiser,  youthful  Maiden  ! 
And  when  thy  decline  shall  come, 
Let  not  flowers,  or  boughs  fruit-laden, 
Hide  the  knowledge  of  thy  doom. 


THE  NORMAN  BOY  137 

Now,  even  now,  ere  wrapped  in  slumber, 
Fix  thine  eyes  upon  the  sea 
That  absorbs  time,  space,  and  number ; 
Look  thou  to  Eternity  ! 

Follow  thou  the  flowing  river 

On  whose  breast  are  thither  borne  jjo 

All  deceived,  and  each  deceiver, 

Through  the  gates  of  night  and  morn ; 

Through  the  year's  successive  portals  ; 
Through  the  bounds  which  many  a  star 
Marks,  not  mindless  of  frail  mortals, 
When  his  light  returns  from  far. 

Thus  when  thou  with  Time  hast  travelled 

Toward  the  mighty  gulf  of  things, 

And  the  mazy  stream  unravelled 

With  thy  best  imaginings  ;  60 

Think,  if  thou  on  beauty  leanest, 
Think  how  pitiful  that  stay, 
Did  not  virtue  give  the  meanest 
Charms  superior  to  decay. 

Duty,  like  a  strict  preceptor, 
Sometimes  frowns,  or  seems  to  frown  ; 
Choose  her  thistle  for  thy  sceptre, 
While  youth's  roses  are  thy  crown. 

Grasp  it, — if  thou  shrink  and  tremble, 
Fairest  damsel  of  the  green,  70 

Thou  wilt  lack  the  only  symbol 
That  proclaims  a  genuine  queen  ; 

And  ensures  those  palms  of  honour 
Which  selected  spirits  wear, 
Bending  low  before  the  Donor, 
Lord  of  heaven's  unchanging  year ! 

1817 

XVIII 
THE  NORMAN  BOY 

HIGH  on  a  broad  unfertile  tract  of  forest-skirted  Down, 
Nor  kept  by  Nature  for  herself,  nor  made  by  man 

his  own, 

From  home  and  company  remote  and  every  playful  joy, 
Served,  tending  a  few  sheep  and  goats,  a  ragged  Norman 
Boy. 


138  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Him  never  saw  I,  nor  the  spot ;  but  from  an  English  Dame, 
Stranger  to  me  and  yet  my  friend,  a  simple  notice  came, 
With  suit  that  I  would  speak  in  verse  of  that  sequestered 

child 
Whom,  one  bleak  winter's  day,  she  met  upon  the  dreary  Wild. 

His  flock,  along  the  woodland's  edge  with  relics  sprinkled 

o'er 
Of  last  night's  snow,  beneath  a  sky  threatening  the  fall  of 

more,  10 

Where  tufts  of  herbage  tempted  each,  were  busy  at  their 

feed, 
And  the  poor  Boy  was  busier  still,  with  work  of  anxious  heed. 

There  was   he,  where  of  branches  rent  and  withered  and 

decayed, 
For  covert  from  the  keen  north  wind,  his  hands  a  hut  had 

made. 

A  tiny  tenement,  forsooth,  and  frail,  as  needs  must  be 
A  thing  of  such  materials  framed,  by  a  builder  such  as  he. 

The  hut  stood  finished  by  his  pains,  nor  seemingly  lacked 

aught 
That  skill  or  means  of  his  could  add,  but  the  architect  had 

wrought 

Some  limber  twigs  into  a  Cross,  well-shaped  with  fingers  nice, 
To  be  engrafted  on  the  top  of  his  small  edifice.  20 

That  Cross  he  now  was  fastening  there,  as  the  surest  power 

and  best 

For  supplying  all  deficiencies,  all  wants  of  the  rude  nest 
In  which,  from  burning  heat,  or  tempest  driving  far  and  wide, 
The  innocent  Boy,  else  shelterless,  his  lonely  head  must  hide. 

That  Cross  belike  he  also  raised  as  a  standard  for  the  true 
And  faithful  service  of  his  heart  in  the  worst  that  might 

ensue 

Of  hardship  and  distressful  fear,  amid  the  houseless  waste 
Where  he,  in  his  poor  self  so  weak,  by  Providence  was  placed. 

— Here,    Lady  !  might  I  cease ;  but  nay,  let  us  before  we 

part 
With  this  dear  holy  shepherd-boy  breathe  a  prayer  of  earnest 

heart,  30 

That  unto  him,  where'er  shall  lie  his  life's  appointed  way, 
The  Cross,  fixed  in  his  soul,  may  prove  an  all-sufficing  stay. 

Published  1842. 


THE  POETS  DREAM  139 

XIX 
THE  POET'S  DREAM 

SEQUEL  TO  THE  NORMAN  BOY 

JUST  as  those  final  words  were  penned,  the  sun  broke  out 
in  power, 
And  gladdened  all  things;  but,  as  chanced,  within  that 

very  hour, 
Air  blackened,  thunder  growled,  fire  flashed  from  clouds  that 

hid  the  sky, 
And,  for  the  Subject  of  my  Verse,  I  heaved  a  pensive  sigh. 

Nor  could  my  heart  by  second  thoughts  from  heaviness  be 

cleared, 
For  bodied   forth  before  my   eyes  the  cross-crowned   hut 

appeared  ; 
And,  while  around  it  storm  as  fierce  seemed  troubling  earth 

and  air, 
I  saw,  within,  the  Norman  Boy  kneeling  alone  in  prayer. 

The  Child,  as  if  the  thunder's  voice  spake  with  articulate 

call, 

Bowed  meekly  in  submissive  fear,  before  the  Lord  of  All  ;  10 
His  lips  were  moving;    and  his  eyes,  upraised  to  sue  for 

grace, 
With  soft  illumination  cheered  the  dimness  of  that  place. 

How  beautiful  is  holiness  !  —  what  wonder  if  the  sight, 

Almost  as  vivid  as  a  dream,  produced  a  dream  at  night  ? 

It  came  with  sleep  and  showed  the  Boy,  no  cherub,  not 

transformed, 
But  the  poor  ragged  Thing  whose  ways  my  human  heart  had 

warmed. 

Me  had  the  dream  equipped  with  wings,  so  I  took  him  in 

my  arms, 

And  lifted  from  the  grassy  floor,  stilling  his  faint  alarms, 
And  bore  him  high  through  yielding  air  my  debt  of  love  to 


By  giving  him,  for  both  our  sakes,  an  hour  of  holiday.          20 

I  whispered,  '  Yet  a  little  while,  dear  Child  !  thou  art  my 

own, 
To  show  thee  some  delightful  thing,  in  country  or  in  town. 


140  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

What  shall  it  be  ?  a  mirthful  throng  ?  or  that  holy  place  and 

calm 
St.  Denis,  filled  with  royal  tombs,  or  the  Church  of  Notre 

Dame  ? 

rSt.  Ouen's  golden  Shrine?     Or  choose   what   else  would 

please  thee  most 

Of  any  wonder  Normandy,  or  all  proud  France,  can  boast ! ' 
'  My  Mother/  said  the  Boy,  '  was  born  near  to   a  blessed 

Tree, 
The  Chapel  Oak  of  Allonville ;  good  Angel,  show  it  me  ! ' 

On  wings,  from  broad  and  steadfast  poise  let  loose  by  this 

reply, 

For  Allonville,  o'er  down  and  dale,  away  then  did  we  fly  ;  30 
O'er  town  and  tower   we  flew,   and   fields  in  May's   fresh 

verdure  drest ; 
The  wings  they  did  not  flag ;  the  Child,  though  grave,  was 

not  deprest. 

But  who  shall  show,  to  waking  sense,  the  gleam  of  light 

that  broke 
Forth  from  his  eyes,  when  first  the  Boy  looked  down  on 

that  huge  oak, 
For  length  of  days  so  much  revered,  so  famous  where  it 

stands 
For  twofold  hallowing — Nature's  care,  and  work  of  human 

hands  ? 

Strong  as  an  Eagle  with   my  charge  I   glided   round   and 

round 
The  wide-spread  boughs,  for  view  of  door,  window,  and  stair 

that  wound 

Gracefully  up  the  gnarled  trunk  ;  nor  left  we  unsurveyed 
The  pointed  steeple  peering  forth  from  the  centre  of  the 

shade.  40 

I  lighted — opened  with  soft  touch  the  chapel's  iron  door, 
Past  softly,  leading  in  the  Boy  ;  and,  while  from  roof  to  floor, 
From  floor  to  roof,  all  round  his  eyes  the  Child  with  wonder 

cast, 
Pleasure  on  pleasure  crowded  in,  each  livelier  than  the  last. 

For,  deftly  framed  within  the  trunk,  the  sanctuary  showed, 
By  light  of  lamp  and  precious  stones,  that  glimmered  here, 

there  glowed, 

Shrine,  Altar,  Image,  Offerings  hung  in  sign  of  gratitude  ; 
Sight  that  inspired  accordant  thoughts ;  and  speech  I  thus 

renewed : 


THE  POETS  DREAM 

H  ither  the  Afflicted  come,  as  thou  hast  heard  thy  Mother 

say, 

And,  kneeling,  supplication  make  to  our  Lady  de  la  Paix ;  50 
What  mournful  sighs  have  here  been  heard,  and,  when  the 

voice  was  stopt 
By  sudden  pangs,  what  bitter  tears  have  on  this  pavement 

dropt ! 

'  Poor  Shepherd  of  the  naked  Down,  a  favoured  lot  is  thine, 
Far  happier  lot,  dear  Boy,  than  brings  full  many  to   this 

shrine  ; 

From  body  pains  and  pains  of  soul  thou  needest  no  release, 
Thy  hours  as  they  flow  on  are  spent,  if  not  in  joy,  in  peace. 

'  Then  offer  up  thy  heart  to  God  in  thankfulness  and  praise, 
Give  to  him  prayers,  and  many  thoughts,  in  thy  most  busy 

days  ; 

And  in  His  sight  the  fragile  Cross,  on  thy  small  hut,  will  be 
Holy  as  that  which  long  hath  crowned  the  Chapel  of  this 

Tree ;  60 

'  Holy  as  that  far  seen  which  crowns  the  sumptuous  Church 

in  Rome 
Where   thousands   meet  to   worship   God  under  a  mighty 

Dome; 

He  sees  the  bending  multitude,  He  hears  the  choral  rites, 
Yet,  not  the  less,  in  children's  hymns   and   lonely   prayer 

delights. 

'  God  for  His  service  needeth  not  proud  work  of  human  skill ; 
They  please  Him  best  who  labour  most  to  do  in  peace  His 

will  : 

So  let  us  strive  to  live,  and  to  our  Spirits  will  be  given 
Such  wings  as,  when  our  Saviour  calls,  shall  bear  us  up  to 

heaven.' 

The  Boy  no  answer  made  by  words,  but,  so  earnest  was  his 

look, 
Sleep   fled,    and  with  it  fled  the  dream — recorded  in  this 

book,  70 

Lest  all  that  passed  should  melt  away  in  silence  from  my 

mind, 
As  visions  still   more  bright  have  done,  and  left  no   trace 

behind. 

But  oh  !  that  Country-man  of  thine,  whose  eye,  loved  Child, 

can  see 
A  pledge  of  endless  bliss  in  acts  of  early  piety, 


142  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

In  verse,   which  to   thy   ear  might  come,  would  treat  this 

simple  theme, 
Nor  leave  untold  our  happy  flight  in  that  adventurous  dream. 

Alas  the  dream,  to  thee,  poor  Boy  !  to  thee  from  whom  it 

flowed, 
Was  nothing,  scarcely  can  be  aught,  yet  'twas  bounteously 

bestowed, 

If  I  may  dare  to  cherish  hope  that  gentle  eyes  will  read 
Not   loth,   and   listening   Little-ones,   heart-touched,   their 

fancies  feed.  80 

Published  1842 

XX 

THE  WESTMORELAND  GIRL 

TO  MY  GRANDCHILDREN 
PART  I 

SEEK  who  will  delight  in  fable, 
I  shall  tell  you  truth.     A  Lamb 
Leapt  from  this  steep  bank  to  follow 
'Cross  the  brook  its  thoughtless  dam. 

Far  and  wide  on  hill  and  valley 
Rain  had  fallen,  unceasing  rain, 
And  the  bleating  mother's  Young-one 
Struggled  with  the  flood  in  vain : 

But,  as  chanced,  a  Cottage-maiden 

(Ten  years  scarcely  had  she  told)  10 

Seeing,  plunged  into  the  torrent, 

Clasped  the  Lamb  and  kept  her  hold. 

Whirled  adown  the  rocky  channel, 
Sinking,  rising,  on  they  go, 
Peace  and  rest,  as  seems,  before  them 
Only  in  the  lake  below. 

Oh  !  it  was  a  frightful  current 

Whose  fierce  wrath  the  Girl  had  braved  ; 

Clap  your  hands  with  joy,  my  Hearers, 

Shout  in  triumph,  both  are  saved ;  20 

Saved  by  courage  that  with  danger 
Grew,  by  strength  the  gift  of  love, 
And  belike  a  guardian  angel 
Came  with  succour  from  above. 


THE  WESTMORELAND  GIRL  143 


PART  II 

Now,  to  a  maturer  Audience, 
Let  me  speak  of  this  brave  Child 
Left  among  her  native  mountains 
With  wild  Nature  to  run  wild. 

So,  unwatched  by  love  maternal, 

Mother's  care  no  more  her  guide,  30 

Fared  this  little  bright-eyed  Orphan 

Even  while  at  her  father's  side. 

Spare  your  blame, — remembrance  makes  him 
Loth  to  rule  by  strict  command ; 
Still  upon  his  cheek  are  living 
Touches  of  her  infant  hand, 

Dear  caresses  given  in  pity, 

Sympathy  that  soothed  his  grief, 

As  the  dying  mother  witnessed 

To  her  thankful  mind's  relief.  40 

Time  passed  on  ;  the  Child  was  happy, 
Like  a  Spirit  of  air  she  moved, 
Wayward,  yet  by  all  who  knew  her 
For  her  tender  heart  beloved. 

Scarcely  less  than  sacred  passions, 
Bred  in  house,  in  grove,  and  field, 
Link  her  with  the  inferior  creatures, 
Urge  her  powers  their  rights  to  shield. 

Anglers,  bent  on  reckless  pastime, 

Learn  how  she  can  feel  alike  50 

Both  for  tiny  harmless  minnow 

And  the  fierce  and  sharp-toothed  pike. 

Merciful  protectress,  kindling 
Into  anger  or  disdain  ; 
Many  a  captive  hath  she  rescued, 
Others  saved  from  lingering  pain. 

Listen  yet  awhile  ; — with  patience 

Hear  the  homely  truths  I  tell, 

She  in  Grasmere's  old  church-steeple 

Tolled  this  day  the  passing-bell.  60 


144  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Yes,  the  wild  Girl  of  the  mountains 
To  their  echoes  gave  the  sound, 
Notice  punctual  as  the  minute, 
Warning  solemn  and  profound. 

She,  fulfilling  her  sire's  office, 
Rang  alone  the  far-heard  knell, 
Tribute,  by  her  hand,  in  sorrow, 
Paid  to  One  who  loved  her  well 

When  his  spirit  was  departed, 

On  that  service  she  went  forth  ;  70 

Nor  will  fail  the  like  to  render 

When  his  corse  is  laid  in  earth. 

What  then  wants  the  Child  to  temper, 
In  her  breast,  unruly  fire, 
To  control  the  froward  impulse 
And  restrain  the  vague  desire  ? 

Easily  a  pious  training 

And  a  steadfast  outward  power 

Would  supplant  the  weeds  and  cherish, 

In  their  stead,  each  opening  flower.  80 

Thus  the  fearless  Lamb-deli v'rer, 
Woman  grown,  meek-hearted,  sage, 
May  become  a  blest  example 
For  her  sex,  of  every  age. 

Watchful  as  a  wheeling  eagle, 
Constant  as  a  soaring  lark, 
Should  the  country  need  a  heroine, 
She  might  prove  our  Maid  of  Arc. 

Leave  that  thought ;  and  here  be  uttered 
Prayer  that  Grace  divine  may  raise  90 

Her  humane  courageous  spirit 
Up  to  heaven,  thro'  peaceful  ways. 

June  6,  1845 


THE  BROTHERS  145 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS 

I 
THE  BROTHERS 

« 'T~"*HESE  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  summer  lasted  :  some,  as  wise, 
Perched  on  the  forehead  of  a  jutting  crag, 
Pencil  in  hand  and  book  upon  the  knee, 
Will  look  and  scribble,  scribble  on  and  look, 
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.' 

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, 
Employed  in  winter's  work.     Upon  the  stone  ao 

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 
Of  busy  hands  and  back-and-forward  steps, 
Her  large  round  wheel  was  turning.      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 
Many  a  long  look  of  wonder  :  and  at  last,  30 

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 
1-K 


146  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

That  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 

Had  left  that  calling,  tempted  to  entrust  40 

His  expectations  to  the  fickle  winds 

And  perilous  waters  ;  with  the  mariners 

A  fellow-mariner ; — and  so  had  fared 

Through  twenty  seasons ;  but  he  had  been  reared 

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 

Between  the  tropics  filled  the  steady  sail,  50 

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 

Over  the  vessel's  side,  and  gaze  and  gaze  ; 

And,  while  the  broad  blue  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, 

Even  with  the  organs  of  his  bodily  eye,  60 

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 

Which  he  himself  had  worn.1 

And  now,  at  last, 

From  perils  manifold,  with  some  small  wealth, 
Acquired  by  traffic  'mid  the  Indian  Isles, 
To  his  paternal  home  he  is  returned, 
With  a  determined  purpose  to  resume 
The  life  he  had  lived  there  ;  both  for  the  sake  70 

Of  many  darling  pleasures,  and  the  love 
Which  to  an  only  brother  he  has  borne 
In  all  his  hardships,  since  that  happy  time 
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, 

1  This  description  of  the  Calenture  is  sketched  from  an  imperfect  recollec- 
tion of  an  admirable  one  in  prose,  by  Mr.  Gilbert,  author  of  The  Hurricane. 


THE  BROTHERS  147 

When  Leonard  had  approached  his  home,  his  heart 

Failed  in  him ;  and,  not  venturing  to  enquire 

Tidings  of  one  so  long  and  dearly  loved, 

He  to  the  solitary  church-yard  turned ;  80 

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 

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 

That  he  had  seen  this  heap  of  turf  before, — 

That  it  was  not  another  grave  ;  but  one  90 

He  had  forgotten.     He  had  lost  his  path, 

As  up  the  vale,  that  afternoon,  he  walked 

Through  fields  which  once  had  been  well  known  to 

him  : 

And  oh  what  joy  this  recollection  now 
Sent  to  his  heart !  he  lifted  up  his  eyes, 
And,  looking  round,  imagined  that  he  saw 
Strange  alteration  wrought  on  every  side 
Among  the  woods  and  fields,  and  that  the  rocks, 
And  everlasting  hills  themselves  were  changed. 

By  this  the  Priest,  who  down  the  field  had  come,    100 
Unseen  by  Leonard,  at  the  church-yard  gate 
Stopped  short, — and  thence,  at  leisure,  limb  by  limb 
Perused  him  with  a  gay  complacency. 
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, 
Following  his  fancies  by  the  hour,  to  bring 
Tears  down  his  cheek,  or  solitary  smiles  no 

Into  his  face,  until  the  setting  sun 
Write  fool  upon  his  forehead. — Planted  thus 
Beneath  a  shed  that  over-arched  the  gate 
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 
By  Leonard  to  the  Vicar  as  to  one 
Unknown  to  him,  this  dialogue  ensued.  12 

LEONARD.  You  live,  Sir,  in  these  dales,  a  quiet  life  : 


148  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Your  years  make  up  one  peaceful  family  ; 
And  who  would  grieve  and  fret,  if,  welcome  come 
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, 
Can  trace  the  finger  of  mortality, 

And  see,  that  with  our  threescore  years  and  ten          130 
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 
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,  for  aught  I  know, 

That  chasm  is  much  the  same — 

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)  140 

There  were  two  springs  which  bubbled  side  by  side, 
As  if  they  had  been  made  that  they  might  be 
Companions  for  each  other :  the  huge  crag 
Was  rent  with  lightning — one  hath  disappeared ; 
The  other,  left  behind,  is  flowing  still. 
For  accidents  and  changes  such  as  these, 
We  want  not  store  of  them  ; — 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  150 

One  roaring  cataract !  a  sharp  May-storm 
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 ; 
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 ;          160 
And  hence,  so  far  from  wanting  facts  or  dates 
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  ! 


THE  BROTHERS  149 

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,     170 
Cross-bones  nor  skull, — type  of  our  earthly  state 
Nor  emblem  of  our  hopes  :  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 
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 !  rve  want  180 

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. 

LEONARD.  Your  Dalesmen,  then,  do  in  each  other's  thoughts 
Possess  a  kind  of  second  life  :  no  doubt 
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, 
If  you  were  seated  at  my  chimney's  nook,  190 

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, — 
It  looks  just  like  the  rest;  and  yet  that  man 
Died  broken-hearted. 

LEONARD.  'Tis  a  common  case. 

We  '11  take  another :  who  is  he  that  lies 
Beneath  yon  ridge,  the  last  of  those  three  graves  ? 
It  touches  on  that  piece  of  native  rock 
Left  in  the  church-yard  wall. 

PRIEST.  That's  Walter  Ewbank. 

He  had  as  white  a  head  and  fresh  a  cheek  201 

As  ever  were  produced  by  youth  and  age 
Engendering  in  the  blood  of  hale  fourscore. 
Through  five  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. 
They  toiled  and  wrought,  and  still,  from  sire  to  son, 
Each  struggled,  and  each  yielded  as  before 


150  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

A  little — yet  a  little, — and  old  Walter,  210 

They  left  to  him  the  family  heart,  and  land 

With  other  burthens  than  the  crop  it  bore. 

Year  after  year  the  old  man  still  kept  up 

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 

God  only  knows,  but  to  the  very  last 

He  had  the  lightest  foot  in  Ennerdale : 

His  pace  was  never  that  of  an  old  man  :  220 

I  almost  see  him  tripping  down  the  path 

With  his  two  grandsons  after  him : — but  you, 

Unless  our  Landlord  be  your  host  to-night, 

Have  far  to  travel, — and  on  these  rough  paths 

Even  in  the  longest  day  of  midsummer — 

LEONARD.  But  those  two  Orphans  ! 

PRIEST.  Orphans  ! — Such  they  were — 

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,  230 

Shed  when  he  talked  of  them  where  they  were  not, 
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, 
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  ? — 

PRIEST.  They  did — and  truly :  240 

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 
Inclined  to  both  by  reason  of  his  age, 
With  a  more  fond,  familiar,  tenderness ; 
They,  notwithstanding,  had  much  love  to  spare, 
And  it  all  went  into  each  other's  hearts. 
Leonard,  the  elder  by  just  eighteen  months, 
Was  two  years  taller  :  'twas  a  joy  to  see,  250 

To  hear,  to  meet  them ! — From  their  house  the  school 
Is  distant  three  short  miles,  and  in  the  time 
Of  storm  and  thaw,  when  every  water-course 


THE  BROTHERS  151 

And  unbridged  stream,  such  as  you  may  have  noticed 
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, 
Bearing  his  brother  on  his  back.     I  have  seen  him, 
On  windy  days,  in  one  of  those  stray  brooks,  260 

Ay,  more  than  once  I  have  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 
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 ; 
The  very  brightest  Sunday  Autumn  saw, 
With  all  its  mealy  clusters  of  ripe  nuts,  270 

Could  never  keep  those  boys  away  from  church, 
Or  tempt  them  to  an  hour  of  sabbath  breach. 
Leonard  and  James !     I  warrant,  every  corner 
Among  these  rocks,  and  every  hollow  place 
That  venturous  foot  could  reach,  to  one  or  both 
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 : 
Then  they  could  write,  ay,  and  speak  too,  as  well 
As  many  of  their  betters — and  for  Leonard  !  280 

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 
That,  if  he  be  alive,  he  has  it  yet. 
LEONARD.  It  seems,  these  Brothers  have  not  lived  to  be 

A  comfort  to  each  other — 

PRIEST.  That  they  might 

Live  to  such  end  is  what  both  old  and  young 
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  !      290 

PRIEST.  'Tis  of  the  elder  brother  I  am  speaking  : 
They  had  an  uncle ; — he  was  at  that  time 
A  thriving  man,  and  trafficked  on  the  seas  : 
And,  but  for  that  same  uncle,  to  this  hour 
Leonard  had  never  handled  rope  or  shroud  : 
For  the  boy  loved  the  life  which  we  lead  here; 
And  though  of  unripe  years,  a  stripling  only, 


152  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

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,  300 

The  estate  and  house  were  sold ;  and  all  their  sheep, 

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. 

Twelve  years  are  past  since  we  had  tidings  from  him. 

If  there  were  one  among  us  who  had  heard 

That  Leonard  Ewbank  was  come  home  again, 

From  the  Great  Gavel,1  down  by  Leeza's  banks,          310 

And  down  the  Enna,  far  as  Egremont, 

The  day  would  be  a  joyous  festival; 

And  those  two  bells  of  ours,  which  there  you  see — 

Hanging  in  the  open  air — but,  O  good  Sir ! 

This  is  sad  talk — they  '11  never  sound  for  him — 

Living  or  dead. — When  last  we  heard  of  him, 

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  320 

Was  sadly  crossed. — Poor  Leonard !  when  we  parted 

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. 

LEONARD.  If  that  day 

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, 
And  that  he  had  one  Brother — 

PRIEST.  That  is  but  330 

A  fellow-tale  of  sorrow.     From  his  youth 
James,  though  not  sickly,  yet  was  delicate ; 
And  Leonard  being  always  by  his  side 
Had  done  so  many  offices  about  him, 
That,  though  he  was  not  of  a  timid  nature, 
Yet  still  the  spirit  of  a  mountain-boy 

1  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. 


THE  BROTHERS  153 

In  him  was  somewhat  checked ;  and,  when  his  Brother 
Was  gone  to  sea,  and  he  was  left  alone, 
The  little  colour  that  he  had  was  soon 
Stolen  from   his  cheek ;   he    drooped,  and  pined,  and 
pined —  340 

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 
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. 
And,  when  he  dwelt  beneath  our  roof,  we  found 
(A  practice  till  this  time  unknown  to  him)  350 

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  ! 
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, 

(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  360 

Under  a  cloudless  sun — till  he,  at  length, 
Through  weariness,  or,  haply,  to  indulge 
The  humour  of  the  moment,  lagged  behind. 
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. 
Upon  its  aery  summit  crowned  with  heath, 
The  loiterer,  not  unnoticed  by  his  comrades,  370 

Lay  stretched  at  ease  ;  but,  passing  by  the  place 
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 
That  nobody  had  seen  him  all  that  day  : 
The  morning  came,  and  still  he  was  unheard  of: 
The  neighbours  were  alarmed,  and  to  the  brook 
Some  hastened  ;  some  ran  to  the  lake  :  ere  noon 
They  found  him  at  the  foot  of  that  same  rock  380 


154  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Dead,  and  with  mangled  limbs.     The  third  day  after 
I  buried  him,  poor  Youth,  and  there  he  lies  ! 

LEONARD.  And  that  then  is  his  grave  ! — Before  his  death 
You  say  that  he  saw  many  happy  years  ? 

PRIEST.  Ay,  that  he  did — 

LEONARD.  And  all  went  well  wiCh  him  ? — 

PRIEST.  If  he  had  one,  the  Youth  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  390 

His  thoughts  were  turned  on  Leonard's  luckless  fortune, 
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 
That,  as  the  day  was  warm,  he  had  lain  down 
On  the  soft  heath, — and,  waiting  for  his  comrades, 
He  there  had  fallen  asleep ;  that  in  his  sleep 
He  to  the  margin  of  the  precipice  400 

Had  walked,  and  from  the  summit  had  fallen  headlong. 
And  so  no  doubt  he  perished.     When  the  Youth 
Fell,  in  his  hand  he  must  have  grasp'd,  we  think, 
His  shepherd's  staff;  for  on  that  Pillar  of  rock 
It  had  been  caught  mid-way  ;  and  there  for  years 
It  hung ; — and  mouldered  there. 

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  ; 
And  Leonard,  when  they  reached  the  church-yard  gate, 
As  the  Priest  lifted  up  the  latch,  turned  round, —       411 
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 
That  Leonard  would  partake  his  homely  fare : 
The  other  thanked  him  with  an  earnest  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,       420 

And,  sitting  down  beneath  the  trees,  reviewed 

All  that  the  Priest  had  said  :  his  early  years 

Were  with  him  : — his  long  absence,  cherished  hopes, 

And  thoughts  which  had  been  his  an  hour  before, 


ARTEGAL  AND  ELIDURE  155 

All  pressed  on  him  with  such  a  weight,  that  now, 

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  to  Egremont :  and  thence, 

That  night,  he  wrote  a  letter  to  the  Priest,  430 

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 

A  Seaman,  a  grey-headed  Mariner. 

1800 

II 
ARTEGAL  AND  ELIDURE 

(SEE  THE  CHRONICLE  OF  GEOFFREY  OF  MONMOUTH,  AND 
MILTON'S  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND) 

WHERE  be  the  temples  which,  in  Britain's  Isle, 
For  his  paternal  Gods,  the  Trojan  raised  ? 
Gone  like  a  morning  dream,  or  like  a  pile 
Of  clouds  that  in  cerulean  ether  blazed  ! 
Ere  Julius  landed  on  her  white-cliffed  shore, 

They  sank,  delivered  o'er 
To  fatal  dissolution ;  and,  I  ween, 
No  vestige  then  was  left  that  such  had  ever  been. 

Nathless,  a  British  record  (long  concealed 

In  old  Armorica,  whose  secret  springs  10 

No  Gothic  conqueror  ever  drank)  revealed 

The  marvellous  current  of  forgotten  things ; 

How  Brutus  came,  by  oracles  impelled, 

And  Albion's  giants  quelled, 
A  brood  whom  no  civility  could  melt, 
'Who  never  tasted  grace,  and  goodness  ne'er  had  felt.' 

By  brave  Corineus  aided,  he  subdued, 

Aiid  rooted  out  the  intolerable  kind  ; 

And  this  too-long-polluted  land  imbued 

With  goodly  arts  and  usages  refined ;  20 

Whence  golden  harvests,  cities,  warlike  towers, 

And  pleasure's  sumptuous  bowers; 
Whence  all  the  fixed  delights  of  house  and  home, 
Friendships  that  will  not  break,  and  love  that  cannot 

roam. 


156  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

O,  happy  Britain  !  region  all  too  fair 
For  self-delighting  fancy  to  endure 
That  silence  only  should  inhabit  there, 
Wild  beasts,  or  uncouth  savages  impure ! 
But,  intermingled  with  the  generous  seed, 

Grew  many  a  poisonous  weed ;  30 

Thus  fares  it  still  with  all  that  takes  its  birth 
From  human  care,  or  grows  upon  the  breast  of  earth. 

Hence,  and  how  soon  !  that  war  of  vengeance  waged 

By  Guendolen  against  her  faithless  lord  ; 

Till  she,  in  jealous  fury  unassuaged, 

Had  slain  his  paramour  with  ruthless  sword : 

Then,  into  Severn  hideously  defiled, 

She  flung  her  blameless  child, 
Sabrina, — vowing  that  the  stream  should  bear 
That  name  through  every  age,  her  hatred  to  declare.  40 

So  speaks  the  Chronicle,  and  tells  of  Lear 

By  his  ungrateful  daughters  turned  adrift. 

Ye  lightnings,  hear  his  voice  ! — they  cannot  hoar, 

Nor  can  the  winds  restore  his  simple  gift. 

But  One  there  is,  a  Child  of  nature  meek, 

Who  comes  her  Sire  to  seek ; 
And  he,  recovering  sense,  upon  her  breast 
Leans  smilingly,  and  sinks  into  a  perfect  rest. 

There  too  we  read  of  Spenser's  fairy  themes, 

And  those  that  Milton  loved  in  youthful  years  ;  50 

The  sage  enchanter  Merlin's  subtle  schemes ; 

The  feats  of  Arthur  and  his  knightly  peers ; 

Of  Arthur, — who,  to  upper  light  restored, 

With  that  terrific  sword 
Which  yet  he  brandishes  for  future  war, 
Shall  lift  his  country's  fame  above  the  polar  star ! 

What  wonder,  then,  if  in  such  ample  field 

Of  old  tradition,  one  particular  flower 

Doth  seemingly  in  vain  its  fragrance  yield, 

And  bloom  unnoticed  even  to  this  late  hour  ?  60 

Now,  gentle  Muses,  your  assistance  grant, 

While  I  this  flower  transplant 
Into  a  garden  stored  with  Poesy  ; 
Where  flowers  and  herbs  unite,  and  haply  some  weeds 

be, 
That,  wanting   not  wild    grace,  are   from  all  mischief 

free  ! 


ARTEGAL  AND  ELIDURE  157 

A  KING  more  worthy  of  respect  and  love 
Than  wise  Gorbonian  ruled  not  in  his  day ; 
And  grateful  Britain  prospered  far  above 
All  neighbouring  countries  through  his  righteous  sway ; 
He  poured  rewards  and  honours  on  the  good ;  70 

The  oppressor  he  withstood  ; 

And  while  he  served  the  Gods  with  reverence  due, 
Fields  smiled,  and  temples  rose,  and  towns  and  cities 

grew. 

He  died,  whom  Artegal  succeeds — his  son ; 

But  how  unworthy  of  that  sire  was  he  ! 

A  hopeful  reign,  auspiciously  begun, 

Was  darkened  soon  by  foul  iniquity. 

From  crime  to  crime  he  mounted,  till  at  length 

The  nobles  leagued  their  strength 

With  a  vexed  people,  and  the  tyrant  chased ;  80 

And  on  the  vacant  throne  his  worthier  Brother  placed. 

From  realm  to  realm  the  humbled  Exile  went, 
Suppliant  for  aid  his  kingdom  to  regain  ; 
In  many  a  court,  and  many  a  warrior's  tent, 
He  urged  his  persevering  suit  in  vain. 
Him,  in  whose  wretched  heart  ambition  failed, 

Dire  poverty  assailed  ; 

And,  tired  with  slights  his  pride  no  more  could  brook, 
He  towards  his  native  country  cast  a  longing  look. 

Fair  blew  the  wished-for  wind — the  voyage  sped  ;        90 

He  landed  ;  and,  by  many  dangers  scared, 

'  Poorly  provided,  poorly  followed,' 

To  Calaterium's  forest  he  repaired. 

How  changed  from  him  who,  born  to  highest  place, 

Had  swayed  the  royal  mace, 
Flattered  and  feared,  despised  yet  deified, 
In  Troynovant,  his  seat  by  silver  Thames's  side  ! 

From  that  wild  region  where  the  crownless  king 
Lay  in  concealment  with  his  scanty  train, 
Supporting  life  by  water  from  the  spring,  100 

And  such  chance  food  as  outlaws  can  obtain, 
Unto  the  few  whom  he  esteems  his  friends 

A  messenger  he  sends  ; 
And  from  their  secret  loyalty  requires 
Shelter  and  daily  bread, — the  sum  of  his  desires. 


158  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

While  he  the  issue  waits,  at  early  morn 

Wandering  by  stealth  abroad,  he  chanced  to  hear 

A  startling  outcry  made  by  hound  and  horn, 

From  which  the  tusky  wild  boar  flies  in  fear ; 

And,  scouring  toward  him  o'er  the  grassy  plain,  no 

Behold  the  hunter  train  ! 
He  bids  his  little  company  advance 
With  seeming  unconcern  and  steady  countenance. 

The  royal  Elidure,  who  leads  the  chase, 
Hath  checked  his  foaming  courser : — can  it  be  ! 
Methinks  that  I  should  recognise  that  face, 
Though  much  disguised  by  long  adversity  ! 
He  gazed  rejoicing,  and  again  he  gazed, 

Confounded  and  amazed — 

'  It  is  the  king,  my  brother  ! '  and,  by  sound  120 

Of  his  own  voice  confirmed,  he  leaps  upon  the  ground. 

Long,  strict,  and  tender  was  the  embrace  he  gave, 
Feebly  returned  by  daunted  Artegal; 
Whose  natural  affection  doubts  enslave, 
And  apprehensions  dark  and  criminal. 
Loth  to  restrain  the  moving  interview, 

The  attendant  lords  withdrew  ; 
And,  while  they  stood  upon  the  plain  apart, 
Thus  Elidure,  by  words,  relieved  his  struggling  heart. 

'  By  heavenly  Powers  conducted,  we  have  met ;          130 
— O  Brother !  to  my  knowledge  lost  so  long, 
But  neither  lost  to  love,  nor  to  regret, 
Nor  to  my  wishes  lost ; — forgive  the  wrong, 
(Such  it  may  seem)  if  I  thy  crown  have  borne, 

Thy  royal  mantle  worn  : 
I  was  their  natural  guardian  ;  and  'tis  just 
That  now  I    should  restore  what   hath   been   held  in 

trust.' 


A  while  the  astonished  Artegal  stood  mute, 

Then  thus  exclaimed  :  '  To  me,  of  titles  shorn, 

And  stripped  of  power  !  me,  feeble,  destitute,  140 

To  me  a  kingdom  !  spare  the  bitter  scorn  : 

If  justice  ruled  the  breast  of  foreign  kings, 

Then,  on  the  wide-spread  wings 
Of  war,  had  I  returned  to  claim  my  right ; 
This  will  I  here  avow,  not  dreading  thy  despite.' 


ARTEGAL  AND  ELIDURE  159 

'  I  do  not  blame  thee/  Elidure  replied  ; 

'  But,  if  my  looks  did  with  my  words  agree, 

I  should  at  once  be  trusted,  not  defied, 

And  thou  from  all  disquietude  be  free. 

May  the  unsullied  Goddess  of  the  chase,  150 

Who  to  this  blessed  place 
At  this  blest  moment  led  me,  if  I  speak 
With  insincere  intent,  on  me  her  vengeance  wreak  ! 

'  Were  this  same  spear,  which  in  my  hand  I  grasp, 
The  British  sceptre,  here  would  I  to  thee 
The  symbol  yield  ;  and  would  undo  this  clasp, 
If  it  confined  the  robe  of  sovereignty. 
Odious  to  me  the  pomp  of  regal  court, 

And  joyless  sylvan  sport, 

While  thou  art  roving,  wretched  and  forlorn,  160 

Thy  couch  the  dewy  earth,  thy  roof  the  forest  thorn  ! ' 

Then  Artegal  thus  spake  :  *  I  only  sought 
Within  this  realm  a  place  of  safe  retreat ; 
Beware  of  rousing  an  ambitious  thought ; 
Beware  of  kindling  hopes  for  me  unmeet ! 
Thou  art  reputed  wise,  but  in  my  mind 

Art  pitiably  blind  : 

Full  soon  this  generous  purpose  thou  may'st  rue, 
When  that  which  has  been  done  no  wishes  can  undo. 


*  Who,  when  a  crown  is  fixed  upon  his  head,  170 

Would  balance  claim  with  claim,  and  right  with  right  ? 
But  thou — I  know  not  how  inspired,  how  led — 
Wouldst  change  the  course  of  things  in  all  men's  sight! 
And  this  for  one  who  cannot  imitate 

Thy  virtue,  who  may  hate  : 
For,  if,  by  such  strange  sacrifice  restored, 
He  reign,  thou  still  must  be  his  king,  and  sovereign 

lord; 

'  Lifted  in  magnanimity  above 

Aught  that  my  feeble  nature  could  perform, 

Or  even  conceive  ;  surpassing  me  in  love  180 

Far  as  in  power  the  eagle  doth  the  worm  : 

I,  Brother !  only  should  be  king  in  name, 

And  govern  to  my  shame ; 
A  shadow  in  a  hated  land,  while  all 
Of  glad  or  willing  service  to  thy  share  would  fall.' 


160  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

'  Believe  it  not,'  said  Elidure ;  '  respect 

Awaits  on  virtuous  life,  and  ever  most 

Attends  on  goodness  with  dominion  decked, 

Which  stands  the  universal  empire's  boast ; 

This  can  thy  own  experience  testify  :  190 

Nor  shall  thy  foes  deny 
That,  in  the  gracious  opening  of  thy  reign, 
Our  father's  spirit  seemed  in  thee  to  breathe  again. 


'  And  what  if  o'er  that  bright  unbosoming 
Clouds  of  disgrace  and  envious  fortune  past ! 
Have  we  not  seen  the  glories  of  the  spring 
By  veil  of  noontide  darkness  overcast  ? 
The  frith  that  glittered  like  a  warrior's  shield, 

The  sky,  the  gay  green  field, 

Are  vanished  ;  gladness  ceases  in  the  groves,  200 

And  trepidation  strikes  the  blackened  mountain-coves. 

1  But  is  that  gloom  dissolved  ?  how  passing  clear 
Seems  the  wide  world,  far  brighter  than  before  ! 
Even  so  thy  latent  worth  will  re-appear, 
Gladdening  the  people's  heart  from  shore  to  shore ; 
For  youthful  faults  ripe  virtues  shall  atone ; 

Re-seated  on  thy  throne, 

Proof  shalt  thou  furnish  that  misfortune,  pain, 
And  sorrow,  have  confirmed  thy  native  right  to  reign. 

'  But,  not  to  overlook  what  thou  may'st  know,  210 

Thy  enemies  are  neither  weak  nor  few  ; 

And  circumspect  must  be  our  course,  and  slow, 

Or  from  my  purpose  ruin  may  ensue. 

Dismiss  thy  followers ; — let  them  calmly  wait 

Such  change  in  thy  estate 
As  I  already  have  in  thought  devised ; 
And  which,  with  caution  due,  may  soon  be  realized.' 

The  Story  tells  what  courses  were  pursued, 

Until  king  Elidure,  with  full  consent 

Of  all  his  peers,  before  the  multitude,  220 

Rose, — and,  to  consummate  this  just  intent, 

Did  place  upon  his  brother's  head  the  crown, 

Relinquished  by  his  own  ; 
Then  to  his  people  cried,  '  Receive  your  lord, 
Gorbonian's  first-born  son,  your  rightful  king  restored  !' 


TO  A  BUTTERFLY  161 

The  people  answered  with  a  loud  acclaim : 

Yet  more ; — heart-smitten  by  the  heroic  deed, 

The  reinstated  Artegal  became 

Earth's  noblest  penitent ;  from  bondage  freed 

Of  vice — thenceforth  unable  to  subvert  230 

Or  shake  his  high  desert. 

Long  did  he  reign ;  and,  when  he  died,  the  tear 
Of  universal  grief  bedewed  his  honoured  bier. 

Thus  was  a  Brother  by  a  Brother  saved ; 
With  whom  a  crown  (temptation  that  hath  set 
Discord  in  hearts  of  men  till  they  have  braved 
Their  nearest  kin  with  deadly  purpose  met) 
'Gainst  duty  weighed,  and  faithful  love,  did  seem 

A  thing  of  no  esteem  ; 

And,  from  this  triumph  of  affection  pure,  240 

He  bore  the  lasting  name  of  '  pious  Elidure ! ' 

1815 


III 
TO  A  BUTTERFLY 

I'VE  watched  you  now  a  full  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 
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 ; 

My  trees  they  are,  my  Sister's  flowers  ; 

Here  rest  your  wings  when  they  are  weary 

Here  lodge  as  in  a  sanctuary ! 

Come  often  to  us,  fear  no  wrong ; 

Sit  near  us  on  the  bough  ! 

We  '11  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. 

April  20,  1802 


1-L 


162  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

IV 
A  FAREWELL 

T^AREWELL,  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, 
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  when  we  are  gone  ;  10 

The  flowering  shrubs  that  deck  our  humble  door 
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  ; 
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 ; 

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  to  you ;  to  you  herself  will  wed  ; 

And  love  the  blessed  life  that  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, 
Which  thou  hast  taken  to  thee  as  thy  own, 


STANZAS  163 

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  thy  face  ; 
Who,  being  loved,  in  love  no  bounds  dost  know, 
And  say'st,  when  we  forsake  thee,  '  Let  them  go  ! ' 
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, 

Of  which  I  sang  one  song  that  will  not  die. 

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. 

1802 

V 

STANZAS 

WRITTEN  IN  MY  POCKET-COPY  OF  THOMSON'S  CASTLE 
OF  INDOLENCE 

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, 
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. 


164  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Thus  often  would  he  leave  our  peaceful  home, 

And  find  elsewhere  his  business  or  delight ; 

Out  of  our  Valley's  limits  did  he  roam : 

Full  many  a  time,  upon  a  stormy  night, 

His  voice  came  to  us  from  the  neighbouring  height : 

Oft  could  we  see  him  driving  full  in  view 

At  mid-day  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, 

Retired  in  that  sunshiny  shade  he  lay ; 

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 

Come  to  him  thus,  and  drove  the  weary  Wight  along. 

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  : 


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 


LOUISA  165 

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  : 

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,  60 

A  mailed  angel  on  a  battle-day ; 

The  mysteries  that  cups  of  flowers  enfold, 

And  all  the  gorgeous  sights  which  fairies  do  behold. 

He  would  entice  that  other  Man  to  hear 

His  music,  and  to  view  his  imagery  : 

And,  sooth,  these  two  were  each  to  the  other  dear : 

No  livelier  love  in  such  a  place  could  be : 

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. 

May  9-11,  1802 


VI 
LOUISA 

AFTER  ACCOMPANYING  HER  ON  A  MOUNTAIN  EXCURSION 

I   MET  Louisa  in  the  shade, 
And,  having  seen  that  lovely  Maid, 
Why  should  I  fear  to  say 
That,  nymph-like,  she  is  fleet  and  strong, 
And  down  the  rocks  can  leap  along 
Like  rivulets  in  May  ? 

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. 


166  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

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, 
Oh  !  might  I  kiss  the  mountain  rains 
That  sparkle  on  her  cheek. 

Take  all  that's  mine  'beneath  the  moon,' 

If  I  with  her  but  half  a  noon 

May  sit  beneath  the  walls 

Of  some  old  cave,  or  mossy  nook, 

When  up  she  winds  along  the  brook 

To  hunt  the  waterfalls. 

Probably  1801 

VII 

£*  TRANGE  fits  of  passion  have  I  known  : 
v^     And  I  will  dare  to  tell, 
But  in  the  Lover's  ear  alone, 
What  once  to  me  befell. 

When  she  I  loved  looked  every  day 
Fresh  as  a  rose  in  June, 
I  to  her  cottage  bent  my  way, 
Beneath  an  evening-moon.  •• 

Upon  the  moon  I  fixed  my  eye, 

All  over  the  wide  lea  ; 

With  quickening  pace  my  horse  drew  nigh 

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 
Came  near,  and  nearer  still. 

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. 

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


SHE  DWELT  AMONG  UNTRODDEN  WAYS   167 

What  fond  and  wayward  thoughts  will  slide 

Into  a  Lover's  head  ! 

'  O  mercy ! '  to  myself  I  cried, 

*  If  Lucy  should  be  dead  ! ' 

1799 


VIII 

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

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye  ! 
— Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be ; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  oh, 

The  difference  to  me  ! 

1799 


IX 

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 ! 

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 ; 
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 
That  Lucy's  eyes  surveyed. 

1799? 


168  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


ERE  with  cold  beads  of  midnight  dew 
Had  mingled  tears  of  thine, 
sved,  fond  Youth  !  that  thou  shouldst  sue 
To  haughty  Geraldine. 

Immovable  by  generous  sighs, 

She  glories  in  a  train 
Who  drag,  beneath  our  native  skies, 

An  Oriental  chain. 

Pine  not  like  them  with  arms  across, 

Forgetting  in  thy  care 
How  the  fast-rooted  trees  can  toss 

Their  branches  in  mid  air. 

The  humblest  rivulet  will  take 

Its  own  wild  liberties ; 
And,  every  day,  the  imprisoned  lake 

Is  flowing  in  the  breeze. 

Then  crouch  no  more  on  suppliant  knee, 

But  scorn  with  scorn  outbrave ; 
A  Briton,  even  in  love,  should  be 

A  subject,  not  a  slave  ! 

1826 


XI 
TO  — 


EOK  at  the  fate  of  summer  flowers, 
Which  blow  at  daybreak,  droop  ere  even-song ; 
And,  grieved  for  their  brief  date,  confess  that  ours, 
Measured  by  what  we  are  and  ought  to  be, 
Measured  by  all  that,  trembling,  we  foresee, 
Is  not  so  long  ! 

If  human  Life  do  pass  away, 
Perishing  yet  more  swiftly  than  the  flower, 
If  we  are  creatures  of  a  winter's  day, 
What  space  hath  Virgin's  beauty  to  disclose  10 

Her  sweets,  and  triumph  o'er  the  breathing  rose  ? 
Not  even  an  hour  ! 


THE  FORSAKEN  169 

The  deepest  grove  whose  foliage  hid 
The  happiest  lovers  Arcady  might  boast, 
Could  not  the  entrance  of  this  thought  forbid  : 
O  be  thou  wise  as  they,  soul-gifted  Maid  ! 
Nor  rate  too  high  what  must  so  quickly  fade, 
So  soon  be  lost. 

Then  shall  love  teach  some  virtuous  Youth 
'  To  draw,  out  of  the  object  of  his  eyes/  20 

The  while  on  thee  they  gaze  in  simple  truth, 
Hues  more  exalted,  '  a  refined  Form,' 
That  dreads  not  age,  nor  suffers  from  the  worm, 
And  never  dies. 

1824 

XII 
THE  FORSAKEN 

THE  peace  which  others  seek  they  find  ; 
The  heaviest  storms  not  longest  last  ; 
Heaven  grants  even  to  the  guiltiest  mind 
An  amnesty  for  what  is  past ; 
When  will  my  sentence  be  reversed  ? 
I  only  pray  to  know  the  worst ; 
And  wish,  as  if  my  heart  would  burst. 

0  weary  struggle  !  silent  years 
Tell  seemingly  no  doubtful  tale ; 

And  yet  they  leave  it  short,  and  fears  10 

And  hopes  are  strong  and  will  prevail. 
My  calmest  faith  escapes  not  pain  ; 
And,  feeling  that  the  hope  is  vain, 

1  think  that  he  will  come  again. 

Published  1842 

XIII 

'r  I  "*IS  said,  that  some  have  died  for  love  : 

And  here  and  there  a  churchyard  grave  is  found 
In  the  cold  north's  unhallowed  ground, 
Because  the  wretched  man  himself  had  slain, 
His  love  was  such  a  grievous  pain. 
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 : 


170  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

'  Oh,  move,  thou  Cottage,  from  behind  that  oak  ! 

Or  let  the  aged  tree  uprooted  lie, 

That  in  some  other  way  yon  smoke 

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. 

Thou  Thrush,  that  singest  loud — and  loud  and  free, 

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  pine-tree's  ragged  bough 

Headlong  yon  waterfall  must  come, 

Oh  let  it  then  be  dumb  ! 

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, 

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 

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  know 

Such  happiness  as  I  have  known  to-day. 

1800 


A  COMPLAINT  171 

XIV 
A  COMPLAINT 

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

What  happy  moments  did  I  count ! 

Blest  was  I  then  all  bliss  above  ! 

Now,  for  that  consecrated  fount 

Of  murmuring,  sparkling,  living  love,  10 

What  have  I  ?  shall  I  dare  to  tell  ? 

A  comfortless  and  hidden  well. 

A  well  of  love — it  may  be  deep — 

I  trust  it  is, — and  never  dry : 

What  matter  ?  if  the  waters  sleep 

In  silence  and  obscurity. 

— Such  change,  and  at  the  very  door 

Of  my  fond  heart,  hath  made  me  poor. 

1806 

XV 
TO  


ET  other  bards  of  angels  sing, 
Bright  suns  without  a  spot ; 
But  thou  art  no  such  perfect  thing  : 
Rejoice  that  thou  art  not ! 

Heed  not  tho'  none  should  call  thee  fair 

So,  Mary,  let  it  be 
If  nought  in  loveliness  compare 

With  what  thou  art  to  me. 

True  beauty  dwells  in  deep  retreats, 

Whose  veil  is  unremoved 
Till  heart  with  heart  in  concord  beats, 

And  the  lover  is  beloved. 

1824 


172  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

/ 

XVI 

YES  !  thou  art  fair,  yet  be  not  moved 
To  scorn  the  declaration, 
That  sometimes  I  in  thee  have  loved 
My  fancy's  own  creation. 

Imagination  needs  must  stir ; 

Dear  Maid,  this  truth  believe, 
Minds  that  have  nothing  to  confer 

Find  little  to  perceive. 

Be  pleased  that  nature  made  thee  fit 
To  feed  my  heart's  devotion, 

By  laws  to  which  all  Forms  submit 
In  sky,  air,  earth,  and  ocean. 

Published  1845 


OW  rich  that  forehead's  calm  expanse ! 


XVII 

How  bright  that  heaven-directed  glance  ! 
— Waft  her  to  glory,  winged  Powers, 
Ere  sorrow  be  renewed, 
And  intercourse  with  mortal  hours 
Bring  back  a  humbler  mood  ! 
So  looked  Cecilia  when  she  drew 
An  Angel  from  his  station  ; 
So  looked ;  not  ceasing  to  pursue 
Her  tuneful  adoration  !  i< 

But  hand  and  voice  alike  are  still ; 

No  sound  here  sweeps  away  the  will 

That  gave  it  birth  :  in  service  meek 

One  upright  arm  sustains  the  cheek, 

And  one  across  the  bosom  lies — 

That  rose,  and  now  forgets  to  rise, 

Subdued  by  breathless  harmonies 

Of  meditative  feeling ; 

Mute  strains  from  worlds  beyond  the  skies, 

Through  the  pure  light  of  female  eyes  » 

Their  sanctity  revealing ! 

1824 

XVIII 

WHAT  heavenly  smiles  !  O  Lady  mine, 
Through  my  very  heart  they  shine ; 
And,  if  my  brow  gives  back  their  light, 
Do  thou  look  gladly  on  the  sight ; 


TO  173 


As  the  clear  Moon  with  modest  pride 
Beholds  her  own  bright  beams 

Reflected  from  the  mountain's  side 
And  from  the  headlong  streams. 

Published  1845 


XIX 
TO  — 


O  DEARER  far  than  light  and  life  are  dear, 
Full  oft  our  human  foresight  I  deplore  ; 
Trembling,  through  my  unworthiness,  with  fear 
That  friends,  by  death  disjoined,  may  meet  no  more ! 

Misgivings,  hard  to  vanquish  or  control, 
Mix  with  the  day,  and  cross  the  hour  of  rest ; 
While  all  the  future,  for  thy  purer  soul, 
With  '  sober  certainties '  of  love  is  blest. 

That  sigh  of  thine,  not  meant  for  human  ear, 

Tells  that  these  words  thy  humbleness  offend  ;  10 

Yet  bear  me  up — else  faltering  in  the  rear 

Of  a  steep  march  :  support  me  to  the  end. 

Peace  settles  where  the  intellect  is  meek, 
And  Love  is  dutiful  in  thought  and  deed  ; 
Through  Thee  communion  with  that  Love  I  seek : 
The  faith  Heaven  strengthens  where  he  moulds  the 
Creed. 

1824 


XX 
LAMENT  OF  MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS 

ON  THE  EVE  OF  A  NEW  YEAR 


SMILE  of  the  Moon  ! — for  so  I  name 
That  silent  greeting  from  above  ; 
A  gentle  flash  of  light  that  came 
From  her  whom  drooping  captives  love  ; 
Or  art  thou  of  still  higher  birth  ? 
Thou  that  didst  part  the  clouds  of  earth, 
My  torpor  to  reprove ! 


174  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


ii 

Bright  boon  of  pitying  Heaven  ! — alas, 
I  may  not  trust  thy  placid  cheer ! 
Pondering  that  Time  to-night  will  pass 
The  threshold  of  another  year ; 
For  years  to  me  are  sad  and  dull ; 
My  very  moments  are  too  full 
Of  hopelessness  and  fear. 

in 

And  yet  the  soul-awakening  gleam, 
That  struck  perchance  the  farthest  cone 
Of  Scotland's  rocky  wilds,  did  seem 
To  visit  me,  and  me  alone ; 
Me,  unapproached  by  any  friend, 
Save  those  who  to  my  sorrows  lend 
Tears  due  unto  their  own. 


IV 

To-night  the  church-tower  bells  will  ring 
Through  these  wide  realms  a  festive  peal ; 
To  the  new  year  a  welcoming ; 
A  tuneful  offering  for  the  weal 
Of  happy  millions  lulled  in  sleep ; 
While  I  am  forced  to  watch  and  weep, 
By  wounds  that  may  not  heal. 


Born  all  too  high,  by  wedlock  raised 

Still  higher — to  be  cast  thus  low  !  30 

Would  that  mine  eyes  had  never  gazed 

On  aught  of  more  ambitious  show 

Than  the  sweet  flowerets  of  the  fields  ! 

— It  is  my  royal  state  that  yields 

This  bitterness  of  woe. 


Yet  how  ? — for  I,  if  there  be  truth 

In  the  world's  voice,  was  passing  fair ; 

And  beauty,  for  confiding  youth, 

Those  shocks  of  passion  can  prepare 

That  kill  the  bloom  before  its  time ;  40 

And  blanch,  without  the  owner's  crime, 

The  most  resplendent  hair. 


THE  COMPLAINT  175 

VII 

Unblest  distinction  !  showered  on  me 
To  bind  a  lingering  life  in  chains  : 
All  that  could  quit  my  grasp,  or  flee, 
Is  gone  ; — but  not  the  subtle  stains 
Fixed  in  the  spirit ;  for  even  here 
Can  I  be  proud  that  jealous  fear 
Of  what  I  was  remains. 


A  Woman  rules  my  prison's  key ;  50 

A  sister  Queen,  against  the  bent 

Of  law  and  holiest  sympathy, 

Detains  me,  doubtful  of  the  event ; 

Great  God,  who  feel'st  for  my  distress, 

My  thoughts  are  all  that  I  possess, 

O  keep  them  innocent ! 

IX 

Farewell  desire  of  human  aid, 

Which  abject  mortals  vainly  court ! 

By  friends  deceived,  by  foes  betrayed, 

Of  fears  the  prey,  of  hopes  the  sport ;  60 

Nought  but  the  world-redeeming  Cross 

Is  able  to  supply  my  loss, 

My  burthen  to  support. 


Hark !  the  death-note  of  the  year 
Sounded  by  the  castle-clock  ! 
From  her  sunk  eyes  a  stagnant  tear 
Stole  forth,  unsettled  by  the  shock ; 
But  oft  the  woods  renewed  their  green, 
Ere  the  tired  head  of  Scotland's  Queen 
Reposed  upon  the  block  !  70 

1817 

XXI 
THE  COMPLAINT 

OF  A  FORSAKEN  INDIAN  WOMAN 

[WHEN  a  Northern  Indian,  from  sickness,  is  unable  to  continue  his  journey 
with  his  companions,  he  is  left  behind,  covered  over  with  deerskins,  and 
is  supplied  with  water,  food,  and  fuel,  if  the  situation  of  the  place  will 


176  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

afford  it.  He  is  informed  of  the  track  which  his  companions  intend  to 
pursue,  and  if  he  be  unable  to  follow,  or  overtake  them,  he  perishes  alone  in 
the  desert,  unless  he  should  have  the  good  fortune  to  fall  in  with  some 
other  tribes  of  Indians.  The  females  are  equally,  or  still  more,  exposed 
to  the  same  fate.  See  that  very  interesting  work,  Heame's  Journey 
from  Hudson's  Bay  to  the  Northern  Ocean.  In  the  high  northern  latitudes, 
as  the  same  writer  informs  us,  when  the  northern  lights  vary  their  position 
in  the  air,  they  make  a  rustling  and  a  crackling  noise,  as  alluded  to  in 
the  following  poem.] 


BEFORE  I  see  another  day, 
Oh  let  my  body  die  away ! 
In  sleep  I  heard  the  northern  gleams ; 
The  stars,  they  were  among  my  dreams ; 
In  rustling  conflict  through  the  skies, 
I  heard,  I  saw  the  flashes  drive, 
And  yet  they  are  upon  my  eyes, 
And  yet  I  am  alive  ; 
Before  I  see  another  day, 
Oh  let  my  body  die  away  ! 


II 

My  fire  is  dead:  it  knew  no  pain  ; 

Yet  is  it  dead,  and  I  remain  : 

All  stiff  with  ice  the  ashes  lie ; 

And  they  are  dead,  and  I  will  die. 

When  I  was  well,  I  wished  to  live, 

For  clothes,  for  warmth,  for  food,  and  fire  ; 

But  they  to  me  no  joy  can  give, 

No  pleasure  now,  and  no  desire. 

Then  here  contented  will  I  lie  ! 

Alone,  I  cannot  fear  to  die. 


HI 

Alas !  ye  might  have  dragged  me  on 

Another  day,  a  single  one  ! 

Too  soon  I  yielded  to  despair ; 

Why  did  ye  listen  to  my  prayer  ? 

When  ye  were  gone  my  limbs  were  stronger 

And  oh,  how  grievously  I  rue, 

That,  afterwards,  a  little  longer, 

My  friends,  I  did  not  follow  you  ! 

For  strong  and  without  pain  I  lay, 

Dear  friends,  when  ye  were  gone  away.  30 


THE  COMPLAINT  177 

IV 

My  Child  !  they  gave  thee  to  another, 

A  woman  who  was  not  thy  mother. 

When  from  my  arms  my  Babe  they  took, 

On  me  how  strangely  did  he  look  ! 

Through  his  whole  body  something  ran, 

A  most  strange  working  did  I  see  ; 

— As  if  he  strove  to  be  a  man, 

That  he  might  pull  the  sledge  for  me  : 

And  then  he  stretched  his  arms,  how  wild ! 

Oh  mercy  !  like  a  helpless  child.  40 

v 

My  little  joy  !  my  little  pride  : 
In  two  days  more  I  must  have  died. 
Then  do  not  weep  and  grieve  for  me  ; 
I  feel  I  must  have  died  with  thee. 

0  wind,  that  o'er  my  head  art  flying 

The  way  my  friends  their  course  did  bend, 

1  should  not  feel  the  pain  of  dying, 
Could  I  with  thee  a  message  send ; 
Too  soon,  my  friends, -ye  went  away  ; 

For  I  had  many  things  to  say.  50 

VI 

I  '11  follow  you  across  the  snow ; 

Ye  travel  heavily  and  slow  ; 

In  spite  of  all  my  weary  pain 

I  '11  look  upon  your  tents  again. 

— My  fire  is  dead,  and  snowy  white 

The  water  which  beside  it  stood : 

The  wolf  has  come  to  me  to-night, 

And  he  has  stolen  away  my  food. 

For  ever  left  alone  am  I ; 

Then  wherefore  should  I  fear  to  die  ?  60 

VII 

Young  as  I  am,  my  course  is  run, 

I  shall  not  see  another  sun ; 

I  cannot  lift  my  limbs  to  know 

If  they  have  any  life  or  no. 

My  poor  forsaken  Child,  if  I 

For  once  could  have  thee  close  to  me, 

With  happy  heart  I  then  would  die, 

And  my  last  thought  would  happy  be  ; 

But  thou,  dear  Babe,  art  far  away, 

Nor  shall  I  see  another  day.  70 

1798 
1-M 


178  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


IN  distant  countries  have  I  been, 
And  yet  I  have  not  often  seen 
A  healthy  man,  a  man  full  grown, 
Weep  in  the  public  roads,  alone. 
But  such  a  one,  on  English  ground, 
And  in  the  broad  highway,  I  met ; 
Along  the  broad  highway  he  came, 
His  cheeks  with  tears  were  wet  : 
Sturdy  he  seemed,  though  he  was  sad ; 
And  in  his  arms  a  Lamb  he  had. 


He  saw  me,  and  he  turned  aside, 

As  if  he  wished  himself  to  hide ; 

And  with  his  coat  did  then  essay 

To  wipe  those  briny  tears  away. 

I  followed  him,  and  said, '  My  friend, 

What  ails  you  ?  wherefore  weep  you  so  ? 

— '  Shame  on  me,  Sir  !  this  lusty  Lamb, 

He  makes  my  tears  to  flow. 

To-day  I  fetched  him  from  the  rock ; 

He  is  the  last  of  all  my  flock.  20 

in 

( When  I  was  young,  a  single  man, 

And  after  youthful  follies  ran, 

Though  little  given  to  care  and  thought, 

Yet,  so  it  was,  an  ewe  I  bought ; 

And  other  sheep  from  her  I  raised, 

As  healthy  sheep  as  you  might  see ; 

And  then  I  married,  and  was  rich 

As  I  could  wish  to  be ; 

Of  sheep  I  numbered  a  full  score, 

And  every  year  increased  my  store.  30 

IV 

'  Year  after  year  my  stock  it  grew ; 
And  from  this  one,  this  single  ewe, 
Full  fifty  comely  sheep  I  raised, 
As  fine  a  flock  as  ever  grazed  ! 
Upon  the  Quantock  hills  they  fed  ; 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  FLOCK  179 

They  throve,  and  we  at  home  did  thrive  : 

— This  lusty  Lamb  of  all  my  store 

Is  all  that  is  alive  ; 

And  now  I  care  not  if  we  die, 

And  perish  all  of  poverty.  40 


1  Six  Children,  Sir  !  had  I  to  feed  ; 

Hard  labour  in  a  time  of  need  ! 

My  pride  was  tamed,  and  in  our  grief 

I  of  the  Parish  asked  relief. 

They  said,  I  was  a  wealthy  man : 

My  sheep  upon  the  uplands  fed, 

And  it  was  fit  that  thence  I  took 

Whereof  to  buy  us  bread. 

"  Do  this  :  how  can  we  give  to  you," 

They  cried,  "•  what  to  the  poor  is  due  ? "  50 

VI 

'  I  sold  a  sheep,  as  they  had  said, 

And  bought  my  little  children  bread, 

And  they  were  healthy  with  their  food  ; 

For  me — it  never  did  me  good. 

A  woeful  time  it  was  for  me, 

To  see  the  end  of  all  my  gains, 

The  pretty  flock  which  I  had  reared 

With  all  my  care  and  pains, 

To  see  it  melt  like  snow  away — 

For  me  it  was  a  woeful  day.  60 

VII 

*  Another  still !  and  still  another  . 

A  little  lamb,  and  then  its  mother  ! 

It  was  a  vein  that  never  stopped — 

Like  blood-drops  from  my  heart  they  dropped. 

Till  thirty  were  not  left  alive 

They  dwindled,  dwindled,  one  by  one  ; 

And  I  may  say,  that  many  a  time 

I  wished  they  all  were  gone — 

Reckless  of  what  might  come  at  last 

Were  but  the  bitter  struggle  past.  70 

VIII 

'  To  wicked  deeds  I  was  inclined, 
And  wicked  fancies  crossed  my  mind  ; 
And  every  man  I  chanced  to  see, 
I  thought  he  knew  some  ill  of  me : 
No  peace,  no  comfort  could  I  find, 


180  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

No  ease,  within  doors  or  without ; 

And  crazily  and  wearily 

I  went  my  work  about ; 

And  oft  was  moved  to  flee  from  home, 

And  hide  my  head  where  wild  beasts  roam.       80 


'  Sir  !  'twas  a  precious  flock  to  me, 

As  dear  as  my  own  children  be  ; 

For  daily  with  my  growing  store 

I  loved  my  children  more  and  more. 

Alas  !  it  was  an  evil  time ; 

God  cursed  me  in  my  sore  distress; 

I  prayed,  yet  every  day  I  thought 

I  loved  my  children  less ; 

And  every  week,  and  every  day, 

My  flock  it  seemed  to  melt  away.  90 


'  They  dwindled,  Sir,  sad  sight  to  see 
From  ten  to  five,  from  five  to  three, 
A  lamb,  a  wether,  and  a  ewe  ; — 
And  then  at  last  from  three  to  two ; 
And,  of  my  fifty,  yesterday 
I  had  but  only  one  : 
And  here  it  lies  upon  my  arm, 
Alas  !  and  I  have  none  : — 
To-day  I  fetched  it  from  the  rock ; 
It  is  the  last  of  all  my  flock.' 

1798 


XXIII 
REPENTANCE 

A  PASTORAL  BALLAD 

THE  fields  which  with  covetous  spirit  we  sold, 
Those  beautiful  fields,  the  delight  of  the  day, 
Would  have  brought  us  more  good  than  a  burthen  of  gold, 
Could  we  but  have  been  as  contented  as  they. 

When  the  troublesome  Tempter  beset  us,  said  I, 

*  Let   him  come,  with  his  purse  proudly  grasped  in  his 

hand ; 

But,  Allan,  be  true  to  me,  Allan, — we  '11  die 
Before  he  shall  go  with  an  inch  of  the  land  ! ' 


THE  AFFLICTION  OF  MARGARET  181 

There  dwelt  we,  as  happy  as  birds  in  their  bowers ; 
Unfettered  as  bees  that  in  gardens  abide ;  10 

We  could  do  what  we  liked  with  the  land,  it  was  ours ; 
And  for  us  the  brook  murmured  that  ran  by  its  side. 

But  now  we  are  strangers,  go  early  or  late  ; 
And  often,  like  one  overburthened  with  sin, 
With  my  hand  on  the  latch  of  the  half-opened  gate, 
I  look  at  the  fields,  but  I  cannot  go  in ! 

When  I  walk  by  the  hedge  on  a  bright  summer's  day, 

Or  sit  in  the  shade  of  my  grandfather's  tree, 

A  stern  face  it  puts  on,  as  if  ready  to  say, 

'  What  ails  you,  that  you  must  come  creeping  to  me ! '      20 

With  our  pastures  about  us,  we  could  not  be  sad ; 
Our  comfort  was  near  if  we  ever  were  crost ; 
But  the  comfort,  the  blessings,  and  wealth  that  we  had, 
We  slighted  them  all, — and  our  birthright  was  lost. 

Oh,  ill-judging  sire  of  an  innocent  son 
Who  must  now  be  a  wanderer  !  but  peace  to  that  strain  ! 
Think  of  evening's  repose  when  our  labour  was  done, 
The  Sabbath's  return ;  and  its  leisure's  soft  chain  ! 

And  in  sickness,  if  night  had  been  sparing  of  sleep, 
How  cheerful,  at  sunrise,  the  hill  where  I  stood,  30 

Looking  down  on  the  kine,  and  our  treasure  of  sheep 
That  besprinkled  the  field ;  'twas  like  youth  in  my  blood  ! 

Now  I  cleave  to  the  house,  and  am  dull  as  a  snail  ; 
And,  oftentimes,  hear  the  church-bell  with  a  sigh, 
That  follows  the  thought — We've  no  land  in  the  vale, 
Save  six  feet  of  earth  where  our  forefathers  lie  ! 

1804 

XXIV 
THE  AFFLICTION  OF  MARGARET 


WHERE  art  thou,  my  beloved  Son, 
Where  art  thou,  worse  to  me  than  dead  ? 
Oh  find  me,  prosperous  or  undone  ! 
Or,  if  the  grave  be  now  thy  bed, 
Why  am  I  ignorant  of  the  same 
That  I  may  rest ;  and  neither  blame 
Nor  sorrow  may  attend  thy  name  ? 


182  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


Seven  years,  alas !  to  have  received 
No  tidings  of  an  only  child ; 
To  have  despaired,  have  hoped,  believed, 
And  been  for  evermore  beguiled ; 
Sometimes  with  thoughts  of  very  bliss ! 
I  catch  at  them,  and  then  I  miss ; 
Was  ever  darkness  like  to  this  ? 


He  was  among  the  prime  in  worth, 

An  object  beauteous  to  behold ; 

Well  born,  well  bred ;  I  sent  him  forth 

Ingenuous,  innocent,  and  bold  : 

If  things  ensued  that  wanted  grace, 

As  hath  been  said,  they  were  not  base ; 

And  never  blush  was  on  my  face. 

IV 

Ah !  little  doth  the  young-one  dream, 
When  full  of  play  and  childish  cares, 
What  power  is  in  his  wildest  scream, 
Heard  by  his  mother  unawares  ! 
He  knows  it  not,  he  cannot  guess : 
Years  to  a  mother  bring  distress ; 
But  do  not  make  her  love  the  less. 


Neglect  me  !  no,  I  suffered  long 

From  that  ill  thought ;  and,  being  blind,  30 

Said,  '  Pride  shall  help  me  in  my  wrong : 

Kind  mother  have  I  been,  as  kind 

As  ever  breathed ' :  and  that  is  true ; 

I  've  wet  my  path  with  tears  like  dew, 

Weeping  for  him  when  no  one  knew. 

VI 

My  Son,  if  thou  be  humbled,  poor, 

Hopeless  of  honour  and  of  gain, 

Oh !  do  not  dread  thy  mother's  door** 

Think  not  of  me  with  grief  and  pain : 

I  now  can  see  with  better  eyes ;  40 

And  worldly  grandeur  I  despise, 

And  fortune  with  her  gifts  and  lies. 


THE  AFFLICTION  OF  MARGARET  183 

VII 

Alas  !  the  fowls  of  heaven  have  wings, 
And  blasts  of  heaven  will  aid  their  flight ; 
They  mount — how  short  a  voyage  brings 
The  wanderers  back  to  their  delight ! 
Chains  tie  us  down  by  land  and  sea ; 
And  wishes,  vain  as  mine,  may  be 
All  that  is  left  to  comfort  thee. 

VIII 

Perhaps  some  dungeon  hears  thee  groan,  50 

Maimed,  mangled  by  inhuman  men ; 

Or  thou  upon  a  desert  thrown 

Inheritest  the  lion's  den ; 

Or  hast  been  summoned  to  the  deep, 

Thou,  thou  and  all  thy  mates,  to  keep 

An  incommunicable  sleep. 

IX 

I  look  for  ghosts ;  but  none  will  force 

Their  way  to  me  :  'tis  falsely  said 

That  there  was  ever  intercourse 

Between  the  living  and  the  dead ;  60 

For,  surely,  then  I  should  have  sight 

Of  him  I  wait  for  day  and  night, 

With  love  and  longings  infinite. 


My  apprehensions  come  in  crowds , 

I  dread  the  rustling  of  the  grass ; 

The  very  shadows  of  the  clouds 

Have  power  to  shake  me  as  they  pass : 

I  question  things  and  do  not  find 

One  that  will  answer  to  my  mind ; 

And  all  the  world  appears  unkind.  70 

XI 

Beyond  participation  lie 
My  troubles,  and  beyond  relief: 
If  any  chance  to  heave  a  sigh, 
They  pity  me,  and  not  my  grief. 
Then  come  to  me,  my  Son,  or  send 
Some  tidings  that  my  woes  may  end ; 
I  have  no  other  earthly  friend  ! 

Published  1807 


184  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

XXV 

THE  COTTAGER  TO  HER  INFANT 

BY    MY    SISTER 

THE  days  are  cold,  the  nights  are  long, 
The  north- wind  sings  a  doleful  song ; 
Then  hush  again  upon  my  breast ; 
All  merry  things  are  now  at  rest, 
Save  thee,  my  pretty  Love  ! 

The  kitten  sleeps  upon  the  hearth, 
The  crickets  long  have  ceased  their  mirth  ; 
There 's  nothing  stirring  in  the  house 
Save  one  wee,  hungry,  nibbling  mouse, 

Then  why  so  busy  thou  ?  i< 

Nay  !  start  not  at  that  sparkling  light ; 
'Tis  but  the  moon  that  shines  so  bright 
On  the  window  pane  bedropped  with  rain  : 
Then,  little  Darling  !  sleep  again, 
And  wake  when  it  is  day. 

1805 

XXVI 
MATERNAL  GRIEF 

DEPARTED  Child !  I  could  forget  thee  once 
Though  at  my  bosom  nursed  ;  this  woeful  gain 
Thy  dissolution  brings,  that  in  my  soul 
Is  present  and  perpetually  abides 
A  shadow,  never,  never  to  be  displaced 
By  the  returning  substance,  seen  or  touched, 
Seen  by  mine  eyes,  or  clasped  in  my  embrace. 
Absence  and  death  how  differ  they  !  and  how 
Shall  I  admit  that  nothing  can  restore 
What  one  short  sigh  so  easily  removed  ? —  x< 

Death,  life,  and  sleep,  reality  and  thought, 
Assist  me,  God,  their  boundaries  to  know, 
O  teach  me  calm  submission  to  thy  Will ! 

The  Child  she  mourned  had  overstepped  the  pale 

Of  Infancy,  but  still  did  breathe  the  air 

That  sanctifies  its  confines,  and  partook 

Reflected  beams  of  that  celestial  light 

To  all  the  Little-ones  on  sinful  earth 

Not  unvouchsafed — a  light  that  warmed  and  cheered 

Those  several  qualities  of  heart  and  mind  a 


MATERNAL  GRIEF  185 

Which,  in  her  own  blest  nature,  rooted  deep, 
Daily  before  the  Mother's  watchful  eye, 
And  not  hers  only,  their  peculiar  charms 
Unfolded, — beauty,  for  its  present  self, 
And  for  its  promises  to  future  years, 
With  not  unfrequent  rapture  fondly  hailed. 

Have  you  espied  upon  a  dewy  lawn 

A  pair  of  Leverets  each  provoking  each 

To  a  continuance  of  their  fearless  sport, 

Two  separate  Creatures  in  their  several  gifts  30 

Abounding,  but  so  fashioned  that,  in  all 

That  Nature  prompts  them  to  display,  their  looks, 

Their  starts  of  motion  and  their  fits  of  rest, 

An  undistinguishable  style  appears 

And  character  of  gladness,  as  if  Spring 

Lodged  in  their  innocent  bosoms,  and  the  spirit 

Of  the  rejoicing  morning  were  their  own  ? 

Such  union,  in  the  lovely  Girl  maintained 

And  her  twin  Brother,  had  the  parent  seen, 

Ere,  pouncing  like  a  ravenous  bird  of  prey,  40 

Death  in  a  moment  parted  them,  and  left 

The  Mother,  in  her  turns  of  anguish,  worse 

Than  desolate ;  for  oft-times  from  the  sound 

Of  the  survivor's  sweetest  voice  (dear  child, 

He  knew  it  not)  and  from  his  happiest  looks, 

Did  she  extract  the  food  of  self-reproach, 

As  one  that  lived  ungrateful  for  the  stay 

By  Heaven  afforded  to  uphold  her  maimed 

And  tottering  spirit.     And  full  oft  the  Boy, 

Now  first  acquainted  with  distress  and  grief,  50 

Shrunk  from  his  Mother's  presence,  shunned  with  fear 

Her  sad  approach,  and  stole  away  to  find, 

In  his  known  haunts  of  joy  where'er  he  might, 

A  more  congenial  object.     But,  as  time 

Softened  her  pangs  and  reconciled  the  child 

To  what  he  saw,  he  gradually  returned, 

Like  a  scared  Bird  encouraged  to  renew 

A  broken  intercourse;  and,  while  his  eyes 

Were  yet  with  pensive  fear  and  gentle  awe 

Turned  upon  her  who  bore  him,  she  would  stoop          60 

To  imprint  a  kiss  that  lacked  not  power  to  spread 

Faint  colour  over  both  their  pallid  cheeks, 

And  stilled  his  tremulous  lip.     Thus  they  were  calmed 

And  cheered  :  and  now  together  breathe  fresh  air 

In  open  fields ;  and  when  the  glare  of  day 


186  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Is  gone,  and  twilight  to  the  Mother's  wish 

Befriends  the  observance,  readily  they  join 

In  walks  whose  boundary  is  the  lost  One's  grave, 

Which  he  with  flowers  hath  planted,  finding  there 

Amusement,  where  the  Mother  does  not  miss  70 

Dear  consolation,  kneeling  on  the  turf 

In  prayer,  yet  blending  with  that  solemn  rite 

Of  pious  faith  the  vanities  of  grief; 

For  such,  by  pitying  Angels  and  by  Spirits 

Transferred  to  regions  upon  which  the  clouds 

Of  our  weak  nature  rest  not,  must  be  deemed 

Those  willing  tears,  and  unforbidden  sighs, 

And  all  those  tokens  of  a  cherished  sorrow, 

Which,  soothed  and  sweetened  by  the  grace  of  Heaven 

As  now  it  is,  seems  to  her  own  fond  heart  80 

Immortal  as  the  love  that  gave  it  being. 

Published  1842 

XXVII 

THE  SAILOR'S  MOTHER 

ONE  morning  (raw  it  was  and  wet — 
A  foggy  day  in  winter  time) 
A  Woman  on  the  road  I  met, 
Not  old,  though  something  past  her  prime : 
Majestic  in  her  person,  tall  and  straight ; 
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, 
Protected  from  this  cold  damp  air  ? ' 
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 ; 
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. 


THE  CHILDLESS  FATHER  187 

'  The  bird  and  cage  they  both  were  his  : 
'Twas  my  Son's  bird  ;  and  neat  and  trim 
He  kept  it ;  many  voyages 
The  singing-bird  had  gone  with  him ; 
When  last  he  sailed,  he  left  the  bird  behind  ;  29 

From  bodings,  as  might  be,  that  hung  upon  his  mind. 

'  He  to  a  fellow-lodger's  care 
Had  left  it,  to  be  watched  and  fed, 
And  pipe  its  song  in  safety ; — there 
I  found  it  when  my  Son  was  dead ; 
And  now,  God  help  me  for  my  little  wit ! 
I  bear  it  with  me,  Sir ; — he  took  so  much  delight  in  it.' 

March  11,  12,  1802 


XXVIII 
THE  CHILDLESS  FATHER 

'  T  TP,  Timothy,  up  with  your  staff  and  away  ! 

^_J      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, 
On  the  slopes  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 l  at  Timothy's  door  ;  10 

A  coffin  through  Timothy's  threshold  had  past ; 
One  Child  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 
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 

1800 

1  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. 


188  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

XXIX 

THE  EMIGRANT  MOTHER 

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,  dwelling  upon  British  ground, 
Where  she  was  childless,  daily  would  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  : 

And  thus,  from  what  I  heard  and  knew,  or  guessed, 

My  song  the  workings  of  her  heart  expressed. 


'  Dear  Babe  thou  daughter  of  another, 

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, 

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. 


THE  EMIGRANT  MOTHER  189 

HI 

'  Here,  little  Darling,  dost  thou  lie ; 

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, 

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 ; 

There  was  a  smile  or  two — yet — yet 

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  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  ? 

VI 

'  Oh  !  how  I  love  thee  ! — we  will  stay 

Together  here  this  one  half  day. 

My  sister's  child,  who  bears  my  name, 

From  France  to  sheltering  England  came ; 

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 : 

Rest,  little  Stranger,  rest  thee  here  ! 

Never  was  any  child  more  dear ! 


190  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


VII 

'  — I  cannot  help  it ;  ill  intent 
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 ;  80 

•          Thine  eyes  are  on  me — they  would  speak, 
I  think,  to  help  me  if  they  could. 
Blessings  upon  that  soft,  warm  face, 
My  heart  again  is  in  its  place  ! 

VII 

'  While  thou  art  mine,  my  little  Love, 

This  cannot  be  a  sorrowful  grove  ; 

Contentment,  hope,  and  mother's  glee, 

I  seem  to  find  them  all  in  thee  : 

Here 's  grass  to  play  with,  here  are  flowers ; 

I  '11  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  '11  tell  him  many  tales  of  Thee.' 

March  16,  17,  1802 

XXX 
VAUDRACOUR  AND  JULIA 

[THE  following  tale  was  written  as  an  Episode,  in  a  work  from  which  its 
length  may  perhaps  exclude  it.  The  facts  are  true ;  no  invention  as  to 
these  has  been  exercised,  as  none  was  needed.] 

O  HAPPY  time  of  youthful  lovers  (thus 
My  story  may  begin)  O  balmy  time, 
In  which  a  love-knot  on  a  lady's  brow 
Is  fairer  than  the  fairest  star  in  heaven  ! 
To  such  inheritance  of  blessed  fancy 
(Fancy  that  sports  more  desperately  with  minds 
Than  ever  fortune  hath  been  known  to  do) 
The  high-born  Vaudracour  was  brought,  by  years 
Whose  progress  had  a  little  overstepped 
His  stripling  prime.     A  town  of  small  repute,  10 

Among  the  vine-clad  mountains  of  Auvergne, 
Was  the  Youth's  birth-place.     There  he  wooed  a  Maid 
Who  heard  the  heart-felt  music  of  his  suit 


VAUDRACOUR  AND  JULIA  191 

With  answering  vows.     Plebeian  was  the  stock, 

Plebeian,  though  ingenuous,  the  stock, 

From  which  her  graces  and  her  honours  sprung  : 

And  hence  the  father  of  the  enamoured  Youth, 

With  haughty  indignation,  spurned  the  thought 

Of  such  alliance. — From  their  cradles  up, 

With  but  a  step  between  their  several  homes,  ao 

Twins  had  they  been  in  pleasure ;  after  strife 

And  petty  quarrels,  had  grown  fond  again ; 

Each  other's  advocate,  each  other's  stay ; 

And,  in  their  happiest  moments,  not  content, 

If  more  divided  than  a  sportive  pair 

Of  sea-fowl,  conscious  both  that  they  are  hovering 

Within  the  eddy  of  a  common  blast, 

Or  hidden  only  by  the  concave  depth 

Of  neighbouring  billows  from  each  other's  sight. 

Thus,  not  without  concurrence  of  an  age  30 

Unknown  to  memory,  was  an  earnest  given 
By  ready  nature  for  a  life  of  love, 
For  endless  constancy,  and  placid  truth  ; 
But  whatsoe'er  of  such  rare  treasure  lay 
Reserved,  had  fate  permitted,  for  support 
Of  their  maturer  years,  his  present  mind 
Was  under  fascination  ; — he  beheld 
A  vision,  and  adored  the  thing  he  saw. 
Arabian  fiction  never  filled  the  world 
With  half  the  wonders  that  were  wrought  for  him.       40 
Earth  breathed  in  one  great  presence  of  the  spring  ; 
Life  turned  the  meanest  of  her  implements, 
Before  his  eyes,  to  price  above  all  gold  ; 
The  house  she  dwelt  in  was  a  sainted  shrine  ; 
Her  chamber-window  did  surpass  in  glory 
The  portals  of  the  dawn  ;  all  Paradise 
Could,  by  the  simple  opening  of  a  door, 
Let  itself  in  upon  him : — pathways,  walks, 
Swarmed  with  enchantment,  till  his  spirit  sank, 
Surcharged,  within  him,  overblest  to  move  50 

Beneath  a  sun  that  wakes  a  weary  world 
To  its  dull  round  of  ordinary  cares  ; 
A  man  too  happy  for  mortality  ! 

So  passed  the  time,  till,  whether  through  effect 
Of  some  unguarded  moment  that  dissolved 
Virtuous  restraint — ah,  speak  it,  think  it,  not  ! 
Deem  rather  that  the  fervent  Youth,  who  saw 
So  many  bars  between  his  present  state 


192  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

And  the  dear  haven  where  he  wished  to  be 

In  honourable  wedlock  with  his  Love,  60 

Was  in  his  judgment  tempted  to  decline 

To  perilous  weakness,  and  entrust  his  cause 

To  nature  for  a  happy  end  of  all ; 

Deem  that  by  such  fond  hope  the  Youth  was  swayed, 

And  bear  with  their  transgression,  when  I  add 

That  Julia,  wanting  yet  the  name  of  wife, 

Carried  about  her  for  a  secret  grief 

The  promise  of  a  mother. 

To  conceal 

The  threatened  shame,  the  parents  of  the  Maid 
Found  means  to  hurry  her  away  by  night,  70 

And  unforewarned,  that  in  some  distant  spot 
She  might  remain  shrouded  in  privacy, 
Until  the  babe  was  born.     When  morning  came, 
The  Lover,  thus  bereft,  stung  with  his  loss, 
And  all  uncertain  whither  he  should  turn, 
Chafed  like  a  wild  beast  in  the  toils ;  but  soon 
Discovering  traces  of  the  fugitives, 
Their  steps  he  followed  to  the  Maid's  retreat. 
Easily  may  the  sequel  be  divined — 

Walks  to  and  fro — watchings  at  every  hour ;  80 

And  the  fair  Captive,  who,  whene'er  she  may, 
Is  busy  at  her  casement  as  the  swallow 
Fluttering  its  pinions,  almost  within  reach, 
About  the  pendant  nest,  did  thus  espy 
Her  Lover  ! — thence  a  stolen  interview, 
Accomplished  under  friendly  shade  of  night. 

I  pass  the  raptures  of  the  pair ; — such  theme 
Is,  by  innumerable  poets,  touched 
In  more  delightful  verse  than  skill  of  mine 
Could  fashion ;  chiefly  by  that  darling  bard  90 

Who  told  of  Juliet  and  her  Romeo, 
And  of  the  lark's  note  heard  before  its  time, 
And  of  the  streaks  that  laced  the  severing  clouds 
In  the  unrelenting  east. — Through  all  her  courts 
The  vacant  city  slept;  the  busy  winds, 
That  keep  no  certain  intervals  of  rest, 
Moved  not ;  meanwhile  the  galaxy  displayed 
Her  fires,  that  like  mysterious  pulses  beat 
Aloft ; — momentous  but  uneasy  bliss ! 
To  their  full  hearts  the  universe  seemed  hung  100 

On  that  brief  meeting's  slender  filament ! 

They  parted ;  and  the  generous  Vaudracour 


VAUDRACOUR  AND  JULIA  193 

Reached  speedily  the  native  threshold,  bent 

On  making  (so  the  Lovers  had  agreed) 

A  sacrifice  of  birthright  to  attain 

A  final  portion  from  his  father's  hand ; 

Which  granted,  Bride  and  Bridegroom  then  would  flee 

To  some  remote  and  solitary  place, 

Shady  as  night,  and  beautiful  as  heaven, 

Where  they  may  live,  with  no  one  to  behold  no 

Their  happiness,  or  to  disturb  their  love. 

But  now  of  this  no  whisper ;  not  the  less, 

If  ever  an  obtrusive  word  were  dropped 

Touching  the  matter  of  his  passion,  still, 

In  his  stern  father's  hearing,  Vaudracour 

Persisted  openly  that  death  alone 

Should  abrogate  his  human  privilege 

Divine,  of  swearing  everlasting  truth, 

Upon  the  altar,  to  the  Maid  he  loved. 

'  You  shall  be  baffled  in  your  mad  intent  120 

If  there  be  justice  in  the  court  of  France,' 
Muttered  the  Father. — From  these  words  the  Youth 
Conceived  a  terror ;  and,  by  night  or  day, 
Stirred  nowhere  without  weapons,  that  full  soon 
Found  dreadful  provocation :  for  at  night, 
When  to  his  chamber  he  retired,  attempt 
Was  made  to  seize  him  by  three  armed  men, 
Acting,  in  furtherance  of  the  father's  will, 
Under  a  private  signet  of  the  State. 
One  the  rash  Youth's  ungovernable  hand  130 

Slew,  and  as  quickly  to  a  second  gave 
A  perilous  wound — he  shuddered  to  behold 
The  breathless  corse ;  then  peacefully  resigned 
His  person  to  the  law,  was  lodged  in  prison, 
And  wore  the  fetters  of  a  criminal. 

Have  you  observed  a  tuft  of  winged  seed 
That,  from  the  dandelion's  naked  stalk, 
Mounted  aloft,  is  suffered  not  to  use 
Its  natural  gifts  for  purposes  of  rest, 
Driven  by  the  autumnal  whirlwind  to  and  fro  140 

Through  the  wide  element  ?  or  have  you  marked 
The  heavier  substance  of  a  leaf-clad  bough, 
Within  the  vortex  of  a  foaming  flood, 
Tormented  ?  by  such  aid  you  may  conceive 
The  perturbation  that  ensued ; — ah,  no  ! 
Desperate  the  Maid — the  Youth  is  stained  with  blood ; 
Unmatchable  on  earth  is  their  disquiet ! 
1-N 


194  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Yet  as  the  troubled  seed  and  tortured  bough 
Is  Man,  subjected  to  despotic  sway. 

For  him,  by  private  influence  with  the  Court,          150 
Was  pardon  gained,  and  liberty  procured ; 
But  not  without  exaction  of  a  pledge, 
Which  liberty  and  love  dispersed  in  air. 
He  flew  to  her  from  whom  they  would  divide  him — 
He  clove  to  her  who  could  not  give  him  peace — 
Yea,  his  first  word  of  greeting  was, — '  All  right 
Is  gone  from  me ;  my  lately-towering  hopes, 
To  the  least  fibre  of  their  lowest  root, 
Are  withered ;  thou  no  longer  canst  be  mine, 
I  thine — the  conscience-stricken  must  not  woo  160 

The  unruffled  Innocent, — I  see  thy  face, 
Behold  thee,  and  my  misery  is  complete  ! ' 

'  One,  are  we  not  ?  '  exclaimed  the  Maiden — '  One, 
For  innocence  and  youth,  for  weal  and  woe  ? ' 
Then  with  the  father's  name  she  coupled  words 
Of  vehement  indignation ;  but  the  Youth 
Checked  her  with  filial  meekness ;  for  no  thought 
Uncharitable  crossed  his  mind,  no  sense 
Of  hasty  anger,  rising  in  the  eclipse 
Of  true  domestic  loyalty,  did  e'er  170 

Find  place  within  his  bosom. — Once  again 
The  persevering  wedge  of  tyranny 
Achieved  their  separation :  and  once  more 
Were  they  united, — to  be  yet  again 
Disparted,  pitiable  lot !     But  here 
A  portion  of  the  tale  may  well  be  left 
In  silence,  though  my  memory  could  add 
Much  how  the  Youth,  in  scanty  space  of  time, 
Was  traversed  from  without ;  much,  too,  of  thoughts 
That  occupied  his  days  in  solitude  180 

Under  privation  and  restraint ;  and  what, 
Through  dark  and  shapeless  fear  of  things  to  come, 
And  what,  through  strong  compunction  for  the  past. 
He  suffered — breaking  down  in  heart  and  mind  ! 

Doomed  to  a  third  and  last  captivity, 
His  freedom  he  recovered  on  the  eve 
Of  Julia's  travail.     When  the  babe  was  born, 
Its  presence  tempted  him  to  cherish  schemes 
Of  future  happiness.     '  You  shall  return, 
Julia,'  said  he,  '  and  to  your  father's  house  190 

Go  with  the  child. — You  have  been  wretched ;  yet 
The  silver  shower,  whose  reckless  burthen  weighs 


VAUDRACOUR  AND  JULIA  195 

Too  heavily  upon  the  lily's  head, 

Oft  leaves  a  saving  moisture  at  its  root. 

Malice,  beholding  you,  will  melt  away. 

Go ! — 'tis  a  town  where  both  of  us  were  born ; 

None  will  reproach  you,  for  our  truth  is  known ; 

And  if,  amid  those  once-bright  bowers,  our  fate 

Remain  unpitied,  pity  is  not  in  man. 

With  ornaments — the  prettiest,  nature  yields  200 

Or  art  can  fashion,  shall  you  deck  our  boy, 

And  feed  his  countenance  with  your  own  sweet  looks, 

Till  no  one  can  resist  him. — Now,  even  now, 

I  see  him  sporting  on  the  sunny  lawn  ; 

My  father  from  the  window  sees  him  too  ; 

Startled,  as  if  some  new-created  thing 

Enriched  the  earth,  or  Faery  of  the  woods 

Bounded  before  him ; — but  the  unweeting  Child 

Shall  by  his  beauty  win  his  grandsire's  heart, 

So  that  it  shall  be  softened,  and  our  loves  210 

End  happily,  as  they  began  ! ' 

These  gleams 

Appeared  but  seldom ;  oftener  was  he  seen 
Propping  a  pale  and  melancholy  face 
Upon  the  Mother's  bosom ;  resting  thus 
His  head  upon  one  breast,  while  from  the  other 
The  Babe  was  drawing  in  its  quiet  food. 
— That  pillow  is  no  longer  to  be  thine, 
Fond  Youth  !  that  mournful  solace  now  must  pass 
Into  the  list  of  things  that  cannot  be ! 
Unwedded  Julia,  terror-smitten,  hears  220 

The  sentence,  by  her  mother's  lip  pronounced, 
That  dooms  her  to  a  convent. — Who  shall  tell, 
Who  dares  report,  the  tidings  to  the  lord 
Of  her  affections  ?  so  they  blindly  asked 
Who  knew  not  to  what  quiet  depths  a  weight 
Of  agony  had  pressed  the  Sufferer  down  : 
The  word,  by  others  dreaded,  he  can  hear 
Composed  and  silent,  without  visible  sign 
Of  even  the  least  emotion.     Noting  this, 
When  the  impatient  object  of  his  love  730 

Upbraided  him  with  slackness,  he  returned 
No  answer,  only  took  the  mother's  hand 
And  kissed  it ;  seemingly  devoid  of  pain, 
Or  care,  that  what  so  tenderly  he  pressed 
Was  a  dependant  on  the  obdurate  heart 
Of  one  who  came  to  disunite  their  lives 
For  ever — sad  alternative  !  preferred, 
By  the  unbending  Parents  of  the  Maid, 


196  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

To  secret  'spousals  meanly  disavowed. 
—So  be  it ! 

In  the  city  he  remained  240 

A  season  after  Julia  had  withdrawn 
To  those  religious  walls.     He,  too,  departs — 
Who  with  him  ? — even  the  senseless  Little-one. 
With  that  sole  charge  he  passed  the  city-gates, 
For  the  last  time,  attendant  by  the  side 
Of  a  close  chair,  a  litter,  or  sedan, 
In  which  the  Babe  was  carried.     To  a  hill, 
That  rose  a  brief  league  distant  from  the  town, 
The  dwellers  in  that  house  where  he  had  lodged 
Accompanied  his  steps,  by  anxious  love  250 

Impelled ; — they  parted  from  him  there,  and  stood 
Watching  below  till  he  had  disappeared 
On  the  hill  top.     His  eyes  he  scarcely  took, 
Throughout  that  journey,  from  the  vehicle 
(Slow-moving  ark  of  all  his  hopes  !)  that  veiled 
The  tender  infant :  and  at  every  inn, 
And  under  every  hospitable  tree 
At  which  the  bearers  halted  or  reposed, 
Laid  him  with  timid  care  upon  his  knees, 
And  looked,  as  mothers  ne'er  were  known  to  look,     260 
Upon  the  nursling  which  his  arms  embraced. 

This  was  the  manner  in  which  Vaudracour 
Departed  with  his  infant ;  and  thus  reached 
His  father's  house,  where  to  the  innocent  child 
Admittance  was  denied.     The  young  man  spake 
No  word  of  indignation  or  reproof, 
But  of  his  father  begged,  a  last  request, 
That  a  retreat  might  be  assigned  to  him, 
Where  in  forgotten  quiet  he  might  dwell, 
With  such  allowance  as  his  wants  required ;  270 

For  wishes  he  had  none.     To  a  lodge  that  stood 
Deep  in  a  forest,  with  leave  given,  at  the  age 
Of  four-and-twenty  summers  he  withdrew  ; 
And  thither  took  with  him  his  motherless  Babe, 
And  one  domestic  for  their  common  needs, 
An  aged  woman.     It  consoled  him  here 
To  attend  upon  the  orphan,  and  perform 
Obsequious  service  to  the  precious  child, 
Which,  after  a  short  time,  by  some  mistake 
Or  indiscretion  of  the  Father,  died. —  280 

The  Tale  I  follow  to  its  last  recess 
Of  suffering  or  of  peace,  I  know  not  which  : 
Theirs  be  the  blame  who  caused  the  woe,  not  mine ! 


THE  IDIOT  BOY  197 

From  this  time  forth  he  never  shared  a  smile 
With  mortal  creature.     An  Inhabitant 
Of  that  same  town,  in  which  the  pair  had  left 
So  lively  a  remembrance  of  their  griefs, 
By  chance  of  business  coming  within  reach 
Of  his  retirement,  to  the  forest  lodge 
Repaired,  but  only  found  the  matron  there,  290 

Who  told  him  that  his  pains  were  thrown  away, 
For  that  her  Master  never  uttered  word 
To  living  thing — not  even  to  her. — Behold  ! 
While  they  were  speaking,  Vaudracour  approached ; 
But,  seeing  some  one  near,  as  on  the  latch 
Of  the  garden-gate  his  hand  was  laid,  he  shrunk — 
And,  like  a  shadow,  glided  out  of  view. 
Shocked  at  his  savage  aspect,  from  the  place 
The  visitor  retired. 

Thus  lived  the  Youth 

Cut  off  from  all  intelligence  with  man,  30x3 

And  shunning  even  the  light  of  common  day; 
Nor  could  the  voice  of  Freedom,  which  through  France 
Full  speedily  resounded,  public  hope, 
Or  personal  memory  of  his  own  deep  wrongs, 
Rouse  him :  but  in  those  solitary  shades 
His  days  he  wasted,  an  imbecile  mind ! 

1804 

XXXI 
THE  IDIOT  BOY 

''"T'MS  eight  o'clock, — a  clear  March  night, 

The  moon  is  up, — the  sky  is  blue, 
The  owlet,  in  the  moonlight  air, 
Shouts  from  nobody  knows  where ; 
He  lengthens  out  his  lonely  shout, 
Halloo  !  halloo  !  a  long  halloo  ! 

— Why  bustle  thus  about  your  door, 

What  means  this  bustle,  Betty  Foy  ? 

Why  are  you  in  this  mighty  fret  ? 

And  why  on  horseback  have  you  set  10 

Him  whom  you  love,  your  Idiot  Boy  ? 

Scarcely  a  soul  is  out  of  bed  ; 
Good  Betty,  put  him  down  again  ; 
His  lips  with  joy  they  burr  at  you  ; 
But,  Betty  !  what  has  he  to  do 
With  stirrup,  saddle,  or  with  rein  ? 


198  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

But  Betty  's  bent  on  her  intent ; 

For  her  good  neighbour,  Susan  Gale, 

Old  Susan,  she  who  dwells  alone, 

Is  sick,  and  makes  a  piteous  moan,  2o 

As  if  her  very  life  would  fail. 

There's  not  a  house  within  a  mile, 
No  hand  to  help  them  in  distress ; 
Old  Susan  lies  a-bed  in  pain, 
And  sorely  puzzled  are  the  twain, 
For  what  she  ails  they  cannot  guess. 

And  Betty's  husband  's  at  the  wood, 

Where  by  the  week  he  doth  abide, 

A  woodman  in  the  distant  vale  ; 

There 's  none  to  help  poor  Susan  Gale ;  30 

What  must  be  done  ?  what  will  betide  ? 

And  Betty  from  the  lane  has  fetched 
Her  Pony,  that  is  mild  and  good ; 
Whether  he  be  in  joy  or  pain, 
Feeding  at  will  along  the  lane, 
Or  bringing  faggots  from  the  wood. 

And  he  is  all  in  travelling  trim, — 

And,  by  the  moonlight,  Betty  Foy 

Has  on  the  well-girt  saddle  set 

(The  like  was  never  heard  of  yet)  40 

Him  whom  she  loves,  her  Idiot  Boy. 

And  he  must  post  without  delay 
Across  the  bridge  and  through  the  dale, 
And  by  the  church,  and  o'er  the  down, 
To  bring  a  Doctor  from  the  town, 
Or  she  will  die,  old  Susan  Gale. 

There  is  no  need  of  boot  or  spur, 

There  is  no  need  of  whip  or  wand  ; 

For  Johnny  has  his  holly-bough, 

And  with  a  hurly-burly  now  50 

He  shakes  the  green  bough  in  his  hand. 

And  Betty  o'er  and  o'er  has  told 
The  Boy,  who  is  her  best  delight, 
Both  what  to  follow,  what  to  shun, 
What  do,  and  what  to  leave  undone, 
How  turn  to  left,  and  how  to  right. 


THE  IDIOT  BOY  199 

And  Betty's  most  especial  charge, 

Was,  '  Johnny !  Johnny  !  mind  that  you 

Come  home  again,  nor  stop  at  all, — 

Come  home  again,  whate'er  befall,  60 

My  Johnny,  do,  I  pray  you,  do.' 

To  this  did  Johnny  answer  make, 
Both  with  his  head  and  with  his  hand, 
And  proudly  shook  the  bridle  too  ; 
And  then  !  his  words  were  not  a  few, 
Which  Betty  well  could  understand. 

And  now  that  Johnny  is  just  going, 

Though  Betty 's  in  a  mighty  flurry, 

She  gently  pats  the  Pony's  side, 

On  which  her  Idiot  Boy  must  ride,  70 

And  seems  no  longer  in  a  hurry. 

But  when  the  Pony  moved  his  legs, 
Oh !  then  for  the  poor  Idiot  Boy  ! 
For  joy  he  cannot  hold  the  bridle, 
For  joy  his  head  and  heels  are  idle, 
He  's  idle  all  for  very  joy. 

And,  while  the  Pony  moves  his  legs, 

In  Johnny's  left  hand  you  may  see 

The  green  bough  motionless  and  dead  : 

The  Moon  that  shines  above  his  head  80 

Is  not  more  still  and  mute  than  he. 

His  heart  it  was  so  full  of  glee, 
That,  till  full  fifty  yards  were  gone, 
He  quite  forgot  his  holly  whip, 
And  all  his  skill  in  horsemanship : 
Oh  !  happy,  happy,  happy  John. 

And  while  the  Mother,  at  the  door, 

Stands  fixed,  her  face  with  joy  o'erflows, 

Proud  of  herself,  and  proud  of  him, 

She  sees  him  in  his  travelling  trim,  90 

How  quietly  her  Johnny  goes. 

The  silence  of  her  Idiot  Boy, 
What  hopes  it  sends  to  Betty's  heart ! 
He 's  at  the  guide-post — he  turns  right ; 
She  watches  till  he '  s  out  of  sight, 
And  Betty  will  not  then  depart. 


200  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Burr,  burr — now  Johnny's  lips  they  burr, 

As  loud  as  any  mill,  or  near  it ; 

Meek  as  a  lamb  the  Pony  moves, 

And  Johnny  makes  the  noise  he  loves,  100 

And  Betty  listens,  glad  to  hear  it. 

Away  she  hies  to  Susan  Gale : 
Her  Messenger  's  in  merry  tune ; 
The  owlets  hoot,  the  owlets  curr, 
And  Johnny's  lips  they  burr,  burr,  burr, 
As  on  he  goes  beneath  the  moon. 

His  steed  and  he  right  well  agree ; 

For  of  this  Pony  there  's  a  rumour, 

That,  should  he  lose  his  eyes  and  ears, 

And  should  he  live  a  thousand  years,  no 

He  never  will  be  out  of  humour. 

But  then  he  is  a  horse  that  thinks ! 
And,  when  he  thinks,  his  pace  is  slack ; 
Now,  though  he  knows  poor  Johnny  well, 
Yet,  for  his  life,  he  cannot  tell 
What  he  has  got  upon  his  back. 

So  through  the  moonlight  lanes  they  go, 

And  far  into  the  moonlight  dale, 

And  by  the  church,  and  o'er  the  down, 

To  bring  a  Doctor  from  the  town,  120 

To  comfort  poor  old  Susan  Gale. 

And  Betty,  now  at  Susan's  side, 
Is  in  the  middle  of  her  story, 
What  speedy  help  her  Boy  will  bring, 
With  many  a  most  diverting  thing, 
Of  Johnny's  wit,  and  Johnny's  glory. 

And  Betty,  still  at  Susan's  side, 

By  this  time  is  not  quite  so  flurried : 

Demure  with  porringer  and  plate 

She  sits,  as  if  in  Susan's  fate  130 

Her  life  and  soul  were  buried. 

But  Betty,  poor  good  woman  !  she, 
You  plainly  in  her  face  may  read  it, 
Could  lend  out  of  that  moment's  store 
Five  years  of  happiness  or  more 
To  any  that  might  need  it. 


THE  IDIOT  BOY  201 

But  yet  I  guess  that  now  and  then 

With  Betty  all  was  not  so  well ; 

And  to  the  road  she  turns  her  ears, 

And  thence  full  many  a  sound  she  hears,  140 

Which  she  to  Susan  will  not  tell. 

Poor  Susan  moans,  poor  Susan  groans; 
*  As  sure  as  there  's  a  moon  in  heaven,' 
Cries  Betty,  '  he  '11  be  back  again  ; 
They  '11  both  be  here — 'tis  almost  ten — 
Both  will  be  here  before  eleven.' 

Poor  Susan  moans,  poor  Susan  groans ; 

The  clock  gives  warning  for  eleven ; 

'Tis  on  the  stroke — '  He  must  be  near,' 

Quoth  Betty, '  and  will  soon  be  here,  150 

As  sure  as  there  's  a  moon  in  heaven.' 

The  clock  is  on  the  stroke  of  twelve, 

And  Johnny  is  not  yet  in  sight : 

— The  Moon  's  in  heaven,  as  Betty  sees, 

But  Betty  is  not  quite  at  ease ; 

And  Susan  has  a  dreadful  night. 

And  Betty,  half  an  hour  ago, 

On  Johnny  vile  reflections  cast : 

'  A  little,  idle,  sauntering  Thing  ! ' 

With  other  names,  an  endless  string ;  160 

But  now  that  time  is  gone  and  past. 

And  Betty  's  drooping  at  the  heart, 
That  happy  time  all  past  and  gone, 
1  How  can  it  be  he  is  so  late  ? 
The  Doctor,  he  has  made  him  wait ; 
Susan  !  they  '11  both  be  here  anon.' 

And  Susan 's  growing  worse  and  worse, 

And  Betty  's  in  a  sad  quandary ; 

And  then  there  's  nobody  to  say 

If  she  must  go,  or  she  must  stay  !  170 

— She 's  in  a  sad  quandary. 

The  clock  is  on  the  stroke  of  one; 
But  neither  Doctor  nor  his  Guide 
Appears  along  the  moonlight  road  ; 
There  's  neither  horse  nor  man  abroad, 
And  Betty's  still  at  Susan's  side. 


202  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

And  Susan  now  begins  to  fear 

Of  sad  mischances  not  a  few, 

That  Johnny  may  perhaps  be  drowned ; 

Or  lost,  perhaps,  and  never  found ;  180 

Which  they  must  both  for  ever  rue. 

She  prefaced  half  a  hint  of  this 
With,  <  God  forbid  it  should  be  true  ! ' 
At  the  first  word  that  Susan  said 
Cried  Betty,  rising  from  the  bed, 
*  Susan,  I  'd  gladly  stay  with  you. 

'  I  must  be  gone,  I  must  away : 

Consider,  Johnny !s  but  half-wise ; 

Susan,  we  must  take  care  of  him, 

If  he  is  hurt  in  life  or  limb ' —  190 

'  Oh  God  forbid  ! '  poor  Susan  cries. 

'  What  can  I  do  ? '  says  Betty,  going, 
'  What  can  I  do  to  ease  your  pain  ? 
Good  Susan  tell  me,  and  I  '11  stay ; 
I  fear  you  're  in  a  dreadful  way, 
But  I  shall  soon  be  back  again.' 

'  Nay,  Betty,  go  !  good  Betty,  go  ! 

There  's  nothing  that  can  ease  my  pain/ 

Then  off  she  hies  ;  but  with  a  prayer, 

That  God  poor  Susan's  life  would  spare,  200 

Till  she  comes  back  again. 

So,  through  the  moonlight  lane  she  goes, 
And  far  into  the  moonlight  dale ; 
And  how  she  ran,  and  how  she  walked, 
And  all  that  to  herself  she  talked, 
Would  surely  be  a  tedious  tale. 

In  high  and  low,  above,  below, 

In  great  and  small,  in  round  and  square, 

In  tree  and  tower  was  Johnny  seen, 

In  bush  and  brake,  in  black  and  green  ;  210 

'Twas  Johnny,  Johnny,  everywhere. 

And  while  she  crossed  the  bridge,  there  came 
A  thought  with  which  her  heart  is  sore — 
Johnny  perhaps  his  horse  forsook, 
To  hunt  the  moon  within  the  brook, 
And  never  will  be  heard  of  more. 


THE  IDIOT  BOY  203 

Now  is  she  high  upon  the  down, 

Alone  amid  a  prospect  wide ; 

There  's  neither  Johnny  nor  his  Horse 

Among  the  fern  or  in  the  gorse  ;  220 

There 's  neither  Doctor  nor  his  Guide. 

'  Oh  saints  !  what  is  become  of  him  ? 
Perhaps  he  's  climbed  into  an  oak, 
Where  he  will  stay  till  he  is  dead ; 
Or  sadly  he  has  been  misled, 
And  joined  the  wandering  gipsy-folk. 

'Or  him  that  wicked  Pony's  carried 

To  the  dark  cave,  the  goblin's  hall ; 

Or  in  the  castle  he  's  pursuing 

Among  the  ghosts  his  own  undoing ;  230 

Or  playing  with  the  waterfall.' 

At  poor  old  Susan  then  she  railed, 
While  to  the  town  she  posts  away ; 
'  If  Susan  had  not  been  so  ill, 
Alas  !  I  should  have  had  him  still, 
My  Johnny,  till  my  dying  day.' 

Poor  Betty,  in  this  sad  distemper, 

The  Doctor's  self  could  hardly  spare  : 

Unworthy  things  she  talked,  and  wild ; 

Even  he,  of  cattle  the  most  mild,  240 

The  Pony  had  his  share. 

But  now  she  's  fairly  in  the  town, 
And  to  the  Doctor's  door  she  hies; 
'Tis  silence  all  on  every  side ; 
The  town  so  long,  the  town  so  wide, 
Is  silent  as  the  skies. 

And  now  she  's  at  the  Doctor's  door, 

She  lifts  the  knocker,  rap,  rap,  rap ; 

The  Doctor  at  the  casement  shows 

His  glimmering  eyes  that  peep  and  doze !  250 

And  one  hand  rubs  his  old  night-cap. 

'  Oh  Doctor !  Doctor  !  where 's  my  Johnny  ? ' 
'  I  'm  here,  what  is 't  you  want  with  me  ? ' 
'  Oh  Sir !  you  know  I  'm  Betty  Foy, 
And  I  have  lost  my  poor  dear  Boy, 
You  know  him — him  you  often  see ; 


204  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

'  He 's  not  so  wise  as  some  folks  be ' : 

'  The  devil  take  his  wisdom  ! '  said 

The  Doctor,  looking  somewhat  grim, 

'  What,  Woman  !  should  I  know  of  him  ? '  260 

And,  grumbling,  he  went  back  to  bed ! 

'  O  woe  is  me  !  O  woe  is  me  ! 
Here  will  I  die;  here  will  I  die; 
I  thought  to  find  my  lost  one  here, 
But  he  is  neither  far  nor  near, 
Oh  !  what  a  wretched  Mother  I ! ' 

She  stops,  she  stands,  she  looks  about ; 

Which  way  to  turn  she  cannot  tell. 

Poor  Betty !  it  would  ease  her  pain 

If  she  had  heart  to  knock  again ;  270 

— The  clock  strikes  three — a  dismal  knell ! 

Then  up  along  the  town  she  hies, 

No  wonder  if  her  senses  fail ; 

This  piteous  news  so  much  it  shocked  her, 

She  quite  forgot  to  send  the  Doctor, 

To  comfort  poor  old  Susan  Gale. 

And  now  she 's  high  upon  the  down, 

And  she  can  see  a  mile  of  road  : 

'  O  cruel !  I  'm  almost  threescore ; 

Such  night  as  this  was  ne'er  before,  280 

There 's  not  a  single  soul  abroad.' 

She  listens,  but  she  cannot  hear 
The  foot  of  horse,  the  voice  of  man ; 
The  streams  with  softest  sound  are  flowing, 
The  grass  you  almost  hear  it  growing, 
You  hear  it  now,  if  e'er  you  can. 

The  owlets  through  the  long  blue  night 

Are  shouting  to  each  other  still : 

Fond  lovers  !  yet  not  quite  hob  nob, 

They  lengthen  out  the  tremulous  sob,  290 

That  echoes  far  from  hill  to  hill. 

Poor  Betty  now  has  lost  all  hope, 
Her  thoughts  are  bent  on  deadly  sin, 
A  green-grown  pond  she  just  has  past, 
And  from  the  brink  she  hurries  fast, 
Lest  she  should  drown  herself  therein. 


THE  IDIOT  BOY  205 

And  now  she  sits  her  down  and  weeps ; 

Such  tears  she  never  shed  before  ; 

'  Oh  dear,  dear  Pony !  my  sweet  joy  ! 

Oh  carry  back  my  Idiot  Boy  !  30° 

And  we  will  ne'er  o'erload  thee  more.' 

A  thought  is  come  into  her  head  : 
The  Pony  he  is  mild  and  good, 
And  we  have  always  used  him  well ; 
Perhaps  he's  gone  along  the  dell, 
And  carried  Johnny  to  the  wood. 

Then  up  she  springs  as  if  on  wings ; 

She  thinks  no  more  of  deadly  sin  ; 

If  Betty  fifty  ponds  should  see, 

The  last  of  all  her  thoughts  would  be  31° 

To  drown  herself  therein. 

Oh  Reader !  now  that  I  might  tell 
What  Johnny  and  his  Horse  are  doing ! 
What  they  've  been  doing  all  this  time, 
Oh  could  I  put  it  into  rhyme, 
A  most  delightful  tale  pursuing  ! 

Perhaps,  and  no  unlikely  thought ! 

He  with  his  Pony  now  doth  roam 

The  cliffs  and  peaks  so  high  that  are, 

To  lay  his  hands  upon  a  star,  320 

And  in  his  pocket  bring  it  home. 

Perhaps  he's  turned  himself  about, 
His  face  unto  his  horse's  tail, 
And,  still  and  mute,  in  wonder  lost, 
All  silent  as  a  horseman-ghost, 
He  travels  slowly  down  the  vale. 

And  now,  perhaps,  is  hunting  sheep, 

A  fierce  and  dreadful  hunter  he ; 

Yon  valley,  now  so  trim  and  green, 

In  five  months'  time,  should  he  be  seen,  33° 

A  desert  wilderness  will  be ! 

Perhaps,  with  head  and  heels  on  fire, 

And  like  the  very  soul  of  evil, 

He 's  galloping  away,  away, 

And  so  will  gallop  on  for  aye, 

The  bane  of  all  that  dread  the  devil ! 


206  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

I  to  the  Muses  have  been  bound 

These  fourteen  years,  by  strong  indentures : 

O  gentle  Muses  !  let  me  tell 

But  half  of  what  to  him  befell ;  340 

He  surely  met  with  strange  adventures. 

O  gentle  Muses  !  is  this  kind  ? 
Why  will  ye  thus  my  suit  repel  ? 
Why  of  your  further  aid  bereave  me  ? 
And  can  ye  thus  unfriended  leave  me, 
Ye  Muses  !  whom  I  love  so  well  ? 

Who  's  yon,  that,  near  the  waterfall, 

Which  thunders  down  with  headlong  force, 

Beneath  the  moon,  yet  shining  fair, 

As  careless  as  if  nothing  were,  350 

Sits  upright  on  a  feeding  horse  ? 

Unto  his  horse — there  feeding  free, 
He  seems,  I  think,  the  rein  to  give ; 
Of  moon  or  stars  he  takes  no  heed  ; 
Of  such  we  in  romances  read : 
— 'Tis  Johnny  !  Johnny  !  as  I  live. 

And  that 's  the  very  Pony,  too  ! 

Where  is  she,  where  is  Betty  Foy  ? 

She  hardly  can  sustain  her  fears  ; 

The  roaring  waterfall  she  hears,  360 

And  cannot  find  her  Idiot  Boy. 

Your  Pony 's  worth  his  weight  in  gold  : 
Then  calm  your  terrors,  Betty  Foy ! 
She  's  coming  from  among  the  trees, 
And  now  all  full  in  view  she  sees 
Him  whom  she  loves,  her  Idiot  Boy. 

And  Betty  sees  the  Pony  too : 

Why  stand  you  thus,  good  Betty  Foy  ? 

It  is  no  goblin,  'tis  no  ghost, 

'Tis  he  whom  you  so  long  have  lost,  370 

He  whom  you  love,  your  Idiot  Boy. 

She  looks  again — her  arms  are  up — 
She  screams — she  cannot  move  for  joy ; 
She  darts,  as  with  a  torrent's  force, 
,        She  almost  has  o'erturned  the  Horse, 
And  fast  she  holds  her  Idiot  Boy. 


THE  IDIOT  BOY  207 

And  Johnny  burrs,  and  laughs  aloud ; 

Whether  in  cunning  or  in  joy 

I  cannot  tell ;  but,  while  he  laughs, 

Betty  a  drunken  pleasure  quaffs  380 

To  hear  again  her  Idiot  Boy. 

And  now  she  's  at  the  Pony's  tail, 
And  now  is  at  the  Pony's  head, — 
On  that  side  now,  and  now  on  this ; 
And,  almost  stifled  with  her  bliss, 
A  few  sad  tears  does  Betty  shed. 

She  kisses  o'er  and  o'er  again 

Him  whom  she  loves,  her  Idiot  Boy  ; 

She  's  happy  here,  is  happy  there, 

She  is  uneasy  everywhere ;  39° 

Her  limbs  are  all  alive  with  joy. 

She  pats  the  Pony,  where  or  when 
She  knows  not,  happy  Betty  Foy  ! 
The  little  Pony  glad  may  be, 
But  he  is  milder  far  than  she, 
You  hardly  can  perceive  his  joy. 

*  Oh  !  Johnny,  never  mind  the  Doctor ; 

You've  done  your  best,  and  that  is  all': 

She  took  the  reins,  when  this  was  said, 

And  gently  turned  the  Pony's  head  400 

From  the  loud  waterfall. 

By  this  the  stars  were  almost  gone, 
The  moon  was  setting  on  the  hill, 
So  pale  you  scarcely  looked  at  her : 
The  little  birds  began  to  stir, 
Though  yet  their  tongues  were  still. 

The  Pony,  Betty,  and  her  Boy, 

Wind  slowly  through  the  woody  dale ; 

And  who  is  she,  betimes  abroad, 

That  hobbles  up  the  steep,  rough  road  ?  410 

Who  is  it,  but  old  Susan  Gale  ? 

Long  time  lay  Susan  lost  in  thought ; 
And  many  dreadful  fears  beset  her, 
Both  for  her  Messenger  and  Nurse  ; 
And,  as  her  mind  grew  worse  and  worse, 
Her  body — it  grew  better. 


208  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

She  turned,  she  tossed  herself  in  bed, 

On  all  sides  doubts  and  terrors  met  her; 

Point  after  point  did  she  discuss ; 

And,  while  her  mind  was  fighting  thus,  420 

Her  body  still  grew  better. 

'  Alas  !  what  is  become  of  them  ? 
These  fears  can  never  be  endured  ; 
I'll  to  the  wood.' — The  word  scarce  said, 
Did  Susan  rise  up  from  her  bed, 
As  if  by  magic  cured. 

Away  she  goes  up  hill  and  down, 

And  to  the  wood  at  length  is  come ; 

She  spies  her  Friends,  she  shouts  a  greeting ; 

Oh  me  !  it  is  a  merry  meeting  430 

As  ever  was  in  Christendom. 

The  owls  have  hardly  sung  their  last, 
While  our  four  travellers  homeward  wend  ; 
The  owls  have  hooted  all  night  long, 
And  with  the  owls  began  my  song, 
And  with  the  owls  must  end. 

For,  while  they  all  were  travelling  home, 

Cried  Betty,  '  Tell  us,  Johnny,  do, 

Where  all  this  long  night  you  have  been, 

What  you  have  heard,  what  you  have  seen :          440 

And,  Johnny,  mind  you  tell  us  true.' 

Now  Johnny  all  night  long  had  heard 
The  owls  in  tuneful  concert  strive  ; 
No  doubt  too  he  the  moon  had  seen ; 
For  in  the  moonlight  he  had  been 
From  eight  o'clock  till  five. 

And  thus,  to  Betty's  question,  he 

Made  answer,  like  a  traveller  bold 

(His  very  words  I  give  to  you), 

'  The  cocks  did  crow  to-whoo,  to-whoo,  450 

And  the  sun  did  shine  so  cold  ! ' 

— Thus  answered  Johnny  in  his  glory, 

And  that  was  all  his  travel's  story. 

1798 


MICHAEL  209 


XXXII 
MICHAEL 

A  PASTORAL  POEM 

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. 
But,  courage  !  for  around  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  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, 
Might  see  and  notice  not.     Beside  the  brook 
Appears  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,  20 

Or  for  the  summer  shade.     It  was  the  first 
Of  those  domestic  tales  that  spake  to  me 
Of  Shepherds,  dwellers  in  the  valleys,  men 
Whom  I  already  loved ; — not  verily 
For  their  own  sakes,  but  for  the  fields  and  hills 
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 
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. 
l-O 


210  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

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, 
And  in  his  shepherd's  calling  he  was  prompt 
And  watchful  more  than  ordinary  men. 
Hence  had  he  learned  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  ! ' 
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 
The  common  air ;  hills,  which  with  vigorous  step 
He  had  so  often  climbed  ;  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 
Strong  hold  on  his  affections,  were  to  him 
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 — 
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. 


MICHAEL  211 

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, 

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  cleanly  supper-board,  and  there, 

Each  with  a  mess  of  pottage  and  skimmed  milk,          100 

Sat  round  the  basket  piled  with  oaten  cakes, 

And  their  plain  home-made  cheese.     Yet  when  the  meal 

Was  ended,  Luke  (for  so  the  Son  was  named) 

And  his  old  Father  both  betook  themselves 

To  such  convenient  work  as  might  employ 

Their  hands  by  the  fireside  ;  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,       no 
That  in  our  ancient  uncouth  country  style 
With  huge  and  black  projection  overbrowed 
Large  space  beneath,  as  duly  as  the  light 
Of  day  grew  dim  the  Housewife  hung  a  lamp ; 
An  aged  utensil,  which  had  performed 
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  eighteenth  year, 
There  by  the  light  of  this  old  lamp  they  sate, 
Father  and  Son,  while  far  into  the  night 
The  Housewife  plied  her  own  peculiar  work, 
Making  the  cottage  through  the  silent  hours 
Murmur  as  with  the  sound  of  summer  flies.    ' 
This  light  was  famous  in  its  neighbourhood, 
And  was  a  public  symbol  of  the  life  130 

That  thrifty  Pair  had  lived.     For,  as  it  chanced, 


212  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

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 ; 

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,  the  same 
Fond  spirit  that  blindly  works  in  the  blood  of  all — 
Than  that  a  child,  more  than  all  other  gifts 
That  earth  can  offer  to  declining  man, 
Brings  hope  with  it,  and  forward-looking  thoughts, 
And  stirrings  of  inquietude,  when  they 
By  tendency  of  nature  needs  must  fail.  150 

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  and  delight,  as  is  the  use 
Of  fathers,  but  with  patient  mind  enforced 
To  acts  of  tenderness ;  and  he  had  rocked 
His  cradle,  as  with  a  woman's  gentle  hand. 

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 
Stood  single,  and,  from  matchless  depth  of  shade. 
Chosen  for  the  Shearer's  covert  from  the  sun, 
Thence  in  our  rustic  dialect  was  called 
The  CLIPPING  TREE,1  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 
Scared  them,  while  they  lay  still  beneath  the  shears. 
1  Clipping  is  the  word  used  in  the  North  of  England  for  shearing. 


MICHAEL  213 

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 
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, 
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  200 
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, 
He  was  his  comfort  and  his  daily  hope. 

While  in  this  sort  the  simple  household  lived 
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    210 
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, 
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.  220 


214  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

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 

A  portion  of  his  patrimonial  fields. 

Such  was  his  first  resolve ;  he  thought  again, 

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          230 

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 

Has  scarcely  been  more  diligent  than  I ; 

And  I  have  lived  to  be  a  fool  at  last 

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  240 

'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  ; 
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,          250 
And  with  his  kinsman's  help  and  his  own  thrift 
He  quickly  will  repair  this  loss,  and  then 
He  may  return  to  us.     If  here  he  stay, 
What  can  be  done  ?     Where  every  one  is  poor, 
What  can  be  gained  ? ' 

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. 
He  was  a  parish-boy — at  the  church-door 
They  made  a  gathering  for  him,  shillings,  pence,    260 
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, 
Who,  out  of  many,  chose  the  trusty  boy 


MICHAEL  215 

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 

With  marble,  which  he  sent  from  foreign  lands.       270 

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 

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 

Buy  for  him  more,  and  let  us  send  him  forth  280 

To-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  or  to-night : 

— If  he  could  go,  the  Boy  should  go  to-night.' 

Here  Michael  ceased,  and  to  the  fields  went  forth 
With  a  light  heart.     The  Housewife  for  five  days 
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 
By  Michael's  side,  she  through  the  last  two  nights 
Heard  him,  how  he  was  troubled  in  his  sleep :         291 
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 
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  made  answer  with  a  jocund  voice  ; 
And  Isabel,  when  she  had  told  her  fears,  300 

Recovered  heart.     That  evening  her  best  fare 
Did  she  bring  forth,  and  all  together  sat 
Like  happy  people  round  a  Christmas  fire. 

With  daylight  Isabel  resumed  her  work ; 
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  ; 
To  which  requests  were  added,  that  forthwith          310 


216  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

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 

A  prouder  heart  than  Luke's.     When  Isabel 

Had  to  her  house  returned,  the  old  Man  said, 

f  He  shall  depart  to-morrow.'     To  this  word 

The  Housewife  answered,  talking  much  of  things 

Which,  if  at  such  short  notice  he  should  go, 

Would  surely  be  forgotten.     But  at  length  320 

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  ;  and,  before  he  heard 
The  tidings  of  his  melancholy  loss, 
For  this  same  purpose  he  had  gathered  up 
A  heap  of  stones,  which  by  the  streamlet's  edge 
Lay  thrown  together,  ready  for  the  work. 
With  Luke  that  evening  thitherward  he  walked  : 
And  soon  as  they  had  reached  the  place  he  stopped, 
And  thus  the  old  Man  spake  to  him  : — '  My  Son,    331 
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, 
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  thou  canst  not  know  of. After  thou 

First  cam'st  into  the  world — as  oft  befalls  340 

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. 
Never  to  living  ear  came  sweeter  sounds 
Than  when  I  heard  thee  by  our  own  fireside 
First  uttering,  without  words,  a  natural  tune  ; 
While  thou,  a  feeding  babe,  didst  in  thy  joy 
Sing  at  thy  Mother's  breast.     Month  followed  month, 
And  in  the  open  fields  my  life  was  passed  350 

And  on  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 
Have  played  together,  nor  with  me  didst  thou 
Lack  any  pleasure  which  a  boy  can  know.' 


MICHAEL  217 

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 

That  these  are  things  of  which  I  need  not  speak.    360 

— 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 

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 

To  give  their  bodies  to  the  family  mould.  370 

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. 

These  fields  were  burthened  when  they  came  to  me  ; 

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 

Another  Master.     Heaven  forgive  me,  Luke,  380 

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, 
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. 
Nay,  Boy,  be  of  good  hope  ; — we  both  may  live 
To  see  a  better  day.     At  eighty-four 
I  still  am  strong  and  hale  ; — do  thou  thy  part ;        390 
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, 
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 — 
I  knew  that  thou  could'st  never  have  a  wish 
To  leave  me,  Luke  :  thou  hast  been  bound  to  me    400 
Only  by  links  of  love  :  when  thou  art  gone, 
What  will  be  left  to  us  !— But,  I  forget 


218  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

My  purposes.     Lay  now  the  corner-stone, 

As  1  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 

And  all  temptation,  Luke,  I  pray  that  thou 

May'st  bear  in  mind  the  life  thy  Fathers  lived,        410 

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 

A  work  which  is  not  here  :  a  covenant 

'Twill  be  between  us  ;  but,  whatever  fate 

Befall  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, 
And,  as  his  Father  had  requested,  laid 
The  first  stone  of  the  Sheep-fold.     At  the  sight      420 
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. 
— Hushed  was  that  House  in  peace,  or  seeming  peace, 
Ere  the  night  fell : — with  morrow's  dawn  the  Boy 
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, 
Came  forth  witli  wishes  and  with  farewell  prayers, 
That  followed  him  till  he  was  out  of  sight.  430 

A  good  report  did  from  their  Kinsman  come, 

Of  Luke  and  his  well-doing  :  and  the  Boy 

Wrote  loving  letters,  full  of  wondrous  news, 

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 

With  confident  and  cheerful  thoughts ;  and  now 

Sometimes  when  he  could  find  a  leisure  hour  440 

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, 

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. 


MICHAEL  219 

There  is  a  comfort  in  the  strength  of  love ; 
'Twill  make  a  thing  endurable,  which  else 
Would  overset  the  brain,  or  break  the  heart :  450 

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. 
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, 
And  listened  to  the  wind  ;  and,  as  before, 
Performed  all  kinds  of  labour  for  his  sheep, 
And  for  the  land,  his  small  inheritance. 
And  to  that  hollow  dell  from  time  to  time  460 

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 
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, 
Then  old,  beside  him,  lying  at  his  feet. 
The  length  of  full  seven  years,  from  time  to  time,  470 
He  at  the  building  of  this  Sheep-fold  wrought, 
And  left  the  work  unfinished  when  he  died. 
Three  years,  or  little  more,  did  Isabel 
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 
In  all  the  neighbourhood : — yet  the  oak  is  left 
That  grew  beside  their  door;  and  the  remains         480 
Of  the  unfinished  Sheep-fold  may  be  seen 
Beside  the  boisterous  brook  of  Green-head  Ghyll. 

Oct.  11— Dec.  9,  1800. 

XXXIII 
THE  WIDOW  ON  WINDERMERE  SIDE 


HOW  beautiful  when  up  a  lofty  height 
Honour  ascends  among  the  humblest  poor, 
And  feeling  sinks  as  deep  !     See  there  the  door 


220  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Of  One,  a  Widow,  left  beneath  a  weight 

Of  blameless  debt.     On  evil  Fortune's  spite 

She  wasted  no  complaint,  but  strove  to  make 

A  just  repayment,  both  for  conscience-sake 

And  that  herself  and  hers  should  stand  upright 

In  the  world's  eye.     Her  work  when  daylight  failed 

Paused  not,  and  through  the  depth  of  night  she  kept  10 

Such  earnest  vigils,  that  belief  prevailed 

With  some,  the  noble  Creature  never  slept ; 

But,  one  by  one,  the  hand  of  death  assailed 

Her  children,  from  her  inmost  heart  bewept. 


The  Mother  mourned,  nor  ceased  her  tears  to  flow, 

Till  a  winter's  noon-day  placed  her  buried  Son 

Before  her  eyes,  last  child  of  many  gone — 

His  raiment  of  angelic  white,  and  lo  ! 

His  very  feet  bright  as  the  dazzling  snow 

Which  they  are  touching ;  yea  far  brighter,  even          t 

As  that  which  comes,  or  seems  to  come,  from  heaven, 

Surpasses  aught  these  elements  can  show. 

Much  she  rejoiced,  trusting  that  from  that  hour 

Whate'er  befell  she  could  not  grieve  or  pine  ; 

But  the  Transfigured,  in  and  out  of  season, 

Appeared,  and  spiritual  presence  gained  a  power 

Over  material  forms  that  mastered  reason. 

Oh,  gracious  Heaven,  in  pity  make  her  thine ! 


in 

But  why  that  prayer  ?  as  if  to  her  could  come 

No  good  but  by  the  way  that  leads  to  bliss  30 

Through  Death, — so  judging  we  should  judge  amiss. 

Since  reason  failed  want  is  her  threatened  doom, 

Yet  frequent  transports  mitigate  the  gloom : 

Nor  of  those  maniacs  is  she  one  that  kiss 

The  air  or  laugh  upon  a  precipice ; 

No,  passing  through  strange  sufferings  toward  the  tomb, 

She  smiles  as  if  a  martyr's  crown  were  won  : 

Oft,  when  light  breaks  through  clouds  or  waving  trees, 

With  outspread  arms  and  fallen  upon  her  knees 

The  Mother  hails  in  her  descending  Son  40 

An  Angel,  and  in  earthly  ecstasies 

Her  own  angelic  glory  seems  begun. 

1837 


THE  ARMENIAN  LADY'S  LOVE 

XXXIV 
THE  ARMENIAN  LADY'S  LOVE 

[THE  subject  of  the  following  poem  is  from  the  Orlandus  of  the  author's 
friend,  Kenelm  Henry  Digby  :  and  the  liberty  is  taken  of  inscribing  it  to  him 
as  an  acknowledgment,  however  unworthy,  of  pleasure  and  instruction 
derived  from  his  numerous  and  valuable  writings,  illustrative  of  the  piety 
and  chivalry  of  the  olden  time.] 


Y( 


'OU  have  heard  '  a  Spanish  Lady 

How  she  wooed  an  English  man '; l 
Hear  now  of  a  fair  Armenian, 

Daughter  of  the  proud  Soldan  ; 
How  she  loved  a  Christian  Slave,  and  told  her  pain 
By  word,  look,  deed,  with  hope  that  he  might  love  again. 


'  Pluck  that  rose,  it  moves  my  liking/ 

Said  she,  lifting  up  her  veil  ; 
'  Pluck  it  for  me,  gentle  gardener, 

Ere  it  wither  and  grow  pale.'  10 

'  Princess  fair,  I  till  the  ground,  but  may  not  take 
From  twig  or  bed  an  humbler  flower,  even  for  your  sake  ! ' 


'  Grieved  am  1,  submissive  Christian  ! 

To  behold  thy  captive  state  ; 
Women,  in  your  land,  may  pity 

(May  they  not?)  the  unfortunate.' 
'  Yes,  kind  Lady !  otherwise  man  could  not  bear 
Life,  which  to  every  one  that  breathes  is  full  of  care.' 

IV 

'  Worse  than  idle  is  compassion 

If  it  end  in  tears  and  sighs  ;  20 

Thee  from  bondage  would  I  rescue 

And  from  vile  indignities ; 

Nurtured,  as  thy  mien  bespeaks,  in  high  degree, 
Look  up — and  help  a  hand  that  longs  to  set  thee  free.' 

1  See  in  Percy's  Eeliques  that  fine  old  Ballad,  'The  Spanish  Lady'i 
Love ' ;  from  which  Poem  the  form  of  stanza,  as  suitable  to  dialogue,  is 
adopted. 


222  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


r  Lady  !  dread  the  wish,  nor  venture 

In  such  peril  to  engage  ; 
Think  how  it  would  stir  against  you 

Your  most  loving  father's  rage  : 

Sad  deliverance  would  it  be,  and  yoked  with  shame, 
Should  troubles  overflow  on  her  from  whom  it  came.'      30 

VI 

'  Generous  Frank  !  the  just  in  effort 

Are  of  inward  peace  secure  : 
Hardships  for  the  brave  encountered 

Even  the  feeblest  may  endure  : 
If  almighty  grace  through  me  thy  chains  unbind, 
My  father  for  slave's  work  may  seek  a  slave  in  mind.' 

VII 

'  Princess,  at  this  burst  of  goodness, 

My  long-frozen  heart  grows  warm  ! ' 
'  Yet  you  make  all  courage  fruitless, 

Me  to  save  from  chance  of  harm :  40 

Leading  such  companion  I  that  gilded  dome, 
Yon  minarets,  would  gladly  leave  for  his  worst  home.' 

VIII 

'  Feeling  tunes  your  voice,  fair  Princess  ! 

And  your  brow  is  free  from  scorn, 
Else  these  words  would  come  like  mockery, 

Sharper  than  the  pointed  thorn.' 
'  Whence  the  undeserved  mistrust  ?     Too  wide  apart 
Our  faith  hath  been, — O  would  that  eyes  could  see  the 
heart ! ' 

IX 

'  Tempt  me  not,  I  pray  ;  my  doom  is 

These  base  implements  to  wield  ;  50 

Rusty  lance,  I  ne'er  shall  grasp  thee, 
Ne'er  assoil  my  cobwebb'd  shield  ! 
Never  see  my  native  land,  nor  castle  towers, 
Nor  Her  who  thinking  of  me  there  counts  widowed  hours.' 


'  Prisoner  !  pardon  youthful  fancies ; 

Wedded  ?  If  you  can,  say  no ! 
Blessed  is  and  be  your  consort ; 

Hopes  I  cherished — let  them  go ! 
Handmaid's  privilege  would  leave  my  purpose  free, 
Without  another  link  to  my  felicity.'  60 


THE  ARMENIAN  LADY'S  LOVE 


'  Wedded  love  with  loyal  Christians, 

Lady,  is  a  mystery  rare ; 
Body,  heart,  and  soul  in  union, 

Make  one  being  of  a  pair.' 
'  Humble  love  in  me  would  look  for  no  return, 
Soft  as  a  guiding  star  that  cheers,  but  cannot  burn.' 

XII 

'  Gracious  Allah  !  by  such  title 
Do  I  dare  to  thank  the  God, 
Him  who  thus  exalts  thy  spirit, 

Flower  of  an  unchristian  sod  !  70 

Or  hast  thou  put  off  wings  which  thou  in  heaven  dost 

wear  ? 

What  have  I  seen,  and  heard,  or  dreamt  ?   where  am  I  ? 
where  ? ' 

XIII 

Here  broke  off  the  dangerous  converse : 

Less  impassioned  words  might  tell 
How  the  pair  escaped  together, 

Tears  not  wanting,  nor  a  knell 

Of  sorrow  in  her  heart  while  through  her  father's  door, 
And  from  her  narrow  world,  she  passed  for  evermore. 


But  affections  higher,  holier, 

Urged  her  steps  ;  she  shrunk  from  trust        80 
In  a  sensual  creed  that  trampled 
Woman's  birthright  into  dust. 
Little  be  the  wonder  then,  the  blame  be  none, 
If  she,  a  timid  Maid,  hath  put  such  boldness  on. 

xv 

Judge  both  Fugitives  with  knowledge  : 

In  those  old  romantic  days 
Mighty  were  the  soul's  commandments 

To  support,  restrain,  or  raise. 

Foes  might  hang  upon  their  path,  snakes  rustle  near,      89 
But  nothing  from  their  inward  selves  had  they  to  fear. 

XVI 

Thought  infirm  ne'er  came  between  them, 

Whether  printing  desert  sands 
With  accordant  steps,  or  gathering 

Forest-fruit  with  social  hands  ; 


224  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Or  whispering  like  two  reeds  that  in  the  cold  moonbeam 
Bend  with  the  breeze  their  heads  beside  a  crystal  stream. 


On  a  friendly  deck  reposing 

They  at  length  for  Venice  steer  ; 
There,  when  they  had  closed  their  voyage, 

One,  who  daily  on  the  pier  100 

Watched  for  tidings  from  the  East,  beheld  his  Lord, 
Fell  down  and  clasped  his  knees  for  joy,  not  uttering  word. 

XVIII 

Mutual  was  the  sudden  transport ; 

Breathless  questions  followed  fast, 
Years  contracting  to  a  moment, 

Each  word  greedier  than  the  last ; 
'  Hie  thee  to  the  Countess,  friend  !  return  with  speed, 
And  of  this  Stranger  speak  by  whom  her  lord  was  freed. 

XIX 

'  Say  that  I,  who  might  have  languished, 

Drooped  and  pined  till  life  was  spent,          no 
Now  before  the  gates  of  Stolberg 

My  Deliverer  would  present 
For  a  crowning  recompense,  the  precious  grace 
Of  her  who  in  my  heart  still  holds  her  ancient  place. 

xx 

'  Make  it  known  that  my  Companion 

Is  of  royal  eastern  blood, 
Thirsting  after  all  perfection, 

Innocent,  and  meek,  and  good, 

Though  with  misbelievers  bred ;  but  that  dark  night 
Will  holy  Church  disperse  by  beams  of  gospel-light/      120 

XXI 

Swiftly  went  that  grey-haired  Servant, 

Soon  returned  a  trusty  Page 
Charged  with  greetings,  benedictions, 

Thanks  and  praises,  each  a  ga^e 
For  a  sunny  thought  to  cheer  the  Stranger's  way, 
Her  virtuous  scruples  to  remove,  her  fears  allay. 

XXII 

And  how  blest  the  Reunited, 
While  beneath  their  castle-walls 

Runs  a  deafening  noise  of  welcome ! — 

Blest,  though  every  tear  that  falls  130 


LOVING  AND  LIKING  225 

Doth  in  its  silence  of  past  sorrow  tell, 

And  makes  a  meeting  seem  most  like  a  dear  farewell. 

XXIII 

Through  a  haze  of  human  nature, 

Glorified  by  heavenly  light, 
Looked  the  beautiful  Deliverer 
On  that  overpowering  sight, 

While  across  her  virgin  cheek  pure  blushes  strayed, 
For  every  tender  sacrifice  her  heart  had  made. 


On  the  ground  the  weeping  Countess 

Knelt,  and  kissed  the  Stranger's  hand  ;         140 
Act  of  soul-devoted  homage, 
Pledge  of  an  eternal  band  : 
Nor  did  aught  of  future  days  that  kiss  belie, 
Which,  with  a  generous  shout,  the  crowd  did  ratify. 

xxv 

Constant  to  the  fair  Armenian, 

Gentle  pleasures  round  her  moved, 
Like  a  tutelary  spirit 

Reverenced,  like  a  sister  loved. 

Christian  meekness  smoothed  for  all  the  path  of  life, 
Who,  loving  most,  should  wiseliest  love,  their  only  strife. 

XXVI 

Mute  memento  of  that  union  151 

In  a  Saxon  church  survives, 
Where  a  cross-legged  Knight  lies  sculptured 

As  between  two  wedded  Wives 

Figures  with  armorial  signs  of  race  and  birth, 
And  the  vain  rank  the  pilgrims  bore  while  yet  on  earth. 

1830 

XXXV 

LOVING  AND  LIKING 

IRREGULAR  VERSES  ADDRESSED  TO  A  CHILD 

(BY  MY  SISTER) 

THERE 'S  more  in  words  than  I  can  teach : 
Yet  listen,  Child  ! — I  would  not  preach  ; 
But  only  give  some  plain  directions 
To  guide  your  speech  and  your  affections. 
Say  not  you  love  a  roasted  fowl, 

l-P 


226  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

But  you  may  love  a  screaming  owl, 

And,  if  you  can,  the  unwieldy  toad 

That  crawls  from  his  secure  abode 

Within  the  mossy  garden  wall 

When  evening  dews  begin  to  fall.  10 

Oh  !  mark  the  beauty  of  his  eye  : 

What  wonders  in  that  circle  lie  ! 

So  clear,  so  bright,  our  fathers  said 

He  wears  a  jewel  in  his  head  ! 

And  when,  upon  some  showery  day, 

Into  a  path  or  public  way 

A  frog  leaps  out  from  bordering  grass, 

Startling  the  timid  as  they  pass, 

Do  you  observe  him,  and  endeavour 

To  take  the  intruder  into  favour ;  20 

Learning  from  him  to  find  a  reason 

For  a  light  heart  in  a  dull  season. 

And  you  may  love  him  in  the  pool, 

That  is  for  him  a  happy  school, 

In  which  he  swims  as  taught  by  nature, 

Fit  pattern  for  a  human  creature, 

Glancing  amid  the  water  bright, 

And  sending  upward  sparkling  light. 

Nor  blush  if  o'er  your  heart  be  stealing 
A  love  for  things  that  have  no  feeling :  30 

The  spring's  first  rose  by  you  espied, 
May  fill  your  breast  with  joyful  pride  ; 
And  you  may  love  the  strawberry-flower, 
And  love  the  strawberry  in  its  bower ; 
But  when  the  fruit,  so  often  praised 
For  beauty,  to  your  lip  is  raised, 
Say  not  you  love  the  delicate  treat, 
But  like  it,  enjoy  it,  and  thankfully  eat. 

Long  may  you  love  your  pensioner  mouse, 
Though  one  of  a  tribe  that  torment  the  house  :     40 
Nor  dislike  for  her  cruel  sport  the  cat, 
Deadly  foe  both  of  mouse  and  rat ; 
Remember  she  follows  the  law  of  her  kind, 
And  Instinct  is  neither  wayward  nor  blind. 
Then  think  of  her  beautiful  gliding  form, 
Her  tread  that  would  scarcely  crush  a  worm. 
And  her  soothing  song  by  the  winter  fire, 
Soft  as  the  dying  throb  of  the  lyre. 

I  would  not  circumscribe  your  love  : 
It  may  soar  with  the  eagle  and  brood  with  the  dove, 


FAREWELL  LINES  227 

May  pierce  the  earth  with  the  patient  mole,         51 

Or  track  the  hedgehog  to  his  hole. 

Loving  and  liking  are  the  solace  of  life, 

Rock  the  cradle  of  joy,  smooth  the  death-bed  of 

strife. 

You  love  your  father  and  your  mother, 
Your  grown-up  and  your  baby  brother  ; 
You  love  your  sister  and  your  friends, 
And  countless  blessings  which  God  sends  : 
And  while  these  right  affections  play, 
You  live  each  moment  of  your  day  ;  60 

They  lead  you  on  to  full  content, 
And  likings  fresh  and  innocent, 
That  store  the  Ynind,  the  memoi'y  feed, 
And  prompt  to  many  a  gentle  deed  : 
But  likings  come,  and  pass  away ; 
'Tis  love  that  remains  till  our  latest  day  : 
Our  heavenward  guide  is  holy  love, 
And  will  be  our  bliss  with  saints  above. 

1832 

XXXVI 
FAREWELL  LINES 

'  T   T  IGH  bliss  is  only  for  a  higher  state/ 

But,  surely,  if  severe  afflictions  borne 
With  patience  merit  the  reward  of  peace, 
Peace  ye  deserve ;  and  may  the  solid  good, 
Sought  by  a  wise  though  late  exchange,  and  here 
With  bounteous  hand  beneath  a  cottage-roof 
To  you  accorded,  never  be  withdrawn, 
Nor  for  the  world's  best  promises  renounced. 
Most  soothing  was  it  for  a  welcome  Friend, 
Fresh  from  the  crowded  city,  to  behold  10 

That  lonely  union,  privacy  so  deep, 
Such  calm  employments,  such  entire  content. 
So  when  the  rain  is  over,  the  storm  laid, 
A  pair  of  herons  oft-times  have  I  seen, 
Upon  a  rocky  islet,  side  by  side, 
Drying  their  feathers  in  the  sun,  at  ease  ; 
And  so,  when  night  with  grateful  gloom  had  fallen, 
Two  glow-worms  in  such  nearness  that  they  shared. 
As  seemed,  their  soft  self-satisfying  light, 
Each  with  the  other,  on  the  dewy  ground,  20 

Where  He  that  made  them  blesses  their  repose. — 
When  wandering  among  lakes  and  hills  I  note, 
Once  more,  those  creatures  thus  by  nature  paired, 


228  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

And  guarded  in  their  tranquil  state  of  life, 
Even,  as  your  happy  presence  to  my  mind 
Their  union  brought,  will  they  repay  the  debt, 
And  send  a  thankful  spirit  back  to  you, 
With  hope  that  we,  dear  Friends  !  shall  meet  again. 

Published  1842 

XXXVII 

THE  REDBREAST 
(SUGGESTED  IN  A  WESTMORELAND  COTTAGE) 

DRIVEN  in  by  Autumn's  sharpening  air 
From  half-stripped  woods  and  pastures  bare, 
Brisk  Robin  seeks  a  kindlier  home : 
Not  like  a  beggar  is  he  come, 
But  enters  as  a  looked-for  guest, 
Confiding  in  his  ruddy  breast, 
As  if  it  were  a  natural  shield 
Charged  with  a  blazon  on  the  field, 
Due  to  that  good  and  pious  deed 
Of  which  we  in  the  Ballad  read.  10 

But  pensive  fancies  putting  by, 
And  wild-wood  sorrows,  speedily 
He  plays  the  expert  ventriloquist ; 
And,  caught  by  glimpses  now — now  missed, 
Puzzles  the  listener  with  a  doubt 
If  the  soft  voice  he  throws  about 
Comes  from  within  doors  or  without ! 
Was  ever  such  a  sweet  confusion, 
Sustained  by  delicate  illusion  ? 

He 's  at  your  elbow — to  your  feeling  20 

The  notes  are  from  the  floor  or  ceiling  ; 
And  there's  a  riddle  to  be  guessed, 
Till  you  have  marked  his  heaving  chest 
And  busy  throat,  whose  sink  and  swell 
Betray  the  Elf  that  loves  to  dwell 
In  Robin's  bosom  as  a  chosen  cell. 

Heart-pleased  we  smile  upon  the  Bird 
If  seen,  and  with  like  pleasure  stirred 
Commend  him,  when  he  's  only  heard. 
But  small  and  fugitive  our  gain  30 

Compared  with  hers  who  long  hath  lain, 
With  languid  limbs  and  patient  head 
Reposing  on  a  lone  sick-bed  ; 
Where  now  she  daily  hears  a  strain 
That  cheats  her  of  too  busy  cares; 


THE  REDBREAST  229 

Eases  her  pain,  and  helps  her  prayers. 

And  who  but  this  dear  Bird  beguiled 

The  fever  of  that  pale-faced  Child  ; 

Now  cooling,  with  his  passing  wing, 

Her  forehead,  like  a  breeze  of  Spring  :  40 

Recalling  now,  with  descant  soft 

Shed  round  her  pillow  from  aloft, 

Sweet  thoughts  of  angels  hovering  nigh, 

And  the  invisible  sympathy 

Of '  Matthew,  Mark,  and  Luke,  and  John, 

Blessing  the  bed  she  lies  upon  ? ' l 

And  sometimes,  just  as  listening  ends 

In  slumber,  with  the  cadence  blends 

A  dream  of  that  low-warbled  hymn 

Which  old  folk,  fondly  pleased  to  trim  50 

Lamps  of  faith,  now  burning  dim, 

Say  that  the  Cherubs,  carved  in  stone, 

When  clouds  gave  way  at  dead  of  night 

And  the  ancient  church  was  filled  with  light, 

Used  to  sing  in  heavenly  tone, 

Above  and  round  the  sacred  places 

They  guard  with  winged  baby-faces. 

Thrice  happy  Creature  !  in  all  lands 
Nurtured  by  hospitable  hands  : 

Free  entrance  to  this  cot  has  he,  60 

Entrance  and  exit  both  yet  free  ; 
And  when  the  keen  unruffled  weather, 
That  thus  brings  man  and  bird  together, 
Shall  with  its  pleasantness  be  past, 
And  casement  closed  and  door  made  fast, 
To  keep  at  bay  the  howling  blast, 
He  needs  not  fear  the  season's  rage, 
For  the  whole  house  is  Robin's  cage. 
Whether  the  bird  flit  here  or  there, 
O'er  table  lilt,  or  perch  on  chair,  r> 

Though  some  may  frown  and  make  a  stir, 
To  scare  him  as  a  trespasser, 
And  he  belike  will  flinch  or  start, 
Good  friends  he  has  to  take  his  part ; 
One  chiefly,  who  with  voice  and  look 
Pleads  for  him  from  the  chimney-nook, 
Where  sits  the  Dame,  and  wears  away 

1  The  words — 

'  Matthew,  Mark,  and  Luke,  and  John, 

Bless  the  bed  that  I  lie  on,' 
are  part  of  a  child's  prayer,  still  in  general  use  through  the  northern  counties. 


230  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Her  long  and  vacant  holiday ; 

With  images  about  her  heart, 

Reflected  from  the  years  gone  by  80 

On  human  nature's  second  infancy. 

1834 


HER  eyes  are  wild,  her  head  is  bare, 
The  sun  has  burnt  her  coal-black  hair ; 
Her  eyebrows  have  a  rusty  stain, 
And  she  came  far  from  over  the  main. 
She  has  a  baby  on  her  arm, 
Or  else  she  were  alone : 
And  underneath  the  hay-stack  warm, 
And  on  the  greenwood  stone, 
She  talked  and  sung  the  woods  among, 
And  it  was  in  the  English  tongue.  10 


'Sweet  babe !  they  say  that  I  am  mad, 

But  nay,  my  heart  is  far  too  glad ; 

And  I  am  happy  when  I  sing 

Full  many  a  sad  and  doleful  thing  : 

Then,  lovely  baby,  do  not  fear ! 

I  pray  thee  have  no  fear  of  me ; 

But  safe  as  in  a  cradle  here 

My  lovely  baby  !  thou  shalt  be  : 

To  thee  I  know  too  much  I  owe ; 

I  cannot  work  thee  any  woe.  ao 

HI 

'  A  fire  was  once  within  my  brain ; 

And  in  my  head  a  dull,  dull  pain ; 

And  fiendish  faces,  one,  two,  three, 

Hung  at  my  breast,  and  pulled  at  me ; 

But  then  there  came  a  sight  of  joy  ; 

It  came  at  once  to  do  me  good  ; 

I  waked,  and  saw  my  little  boy, 

My  little  boy  of  flesh  and  blood ; 

Oh  joy  for  me  that  sight  to  see ! 

For  he  was  here,  and  only  he.  30 


HER  EYES  ARE  WILD  231 


*  Suck,  little  babe,  oh  suck  again  ! 

It  cools  my  blood  ;  it  cools  my  brain  ; 

Thy  lips  I  feel  them,  baby !  they 

Draw  from  my  heart  the  pain  away. 

Oh  !  press  me  with  thy  little  hand ; 

It  loosens  something  at  my  chest ; 

About  that  tight  and  deadly  band 

I  feel  thy  little  fingers  prest. 

The  breeze  I  see  is  in  the  tree  : 

It  comes  to  cool  my  babe  and  me.  40 


'  Oh  !  love  me,  love  me,  little  boy  ! 

Thou  art  thy  mother's  only  joy ; 

And  do  not  dread  the  waves  below, 

When  o'er  the  sea-rock's  edge  we  go ; 

The  high  crag  cannot  work  me  harm, 

Nor  leaping  torrents  when  they  howl ; 

The  babe  I  carry  on  my  arm, 

He  saves  for  me  my  precious  soul; 

Then  happy  lie  ;  for  blest  am  I ; 

Without  me  my  sweet  babe  would  die.  50 

VI 

'Then  do  not  fear,  my  boy  !  for  thee 

Bold  as  a  lion  will  I  be ; 

And  I  will  always  be  thy  guide, 

Through  hollow  snows  and  rivers  wide. 

I  '11  build  an  Indian  bower  ;  I  know 

The  leaves  that  make  the  softest  bed  : 

And,  if  from  me  thou  wilt  not  go, 

But  still  be  true  till  I  am  dead, 

My  pretty  thing  !  then  thou  shalt  sing 

As  merry  as  the  birds  in  spring.  60 

VII 

'  Thy  father  cares  not  for  my  breast, 
'Tis  thine,  sweet  baby,  there  to  rest ; 
'Tis  all  thine  own  ! — and,  if  its  hue 
Be  changed,  that  was  so  fair  to  view, 
'Tis  fair  enough  for  thee,  my  dove  ! 
My  beauty,  little  child,  is  flown, 
But  thou  wilt  live  with  me  in  love  ; 
And  what  if  my  poor  cheek  be  brown  ? 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

"Tis  well  for  me  thou  canst  not  see 

How  pale  and  wan  it  else  would  be.  70 

VIII 

'  Dread  not  their  taunts,  my  little  Life  ; 

I  am  thy  father's  wedded  wife ; 

And  underneath  the  spreading  tree 

We  two  will  live  in  honesty. 

If  his  sweet  boy  he  could  forsake, 

With  me  he  never  would  have  stayed  : 

From  him  no  harm  my  babe  can  take ; 

But  he,  poor  man !  is  wretched  made ; 

And  every  day  we  two  will  pray 

For  him  that 's  gone  and  far  away.  80 

IX 

'  I  '11  teach  my  boy  the  sweetest  things  : 

I  '11  teach  him  how  the  owlet  sings. 

My  little  babe  !  thy  lips  are  still, 

And  thou  hast  almost  sucked  thy  fill. 

— Where  art  thou  gone,  my  own  dear  child  ? 

What  wicked  looks  are  those  I  see  ? 

Alas  !  Alas  !  that  look  so  wild, 

It  never,  never  came  from  me  : 

If  thou  art  mad,  my  pretty  lad, 

Then  I  must  be  for  ever  sad.  90 


'  Oh  !  smile  on  me,  my  little  lamb  ! 

For  I  thy  own  dear  mother  am  : 

My  love  for  thee  has  well  been  tried : 

I  've  sought  thy  father  far  and  wide. 

I  know  the  poisons  of  the  shade  ; 

I  know  the  earth-nuts  fit  for  food : 

Then,  pretty  dear,  be  not  afraid  : 

We  '11  find  thy  father  in  the  wood. 

Now  laugh  and  be  gay,  to  the  woods  away  ! 

And  there,  my  babe,  we'll  live  for  aye.' 

1798 


POEMS  ON  THE  NAMING  OF  PLACES    233 


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 
must  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,  and  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. 


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. 
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 
That  every  naked  ash,  and  tardy  tree 
Yet  leafless,  showed  as  if  the  countenance 
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, 
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 


234  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Or  like  some  natural  produce  of  the  air, 

That  could  not  cease  to  be.     Green  leaves  were  here ; 

But  'twas  the  foliage  of  the  rocks — the  birch,  31 

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, 

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, 

When  they  have  cause  to  speak  of  this  wild  place, 

May  call  it  by  the  name  of  EMMA'S  DELL. 

1800 

II 
TO  JOANNA 

AMID  the  smoke  of  cities  did  you  pass 
jf-\_     The    time    of  early   youth;    and    there  you 

learned, 

From  years  of  quiet  industry,  to  love 
The  living  Beings  by  your  own  fireside, 
With  such  a  strong  devotion,  that  your  heart 
Is  slow  to  meet  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 
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 


POEMS  ON  THE  NAMING  OF  PLACES    235 

The  Vicar  from  his  gloomy  house  hard  by 

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, 

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  malice  and  true  love, 

I  was  not  loth  to  be  so  catechised, 

And  this  was  my  reply : — '  As  it  befell, 

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 

Tracing  the  lofty  barrier  with  my  eye 

From  base  to  summit;  such  delight  I  found 

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; 

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. 

— Now  whether,'  said  I  to  our  cordial  Friend, 

Who  in  the  hey-day  of  astonishment 


236  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

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 

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 

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  : — 

And  I,  and  all  who  dwell  by  my  fireside, 

Have  called  the  lovely  rock,  JOANNA'S  ROCK.' 

1800 

NOTE. — In  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland  are  several  Inscriptions,  upon 
the  native  rock,  which,  from  the  wasting  of  time,  and  the  rudeness  of  the 
workmanship,  have  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  Wynandermere.  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.  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. 


Ill 

XHERE  is  an  Eminence,— of  these  our  hills 
The  last  that  parleys  with  the  setting  sun  ; 
:an  behold  it  from  our  orchard-seat ; 
And,  when  at  evening  we  pursue  our  walk 
Along  the  public  way,  this  Peak,  so  high 
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 
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 


POEMS  ON  THE  NAMING  OF  PLACES    237 

Can  ever  be  a  solitude  to  me, 

Hath  to  this  lonely  Summit  given  my  Name. 

1800 

IV 

A  NARROW  girdle  of  rough  stones  and  crags, 
A  rude  and  natural  causeway,  interposed 
Between  the  water  and  a  winding  slope 
Of  copse  and  thicket,  leaves  the  eastern  shore 
Of  Grasmere  safe  in  its  own  privacy : 
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 

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 ; 

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. 

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, 

So  stately,  of  the  Queen  Osmunda  named  ; 

Plant  lovelier,  in  its  own  retired  abode 

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  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  to  those  sounds, 


238  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

And  feeding  thus  our  fancies,  we  advanced 
Along  the  indented  shore  ;  when  suddenly, 
Through  a  thin  veil  of  glittering  haze  was  seen 
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. 
'  Improvident  and  reckless,'  we  exclaimed,  50 

'  The  Man  must  be,  who  thus  can  lose  a  day 
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 
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 
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 
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 

1800 

V 
TO  M.  H. 

OUR  walk  was  far  among  the  ancient  trees: 
There  was  no  road,  nor  any  woodman's  path  ; 
But  a  thick  umbrage — checking  the  wild  growth 
Of  weed  and  sapling,  along  soft  green  turf 


POEMS  ON  THE  NAMING  OF  PLACES    239 

Beneath  the  branches — of  itself  had  made 
A  track,  that  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; 
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 ! 

Dec.  1799 

VI 

WHEN,  to  the  attractions  of  the  busy  world 
Preferring  studious  leisure,  I  had  chosen 
A  habitation  in  this  peaceful  Vale, 
Sharp  season  followed  of  continual  storm 
In  deepest  winter ;  and,  from  week  to  week, 
Pathway,  and  lane,  and  public  road,  were  clogged 
With  frequent  showers  of  snow.     Upon  a  hill, 
At  a  short  distance  from  my  cottage,  stands 
A  stately  Fir-grove,  whither  I  was  wont 
To  hasten,  for  I  found,  beneath  the  roof  10 

Of  that  perennial  shade,  a  cloistral  place 
Of  refuge,  with  an  unincumbered  floor. 
Here,  in  safe  covert,  on  the  shallow  snow, 
And  sometimes  on  a  speck  of  visible  earth, 
The  redbreast  near  me  hopped  ;  nor  was  I  loth 
To  sympathise  with  vulgar  coppice  birds 
That,  for  protection  from  the  nipping  blast, 
Hither  repaired. — A  single  beech-tree  grew 
WTithin  this  grove  of  firs  !  and,  on  the  fork 
Of  that  one  beech,  appeared  a  thrush's  nest;  20 

A  last  year's  nest,  conspicuously  built 
At  such  small  elevation  from  the  ground 
As  gave  sure  sign  that  they,  who  in  that  house 
Of  nature  and  of  love  had  made  their  home 


240  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Amid  the  fir-trees,  all  the  summer  long 

Dwelt  in  a  tranquil  spot.     And  oftentimes 

A  few  sheep,  stragglers  from  some  mountain-flock, 

Would  watch  my  motions  with  suspicious  stare, 

From  the  remotest  outskirts  of  the  grove, — 

Some  nook  where  they  had  made  their  final  stand,  30 

Huddling  together  from  two  fears — the  fear 

Of  me  and  of  the  storm.     Full  many  an  hour 

Here  did  I  lose.     But  in  this  grove  the  trees 

Had  been  so  thickly  planted,  and  had  thriven 

In  such  perplexed  and  intricate  array, 

That  vainly  did  I  seek  beneath  their  stems 

A  length  of  open  space,  where  to  and  fro 

My  feet  might  move  without  concern  or  care ; 

And,  baffled  thus,  though  earth  from  day  to  day 

Was  fettered,  and  the  air  by  storm  disturbed,  40 

I  ceased  the  shelter  to  frequent, — and  prized, 

Less  than  I  wished  to  prize,  that  calm  recess. 

The  snows  dissolved,  and  genial  Spring  returned 
To  clothe  the  fields  with  verdure.    Other  haunts 
Meanwhile  were  mine  ;  till,  one  bright  April  day, 
By  chance  retiring  from  the  glare  of  noon 
To  this  forsaken  covert,  there  I  found 
A  hoary  pathway  traced  between  the  trees, 
And  winding  on  with  such  an  easy  line 
Along  a  natural  opening,  that  I  stood  50 

Much  wondering  how  I  could  have  sought  in  vain 
For  what  was  now  so  obvious.     To  abide, 
For  an  allotted  interval  of  ease, 
Under  my  cottage-roof,  had  gladly  come 
From  the  wild  sea  a  cherished  Visitant ; 
And  with  the  sight  of  this  same  path — begun, 
Begun  and  ended,  in  the  shady  grove, 
Pleasant  conviction  flashed  upon  my  mind 
That,  to  this  opportune  recess  allured, 
He  had  surveyed  it  with  a  finer  eye,  60 

A  heart  more  wakeful ;  and  had  worn  the  track 
By  pacing  here,  unwearied  and  alone, 
In  that  habitual  restlessness  of  foot 
That  haunts  the  Sailor  measuring  o'er  and  o'er 
His  short  domain  upon  the  vessel's  deck, 
While  she  pursues  her  course  through  the  dreary  sea. 

When  thou   hadst  quitted    Esthwaite's    pleasant 

shore, 
And  taken  thy  first  leave  of  those  green  hills 


POEMS  ON  THE  NAMING  OF  PLACES    241 

And  rocks  that  were  the  play-ground  of  thy  youth, 
Year  followed  year,  my  Brother  !  and  we  two,  70 

Conversing  not,  knew  little  in  what  mould 
Each  other's  mind  was  fashioned ;  and  at  length, 
When  once  again  we  met  in  Grasmere  Vale, 
Between  us  there  was  little  other  bond 
Than  common  feelings  of  fraternal  love. 
But  thou,  a  School-boy,  to  the  sea  hadst  carried 
Undying  recollections  ;  Nature  there 
Was  with  thee ;  she,  who  loved  us  both,  she  still 
Was  with  thee ;  and  even  so  didst  thou  become 
A  silent  Poet ;  from  the  solitude  80 

Of  the  vast  sea  didst  bring  a  watchful  heart 
Still  couchant,  an  inevitable  ear, 
And  an  eye  practised  like  a  blind  man's  touch. 
— Back  to  the  joyless  Ocean  thou  art  gone  ; 
Nor  from  this  vestige  of  thy  musing  hours 
Could  I  withhold  thy  honoured  name, — and  now 
I  love  the  fir-grove  with  a  perfect  love. 
Thither  do  I  withdraw  when  cloudless  suns 
Shine  hot,  or  wind  blows  troublesome  and  strong ; 
And  there  I  sit  at  evening,  when  the  steep  go 

Of  Silver-how,  and  Grasmere's  peaceful  lake, 
And  one  green  island,  gleam  between  the  stems 
Of  the  dark  firs,  a  visionary  scene  ! 
And,  while  I  gaze  upon  the  spectacle 
Of  clouded  splendour,  on  this  dream-like  sight 
Of  solemn  loveliness,  I  think  on  thee, 
My  Brother,  and  on  all  which  thou  hast  lost. 
Nor  seldom,  if  I  rightly  guess,  while  Thou, 
Muttering  the  verses  which  I  muttered  first 
Among  the  mountains,  through  the  midnight  watch 
Art  pacing  thoughtfully  the  vessel's  deck  101 

In  some  far  region,  here,  while  o'er  my  head, 
At  every  impulse  of  the  moving  breeze, 
The  fir-grove  murmurs  with  a  sea-like  sound, 
Alone  I  tread  this  path  ; — for  aught  I  know, 
Timing  my  steps  to  thine;  and,  with  a  store 
Of  undistinguishable  sympathies, 
Mingling  most  earnest  wishes  for  the  day 
When  we,  and  others  whom  we  love,  shall  meet 
A  second  time,  in  Grasmere's  happy  Vale  no 

1802 

NOTE. — This  wish  was  not  granted ;  the  lamented  Person  not  long  after 
perished  by  shipwreck,  in  discharge  of  his  duty  as  Commander  of  the 
Honourable  East  India  Company's  Vessel,  the  Ewrl  of  Abergavenny. 


i-Q 


242  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

VII 

T  ^ORTH  from  a  jutting  ridge,  around  whose  base 
Winds  our  deep  Vale,  two   heath-clad    Rocks 

ascend 

In  fellowship,  the  loftiest  of  the  pair 
Rising  to  no  ambitious  height ;  yet  both, 
O'er  lake  and  stream,  mountain  and  flowery  mead, 
Unfolding  prospects  fair  as  human  eyes 
Ever  beheld.     Up-led  with  mutual  help, 
To  one  or  other  brow  of  those  twin  Peaks 
Were  two  adventurous  Sisters  wont  to  climb, 
And  took  no  note  of  the  hour  while  thence  they 
gazed,  .    10 

The  blooming  heath  their  couch,  gazed,  side  by  side. 
In  speechless  admiration.     I,  a  witness 
And  frequent  sharer  of  their  calm  delight 
With  thankful  heart,  to  either  Eminence 
Gave  the  baptismal  name  each  Sister  bore. 
Now  are  they  parted,  far  as  Death's  cold  hand 
Hath  power  to  part  the  Spirits  of  those  who  love 
As  they  did  love.     Ye  kindred  Pinnacles — 
That,  while  the  generations  of  mankind 
Follow  each  other  to  their  hiding-place  20 

In  time's  abyss,  are  privileged  to  endure 
Beautiful  in  yourselves,  and  richly  graced 
With  like  command  of  beauty — grant  your  aid 
For  MARY'S  humble,  SARAH'S  silent,  claim, 
That  their  pure  joy  in  nature  may  survive 
From  age  to  age  in  blended  memory. 


A  MORNING  EXERCISE  243 


POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY 

I 
A  MORNING  EXERCISE 

FANCY,  who  leads  the  pastimes  of  the  glad, 
Full  oft  is  pleased  a  wayward  dart  to  throw  ; 
Sending  sad  shadows  after  things  not  sad, 
Peopling  the  harmless  fields  with  signs  of  woe : 
Beneath  her  sway,  a  simple  forest  cry 
Becomes  an  echo  of  man's  misery. 

Blithe  ravens  croak  of  death  ;  and  when  the  owl 
Tries  his  two  voices  for  a  favourite  strain — 
Tu-whit —  To-whoo  !  the  unsuspecting  fowl 
Forebodes  mishap  or  seems  but  to  complain  ;  10 

Fancy,  intent  to  harass  and  annoy, 
Can  thus  pervert  the  evidence  of  joy. 

Through  border  wilds  where  naked  Indians  stray, 
Myriads  of  notes  attest  her  subtle  skill  ; 
A  feathered  task-master  cries,  '  WORK  AWAY  !' 
And  in  thy  iteration,  '  WHIP  POOR  WILL  ! ' 1 
Is  heard  the  spirit  of  a  toil-worn  slave, 
Lashed  out  of  life,  not  quiet  in  the  grave. 

What  wonder  ?  at  her  bidding,  ancient  lays 
Stepped  in  dire  grief  the  voice  of  Philomel ;  ao 

And  that  fleet  messenger  of  summer  days, 
The  Swallow,  twittered  subject  to  like  spell ; 
But  ne'er  could  Fancy  bend  the  buoyant  Lark 
To  melancholy  service — hark  !  O  hark ! 

The  daisy  sleeps  upon  the  dewy  lawn, 
Not  lifting  yet  the  head  that  evening  bowed ; 
But  He  is  risen,  a  later  star  of  dawn, 
Glittering  and  twinkling  near  yon  rosy  cloud  ; 
Bright  gem  instinct  with  music,  vocal  spark  ; 
The  happiest  bird  that  sprang  out  of  the  Ark  !  30 

1  See  Waterton'a  Wanderings  in  South  America. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Hail,  blest  above  all  kinds  ! — Supremely  skilled 
Restless  with  fixed  to  balance,  high  with  low, 
Thou  leav'st  the  halcyon  free  her  hopes  to  build 
On  such  forbearance  as  the  deep  may  show ; 
Perpetual  flight,  unchecked  by  earthly  ties, 
Leav'st  to  the  wandering  bird  of  paradise. 

Faithful,  though  swift  as  lightning,  the  meek  dove; 
Yet  more  hath  Nature  reconciled  in  thee ; 
So  constant  with  thy  downward  eye  of  love, 
Yet,  in  aerial  singleness,  so  free ;  40 

So  humble,  yet  so  ready  to  rejoice 
In  power  of  wing  and  never-wearied  voice. 

To  the  last  point  of  vision,  and  beyond, 
Mount,  daring  warbler ! — that  love-prompted  strain 
('Twixt  thee  and  thine  a  never-failing  bond) 
Thrills  not  the  less  the  bosom  of  the  plain  : 
Yet  might' st  thou  seem,  proud  privilege  !  to  sing 
All  independent  of  the  leafy  spring. 

How  would  it  please  old  Ocean  to  partake, 
With  sailors  longing  for  a  breeze  in  vain,  50 

The  harmony  thy  notes  most  gladly  make 
Where  earth  resembles  most  his  own  domain  ! 
Urania's  self  might  welcome  with  pleased  ear 
These  matins  mounting  towards  her  native  sphere. 

Chanter  by  heaven  attracted,  whom  no  bars 
To  daylight  known  deter  from  that  pursuit, 
'Tis  well  that  some  sage  instinct,  when  the  stars 
Come  forth  at  evening,  keeps  Thee  still  and  mute ; 
For  not  an  eyelid  could  to  sleep  incline 
Wert  thou  among  them,  singing  as  they  shine !  60 

1828 


II 

A  FLOWER  GARDEN 

AT  COLEORTON  HALL,  LEICESTERSHIRE 

TELL  me,  ye  Zephyrs  !  that  unfold, 
While  fluttering  o'er  this  gay  Recess, 
Pinions  that  fanned  the  teeming  mould 
Of  Eden's  blissful  wilderness, 
Did  only  softly-stealing  hours 
There  close  the  peaceful  lives  of  flowers  ? 


A  FLOWER  GARDEN  245 

Say,  when  the  moving  creatures  saw 

All  kinds  commingled  without  fear, 

Prevailed  a  like  indulgent  law 

For  the  still  growths  that  prosper  here  ?  10 

Did  wanton  fawn  and  kid  forbear 

The  half-blown  rose,  the  lily  spare  ? 

Or  peeped  they  often  from  their  beds, 
And  prematurely  disappeared, 
Devoured  like  pleasure  ere  it  spreads 
A  bosom  to  the  sun  endeared  ? 
If  such  their  harsh  untimely  doom, 
It  falls  not  here  on  bud  or  bloom. 

All  summer-long  the  happy  Eve 

Of  this  fair  Spot  her  flowers  may  bind,  20 

Nor  e'er,  with  ruffled  fancy,  grieve, 

From  the  next  glance  she  casts,  to  find 

That  love  for  little  things  by  Fate 

Is  rendered  vain  as  love  for  great. 

Yet,  where  the  guardian  fence  is  wound, 

So  subtly  are  our  eyes  beguiled, 

We  see  not  nor  suspect  a  bound, 

No  more  than  in  some  forest  wild ; 

The  sight  is  free  as  air — or  crost 

Only  by  art  in  nature  lost.  30 

And,  though  the  jealous  turf  refuse 
By  random  footsteps  to  be  prest, 
And  feed  on  never-sullied  dews, 
Ye,  gentle  breezes  from  the  west, 
With  all  the  ministers  of  hope 
Are  tempted  to  this  sunny  slope ! 

And  hither  throngs  of  birds  resort ; 

Some,  inmates  lodged  in  shady  nests, 

Some,  perched  on  stems  of  stately  port 

That  nod  to  welcome  transient  guests ;  40 

While  hare  and  leveret,  seen  at  play, 

Appear  not  more  shut  out  than  they. 

Apt  emblem  (for  reproof  of  pride) 
This  delicate  Enclosure  shows 
Of  modest  kindness,  that  would  hide 
The  firm  protection  she  bestows ; 
Of  manners,  like  its  viewless  fence, 
Ensuring  peace  to  innocence. 


246  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Thus  spake  the  moral  Muse — her  wing 

Abruptly  spreading  to  depart,  50 

She  left  that  farewell  offering, 

Memento  for  some  docile  heart ; 

That  may  respect  the  good  old  age 

When  Fancy  was  Truth's  willing  Page  ; 

And  Truth  would  skim  the  flowery  glade, 

Though  entering  but  as  Fancy's  Shade. 

1824 


III 

A    WHIRL-BLAST  from  behind  the  hill 
j[-\_     Rushed  o'er  the  wood  with  startling  sound  ; 
Then — all  at  once  the  air  was  still, 
And  showers  of  hailstones  pattered  round. 
Where  leafless  oaks  towered  high  above, 
I  sat  within  an  undergrove 
Of  tallest  hollies,  tall  and  green ; 
A  fairer  bower  was  never  seen. 
From  year  to  year  the  spacious  floor 
With  withered  leaves  is  covered  o'er,  10 

And  all  the  year  the  bower  is  green. 
But  see  !  where'er  the  hailstones  drop 
The  withered  leaves  all  skip  and  hop ; 
There 's  not  a  breeze — no  breath  of  air — 
Yet  here,  and  there,  and  everywhere 
Along  the  floor,  beneath  the  shade 
By  those  embowering  hollies  made, 
The  leaves  in  myriads  jump  and  spring, 
As  if  with  pipes  and  music  rare 
Some  Robin  Good-fellow  were  there,  ao 

And  all  those  leaves,  in  festive  glee, 
Were  dancing  to  the  minstrelsy. 

1798 

IV 
THE  WATERFALL  AND  THE  EGLANTINE 


EGONE,  thou  fond  presumptuous  Elf,' 

Exclaimed  an  angry  Voice, 
or  dare  to  thrust  thy  foolish  self 
Between  me  and  my  choice  ! ' 
A  small  Cascade  fresh  swoln  with  snows 
Thus  threatened  a  poor  Briar-rose, 


THE  WATERFALL  AND  THE  EGLANTINE    247 

That,  all  bespattered  with  his  foam, 

And  dancing  high  and  dancing  low, 

Was  living,  as  a  child  might  know, 

In  an  unhappy  home.  10 


'  Dost  thou  presume  my  course  to  block  ? 

Off,  off!  or,  puny  Thing! 

I  '11  hurl  thee  headlong  with  the  rock 

To  which  thy  fibres  cling.' 

The  Flood  was  tyrannous  and  strong; 

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 

HI 

'  Ah  ! '  said  the  Briar,  '  blame  me  not ; 

Why  should  we  dwell  in  strife  ? 

We  who  in  this  sequestered  spot 

Once  lived  a  happy  life  ! 

You  stirred  me  on  my  rocky  bed — 

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, 

Among  these  rocks  did  I 

Before  you  hang  my  wreaths  to  tell 

That  gentle  days  were  nigh  ! 

And  in  the  sultry  summer  hours 

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 


'  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  ! 


248  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Though  of  both  leaf  and  flower  bereft, 

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, 

A  happy  Eglantine  ! '  50 

VI 

What  more  he  said  I  cannot  tell, 
The  Torrent  down  the  rocky  dell 
Came  thundering  loud  and  fast ; 
I  listened,  nor  aught  else  could  hear  ; 
The  Briar  quaked — and  much  I  fear 
Those  accents  were  his  last. 

1800 


V 

THE  OAK  AND  THE  BROOM 

A  PASTORAL 


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 
The  wind  was  roaring,  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. 


'  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 — 

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, 

His  neighbour  thus  addressed : — 


THE  OAK  AND  THE  BROOM  249 

in 

' "  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 

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 


' "  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  ; 

It  thundered  down,  with  fire  and  smoke, 

And  hitherward  pursued  its  way  ; 

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  : 

For  you  and  your  green  twigs  decoy 

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 ; 

That  more  than  what  you  say  is  true 

I  know,  and  I  have  known  it  long ; 

Frail  is  the  bond  by  which  we  hold 

Our  being,  whether  young  or  old, 

Wise,  foolish,  weak,  or  strong.  60 


250  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

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  ? 

This  spot  is  my  paternal  home, 

It  is  my  pleasant  heritage  ; 

My  father  many  a  happy  year 

Spread  here  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, 

That  I  am  covered  o'er  with  flowers ; 

And,  when  the  Frost  is  in  the  sky,' 

My  branches  are  so  fresh  and  gay 

That  you  might  look  at  me  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, 

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 


'  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 
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  murmur  there. 


TO  A  SEXTON  251 

XI 

*  One  night,  my  Children  !  from  the  north 
There  came  a  furious  blast ; 
At  break  of  day  I  ventured  forth, 
And  near  the  cliff  I  passed. 
The  storm  had  fallen  upon  the  Oak, 
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/  no 

1800 

VI 

TO  A  SEXTON 

T  ET  thy  wheel-barrow  alone — 

__j     Wherefore,  Sexton,  piling  still 
In  thy  bone-house  bone  on  bone  ? 
'Tis  already  like  a  hill 
In  a  field  of  battle  made, 
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  fireside  is  there. 

Here,  alone,  before  thine  eyes, 

Simon's  sickly  daughter  lies, 

From  weakness  now  and  pain  defended, 

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 !  ac 

By  the  heart  of  Man,  his  tears, 

By  his  hopes  and  by  his  fears, 

Thou,  too  heedless,  art  the  Warden 

Of  a  far  superior  garden. 

Thus  then,  each  to  other  dear, 
Let  them  all  in  quiet  lie, 
Andrew  there,  and  Susan  here, 
Neighbours  in  mortality. 


252  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

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 ! 

1799 

VII 
TO  THE  DAISY 

'  Her J  divine  skill  taught  me  this, 
That  from  every  thing  I  saw 
I  could  some  invention  draw, 
And  raise  pleasure  to  her  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. 

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, — 
My  thirst  at  every  rill  can  slake, 
And  gladly  Nature's  love  partake 
Of  Thee,  sweet  Daisy  ! 

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 ; 
Whole  Summer-fields  are  thine  by  right; 
And  Autumn,  melancholy  Wight ! 
Doth  in  thy  crimson  head  delight 

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 : 
And  oft  alone  in  nooks  remote 
We  meet  thee,  like  a  pleasant  thought, 

When  such  are  wanted. 

1  His  Muse. 


TO  THE  DAISY  253 

Be  violets  in  their  secret  mews 

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 

Near  the  green  holly, 
And  wearily  at  length  should  fare ; 
He  needs  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 ; 
Some  memory  that  had  taken  flight; 
Some  chime  of  fancy  wrong  or  right ; 

Or  stray  invention. 

If  stately  passions  in  me  burn, 

And  one  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 

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  :  .     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. 


254  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

And  all  day  long  I  number  yet, 
All  seasons  through,  another  debt, 
Which  I,  wherever  thou  art  met, 

To  thee  am  owing ; 
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 

As  lark  or  leveret, 

Thy  long-lost  praise  thou  shalt  regain ; 
Nor  be  less  dear  to  future  men 
Than  in  old  time ; — thou  not  in  vain 

Art  Nature's  favourite.1  80 

1802 

VIII 
TO  THE  SAME  FLOWER 

WITH  little  here  to  do  or  see 
Of  things  that  in  the  great  world  be, 
Daisy  !  again  I  talk  to  thee, 

For  thou  art  worthy, 
Thou  unassuming  Common-place 
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,  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, 

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 

1  See,  in  Chaucer  and  the  elder  Poets,  the  honours  formerly  paid  to  this 
flower. 


THE  GREEN  LINNET  255 

A  queen  in  crown  of  rubies  drest ; 
A  starveling  in  a  scanty  vest ; 
Are  all,  as  seems  to  suit  thee  best, 
Thy  appellations. 

A  little  Cyclops  with  one  eye 
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 
.  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 !  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, 
Do  thou,  as  thou  art  wont,  repair 
My  heart  with  gladness,  and  a  share 

Of  thy  meek  nature  ! 

1802 

IX 
THE  GREEN  LINNET 

"Q  ENEATH  these  fruit-tree  boughs  lihat  shed 
LJ      Their  snow-white  blossoms  on  my  head, 
With  brightest  sunshine  round  me  spread 

Of  spring's  unclouded  weather, 
In  this  sequestered  nook  how  sweet 
To  sit  upon  my  orchard-seat ! 
And  birds  and  flowers  once  more  to  greet, 

My  last  year's  friends  together. 

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  ! 


256  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Thou,  Linnet !  in  thy  green  array, 
Presiding  Spirit  here  to-day, 
Dost  lead  the  revels  of  the  May ; 
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  yon  tuft  of  hazel  trees, 
That  twinkle  to  the  gusty  breeze, 
Behold  him  perched  in  ecstasies, 

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 

Pours  forth  his  song  in  gushes  ; 
As  if  by  that  exulting  strain 
He  mocked  and  treated  with  disdain 
The  voiceless  Form  he  chose  to  feign, 

While  fluttering  in  the  bushes.  40 

1803 


TO  A  SKY-LARK 

UP  with  me !  up  with  me  into  the  clouds  ! 
For  thy  song,  Lark,  is  strong  ; 
Up  with  me,  up  with  me  into  the  clouds ! 

Singing,  singing, 
With  clouds  and  sky  about  thee  ringing, 

Lift  me,  guide  me  till  I  find 
That  spot  which  seems  so  to  thy  mind ! 

I  have  walked  through  wildernesses  dreary, 
And  to-day  my  heart  is  weary ; 
Had  I  now  the  wings  of  a  Faery, 
Up  to  thee  would  I  fly. 


TO  THE  SMALL  CELANDINE  257 

There  is  madness  about  thee,  and  joy  divine 

In  that  song  of  thine  ; 

Lift  me,  guide  me  high  and  high 

To  thy  banqueting-place  in  the  sky. 

Joyous  as  morning, 
Thou  art  laughing  and  scorning  ; 
Thou  hast  a  nest  for  thy  love  and  thy  rest, 
And,  though  little  troubled  with  sloth, 
Drunken  Lark  !  thou  wouldst  be  loth  20 

To  be  such  a  traveller  as  I. 
Happy,  happy  Liver, 

With  a  soul  as  strong  as  a  mountain  river 

Pouring  out  praise  to  the  almighty  Giver, 

Joy  and  jollity  be  with  us  both  ! 

Alas  !  my  journey,  rugged  and  uneven, 
Through  prickly  moors  or  dusty  ways  must  wind  ; 
But  hearing  thee,  or  others  of  thy  kind, 
As  full  of  gladness  and  as  free  of  heaven, 
I,  with  my  fate  contented,  will  plod  on,  30 

And  hope  for  higher  raptures,  when  life's  day  is 
done. 

1805 


PANSIES,  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, 
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 ; 
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  '11  make  a  stir, 
Like  a  sage  astronomer. 

1  Common  Pilewort. 
1-R 


258  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Modest,  yet  withal  an  Elf 

Bold,  and  lavish  of  thyself; 

Since  we  needs  must  first  have  met 

I  have  seen  thee,  high  and  low,  •/» 

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, 

In  the  time  before  the  thrush 

Has  a  thought  about  her  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 
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 ! 

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, 
In  the  lane  ; — there  's  not  a  place, 
Howsoever  mean  it  be, 
But  'tis  good  enough  for  thee. 

Ill  befall  the  yellow  flowers, 
Children  of  the  flaring  hours ! 
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, 
Little,  humble  Celandine. 


TO  THE  SAME  FLOWER  259 

Prophet  of  delight  and  mirth, 

Ill-requited  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, 

I  will  sing,  as  doth  behove, 

Hymns  in  praise  of  what  I  love ! 

1802 

XII 
TO  THE  SAME  FLOWER 

T)LEASURES  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, 
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  sun  he  painted, 

Took  the  fancy  from  a  glance 

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 

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. 


260  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Blithe  of  heart,  from  week  to  week 

Thou  dost  play  at  hide-and-seek  ; 

While  the  patient  primrose  sits 

Like  a  beggar  in  the  cold, 

Thou,  a  flower  of  wiser  wits, 

Slip'st  into  thy  sheltering  hold  ; 

Liveliest  of  the  vernal  train 

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 
Prized  above  all  buds  and  bells 
Opening  daily  at  thy  side, 
By  the  season  multiplied  ? 

Thou  art  not  beyond  the  moon, 

But  a  thing  '  beneath  our  shoon ' :  50 

Led  the  bold  Discoverer  thrid 

In  his  bark  the  polar  sea ; 

Rear  who  will  a  pyramid  ; 

Praise  it  is  enough  for  me, 

If  there  be  but  three  or  four 

Who  will  love  my  little  Flower. 


1802 


XIII 

THE  SEVEN  SISTERS 
OR,  THE  SOLITUDE  OF  BINNORIE 


SEVEN  Daughters  had  Lord  Archibald, 
All  children  of  one  mother  : 
You  could  not  say  in  one  short  day 
What  love  they  bore  each  other. 
A  garland  of  seven  lilies  wrought ! 
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, 
The  solitude  of  Binnorie  ! 


THE  SEVEN  SISTERS  261 


Fresh  blows  the  wind,  a  western  wind, 

And  from  the  shores  of  Erin, 

Across  the  wave,  a  Rover  brave 

To  Binnorie  is  steering : 

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. 

Sing,  mournfully,  oh  !  mournfully, 

The  solitude  of  Binnorie. 


in 

Beside  a  grotto  of  their  own, 

With  boughs  above  them  closing, 

The  Seven  are  laid,  and  in  the  shade 

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, 

With  menace  proud,  and  insult  loud, 

The  youthful  Rovers  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. 


Some  close  behind,  some  side  by  side, 
lake  clouds  in  stormy  weather  ; 
They  run,  and  cry,  '  Nay,  let  us  die, 
And  let  us  die  together.' 


262  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

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, 

Nor  ever  more  were  seen. 

Sing,  mournfully,  oh  !  mournfully, 

The  solitude  of  Binnorie. 


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, 

The  solitude  of  Binnorie. 

1800 


XIV 

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 
Upon  its  head  this  coronet  ? 

Was  it  the  humour  of  a  child  ? 

Or  rather  of  some  gentle  maid, 

Whose  brows,  the  day  that  she  was  styled 

The  shepherd-queen,  were  thus  arrayed  ? 

Of  man  mature,  or  matron  sage  ? 

Or  old  man  toying  with  his  age  ? 

I  asked — 'twas  whispered  ;  The  device 
To  each  and  all  might  well  belong  : 
It  is  the  Spirit  of  Paradise 
That  prompts  such  work,  a  Spirit  strong, 
That  gives  to  all  the  self-same  bent 
Where  life  is  wise  and  innocent. 

1803 


REDBREAST  CHASING  THE  BUTTERFLY    263 

XV 
THE  REDBREAST  CHASING  THE  BUTTERFLY 

A  IT  thou  the  bird  whom  Man  loves  best, 
The  pious  bird  with  the  scarlet  breast, 

Our  little  English  Robin  ; 
The  bird  that  comes  about  our  doors 
When  Autumn-winds  are  sobbing  ? 
Art  thou  the  Peter  of  Norway  Boors  ? 

Their  Thomas  in  Finland, 

And  Russia  far  inland  ? 
The  bird  that  by  some  name  or  other 
All  men  who  know  thee  call  their  brother,  10 

The  darling  of  children  and  men  ? 
Could  Father  Adam 1  open  his  eyes 
And  see  this  sight  beneath  the  skies, 
He  'd  wish  to  close  them  again. 
— If  the  Butterfly  knew  but  his  friend, 
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, 
Covered  with  leaves  the  little  children, 

So  painfully  in  the  wood  ? 

What  ailed  thee,  Robin,  that  thou  couldst  pursue 

A  beautiful  creature, 
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, 
A  crimson  as  bright  as  thine  own : 
Wouldst  thou  be  happy  in  thy  nest, 
O  pious  Bird  !  whom  man  loves  best, 
Love  him,  or  leave  him  alone ! 

1802 

1  See  Paradise  Lost,  Book  XL,  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. 


264  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

XVI 
SONG  FOR  THE  SPINNING  WHEEL 

FOUNDED    UPON    A    BELIEF    PREVALENT    AMONG   THE 
PASTORAL   VALES    OF   WESTMORELAND 

SWIFTLY  turn  the  murmuring  wheel ! 
Night  has  brought  the  welcome  hour, 
en  the  weary  fingers  feel 
Help,  as  if  from  faery  power  ; 
Dewy  night  o'ershades  the  ground ; 
Turn  the  swift  wheel  round  and  round  ! 

Now,  beneath  the  starry  sky, 

Couch  the  widely-scattered  sheep ; — 

Ply  the  pleasant  labour,  ply  ! 

For  the  spindle,  while  they  sleep, 

Runs  with  speed  more  smooth  and  fine, 

Gathering  up  a  trustier  line. 

Short-lived  likings  may  be  bred 
By  a  glance  from  fickle  eyes ; 
But  true  love  is  like  the  thread 
Which  the  kindly  wool  supplies, 
When  the  flocks  are  all  at  rest 
Sleeping  on  the  mountain's  breast. 

1812 

XVII 
HINT  FROM  THE  MOUNTAINS 

FOR   CERTAIN    POLITICAL    PRETENDERS 

'  T  T  7"  HO  but  hails  the  sight  with  pleasure 

\\     When  the  wings  of  genius  rise, 
Their  ability  to  measure 

With  great  enterprise ; 
But  in  man  was  ne'er  such  daring 
As  yon  Hawk  exhibits,  pairing 
His  brave  spirit  with  the  war  in 

The  stormy  skies ! 

'  Mark  him,  how  his  power  he  uses, 
Lays  it  by,  at  will  resumes  ! 
Mark,  ere  for  his  haunt  he  chooses 
Clouds  and  utter  glooms ! 


ON  SEEING  A  NEEDLECASE  265 

There,  he  wheels  in  downward  mazes ; 
Sunward  now  his  flight  he  raises, 
Catches  fire,  as  seems,  and  blazes 
With  uninjured  plumes!' — 

ANSWER 

'  Stranger,  'tis  no  act  of  courage 
Which  aloft  thou  dost  discern ; 
No  bold  bird  gone  forth  to  forage 

'Mid  the  tempest  stern  ;  20 

But  such  mockery  as  the  nations 
See,  when  public  perturbations 
Lift  men  from  their  native  stations, 

Like  yon  TUFT  OF  FERN  ; 

'  Such  it  is  ;  the  aspiring  creature 
Soaring  on  undaunted  wing, 
(So  you  fancied)  is  by  nature 

A  dull  helpless  thing, 
Dry  and  withered,  light  and  yellow  ; — 
That  to  be  the  tempest's  fellow  !  30 

Wait — and  you  shall  see  how  hollow 

Its  endeavouring ! ' 

1817 

XVIII 

ON  SEEING  A  NEEDLECASE  IN  THE 
FORM  OF  A  HARP 

THE  WORK  OF  E.  M.  S. 

FROWNS  are  on  every  Muse's  face, 
Reproaches  from  their  lips  are  sent, 
That  mimicry  should  thus  disgrace 
The  noble  Instrument. 

A  very  Harp  in  all  but  size ! 

Needles  for  strings  in  apt  gradation  ! 
Minerva's  self  would  stigmatize 

The  unclassic  profanation. 

Even  her  own  needle  that  subdued 

Arachne's  rival  spirit,  10 

Though  wrought  in  Vulcan's  happiest  mood, 

Such  honour  could  not  merit. 


266  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

And  this,  too,  from  the  Laureate's  Child, 

A  living  lord  of  melody  ! 
How  will  her  Sire  be  reconciled 

To  the  refined  indignity  ? 

I  spake,  when  whispered  a  low  voice, 

f  Bard  !  moderate  your  ire ; 
Spirits  of  all  degrees  rejoice 

In  presence  of  the  lyre.  so 

'  The  Minstrels  of  Pygmean  bands, 
Dwarf  Genii,  moonlight-loving  Fays, 

Have  shells  to  fit  their  tiny  hands 
And  suit  their  slender  lays. 

'  Some,  still  more  delicate  of  ear, 

Have  lutes  (believe  my  words) 
Whose  framework  is  of  gossamer, 

While  sunbeams  are  the  chords. 

'  Gay  Sylphs  this  miniature  will  court, 

Made  vocal  by  their  brushing  wings,  30 

And  sullen  Gnomes  will  learn  to  sport 
Around  its  polished  strings  ; 

'  Whence  strains  to  love-sick  maiden  dear, 
While  in  her  lonely  bower  she  tries 

To  cheat  the  thought  she  cannot  cheer, 
By  fanciful  embroideries. 

'  Trust,  angry  Bard  !  a  knowing  Sprite, 
Nor  think  the  Harp  her  lot  deplores  ; 

Though  'mid  the  stars  the  Lyre  shine  bright, 
Love  sloops  as  fondly  as  he  soars.'  40 

1827 


XIX 
TO  A  LADY 

IN  ANSWER  TO  A  REQUEST  THAT  I  WOULD  WRITE  HER  A  POEM 
UPON  SOME  DRAWINGS  THAT  SHE  HAD  MADE  OF  FLOWERS  IN 
THE  ISLAND  OF  MADEIRA 

FAIR  Lady  !  can  I  sing  of  flowers 
That  in  Madeira  bloom  and  fade, 
I  who  ne'er  sate  within  their  bowers, 

Nor  through  their  sunny  lawns  have  strayed  ? 


TO  A  LADY  267 

How  they  in  sprightly  dance  are  worn 
By  Shepherd-groom  or  May-day  queen, 

Or  holy  festal  pomps  adorn, 
These  eyes  have  never  seen. 

Yet  tho'  to  me  the  pencil's  art 

No  like  remembrances  can  give,  10 

Your  portraits  still  may  reach  the  heart 

And  there  for  gentle  pleasure  live  ; 
While  Fancy  ranging  with  free  scope 

Shall  on  some  lovely  Alien  set 
A  name  with  us  endeared  to  hope, 

To  peace,  or  fond  regret. 

Still  as  we  look  with  nicer  care, 

Some  new  resemblance  we  may  trace  : 
A  Heart' s-ease  will  perhaps  be  there, 

A  Speedwell  may  not  want  its  place.  ao 

And  so  may  we,  with  charmed  mind 

Beholding  what  your  skill  has  wrought, 
Another  Star-of-Bethlehem  find, 

A  new  Forget-me-not. 

From  earth  to  heaven  with  motion  fleet 

From  heaven  to  earth  our  thoughts  will  pass, 
A  Holy-thistle  here  we  meet 

And  there  a  Shepherd's  weather-glass', 
And  haply  some  familiar  name 

Shall  grace  the  fairest,  sweetest,  plant  30 

Whose  presence  cheers  the  drooping  frame 

Of  English  Emigrant. 

Gazing  she  feels  its  power  beguile 

Sad  thoughts,  and  breathes  with  easier  breath ; 
Alas !  that  meek,  that  tender  smile 

Is  but  a  harbinger  of  death  : 
And  pointing  with  a  feeble  hand 

She  says,  in  faint  words  by  sighs  broken, 
Bear  for  me  to  my  native  land 

This  precious  Flower,  true  love's  last  token.          40 

Published  1845 

XX 

GLAD  sight  wherever  new  with  old 
Is  joined  through  some  dear  homeborn  tie ; 
The  life  of  all  that  we  behold 
Depends  upon  that  mystery. 


268  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Vain  is  the  glory  of  the  sky, 
The  beauty  vain  of  field  and  grove, 
Unless,  while  with  admiring  eye 
We  gaze,  we  also  learn  to  love. 

1842 


XXI 
THE  CONTRAST 

THE  PARROT  AND  THE  WREN 


WITHIN  her  gilded  cage  confined 
I  saw  a  dazzling  Belle, 
A  Parrot  of  that  famous  kind 
Whose  name  is  NON-PAREIL. 

Like  beads  of  glossy  jet  her  eyes ; 
And,  smoothed  by  Nature's  skill, 
With  pearl  or  gleaming  agate  vies 
Her  finely-curved  bill. 

Her  plumy  mantle's  living  hues, 
In  mass  opposed  to  mass, 
Outshine  the  splendour  that  imbues 
The  robes  of  pictured  glass. 

And,  sooth  to  say,  an  apter  Mate 
Did  never  tempt  the  choice 
Of  feathered  Thing  most  delicate 
In  figure  and  in  voice. 

But,  exiled  from  Australian  bowers, 
And  singleness  her  lot, 
She  trills  her  song  with  tutored  powers, 
Or  mocks  each  casual  note. 

No  more  of  pity  for  regrets 
With  which  she  may  have  striven  ! 
Now  but  in  wantonness  she  frets, 
Or  spite,  if  cause  be  given  ; 

Arch,  volatile,  a  sportive  bird 
By  social  glee  inspired ; 
Ambitious  to  be  seen  or  heard, 
And  pleased  to  be  admired ! 


THE  DANISH  BOY 


THIS  moss-lined  shed,  green,  soft,  and  dry, 
Harbours  a  self-contented  Wren,  30 

Not  shunning  man's  abode,  though  shy, 
Almost  as  thought  itself,  of  human  ken. 

Strange  places,  coverts  unendeared, 

She  never  tried  ;  the  very  nest, 

In  which  this  Child  of  Spring  was  reared, 

Is  warmed,  thro'  winter,  by  her  feathery  breast. 

To  the  bleak  winds  she  sometimes  gives 

A  slender  unexpected  strain ; 

Proof  that  the  hermitess  still  lives, 

Though  she  appear  not,  and  be  sought  in  vain.     40 

Say,  Dora  !  tell  me,  by  yon  placid  moon, 
If  called  to  choose  between  the  favoured  pair, 
Which  would  you  be, — the  bird  of  the  saloon, 
By  lady-fingers  tended  with  nice  care, 
Caressed,  applauded,  upon  dainties  fed, 
Or  Nature's  DARKLING  of  this  mossy  shed? 

1825 

XXII 
THE  DANISH  BOY 

A  FRAGMENT 


T)  ETWEEN  two  sister  moorland  rills 
LJ     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 
There  is  a  tempest-stricken  tree  ; 
A  corner-stone  by  lightning  cut, 
The  last  stone  of  a  lonely  hut ; 
And  in  this  dell  you  see 
A  thing  no  storm  can  e'er  destroy, 
The  shadow  of  a  Danish  Boy. 


In  clouds  above  the  lark  is  heard, 
But  drops  not  here  to  earth  for  rest ; 
Within  this  lonesome  nook  the  bird 
Did  never  build  her  nest. 


270  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

No  beast,  no  bird,  hath  here  his  home ; 

Bees,  wafted  on  the  breezy  air, 

Pass  high  above  those  fragrant  bells 

To  other  flowers : — to  other  dells 

Their  burthens  do  they  bear  ;  20 

The  Danish  Boy  walks  here  alone : 

The  lovely  dell  is  all  his  own. 

in 

A  Spirit  of  noon-day  is  he ; 

Yet  seems  a  form  of  flesh  and  blood ; 

Nor  piping  shepherd  shall  he  be, 

Nor  herd-boy  of  the  wood. 

A  regal  vest  of  fur  he  wears, 

In  colour  like  a  raven's  wing ; 

It  fears  not  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, 

To  words  of  a  forgotten  tongue 

He  suits  its  melody. 

Of  flocks  upon  the  neighbouring  hill 

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  alone 

Beside  the  tree  and  corner-stone. 


There  sits  he ;  in  his  face  you  spy 

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  like  songs  of  love, 

For  calm  and  gentle  is  his  mien ; 

Like  a  dead  Boy  he  is  serene. 

1799 


T 


STRAY  PLEASURES  271 

XXIII 
SONG 

FOR  THE  WANDERING  JEW 

HOUGH  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, 
Ere  the  storm  its  fury  stills, 
Helmet-like  themselves  will  fasten 
On  the  heads  of  towering  hills. 

What,  if  through  the  frozen  centre 
Of  the  Alps  the  Chamois  bound, 
Yet  he  has  a  home  to  enter 
In  some  nook  of  chosen  ground : 

And  the  Sea-horse,  though  the  ocean 
Yield  him  no  domestic  cave, 
Slumbers  without  sense  of  motion, 
Couched  upon  the  rocking  wave. 

If  on  windy  days  the  Raven 
Gambol  like  a  dancing  skiff, 
Not  the  less  she  loves  her  haven 
In  the  bosom  of  the  cliff. 

The  fleet  Ostrich,  till  day  closes, 
Vagrant  over  desert  sands, 
Brooding  on  her  eggs  reposes 
When  chill  night  that  care  demands. 

Day  and  night  my  toils  redouble, 
Never  nearer  to  the  goal ; 
Night  and  day,  I  feel  the  trouble 
Of  the  Wanderer  in  my  soul. 

1800 

XXIV 
STRAY  PLEASURES 

' Pleasure  is  spread  through  the  earth 

In  stray  gifts  to  lie  claimed  by  whoever  shall  find.' 


B 


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


272  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

From  the  shore  come  the  notes 

To  their  mill  where  it  floats, 
To  their  house  and  their  mill  tethered  fast : 
To  the  small  wooden  isle  where,  their  work  to  beguile, 
They  from  morning  to  even  take  whatever  is  given ; — 
And  many  a  blithe  day  they  have  past.  u 

In  sight  of  the  spires, 

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

Man  and  Maidens  wheel, 

They  themselves  make  the  reel,  » 

And  their  music 's  a  prey  which  they  seize ; 
It  plays  not  for  them, — what  matter  ?  'tis  theirs  ; 
And  if  they  had  care,  it  has  scattered  their  cares 
While  they  dance,  crying,  '  Long  as  ye  please  ! ' 

They  dance  not  for  me, 

Yet  mine  is  their  glee  ! 
Thus  pleasure  is  spread  through  the  earth 
In  stray  gifts  to  be  claimed  by  whoever  shall  find  ; 
Thus  a  rich  loving-kindness,  redundantly  kind, 
Moves  all  nature  to  gladness  and  mirth.  3( 

The  showers  of  the  spring 

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

1806 

XXV 

THE  PILGRIM'S  DREAM 
OR,  THE  STAR  AND  THE  GLOW-WORM 

A    PILGRIM,  when  the  summer-day 
_^\_  Had  closed  upon  his  weary  way, 
A  lodging  begged  beneath  a  castle's  roof; 
But  him  the  haughty  Warder  spurned ; 
And  from  the  gate  the  Pilgrim  turned, 
To  seek  such  covert  as  the  field 
Or  heath-besprinkled  copse  might  yield, 
Or  lofty  wood,  shower-proof. 


THE  PILGRIM'S  DREAM  273 

He  paced  along ;  and,  pensively, 

Halting  beneath  a  shady  tree,  10 

Whose  moss-grown  root  might  serve  for  couch 

or  seat, 

Fixed  on  a  Star  his  upward  eye ; 
Then  from  the  tenant  of  the  sky 
He  turned,  and  watched  with  kindred  look 
A  Glow-worm,  in  a  dusky  nook, 
Apparent  at  his  feet. 

The  murmur  of  a  neighbouring  stream 

Induced  a  soft  and  slumbrous  dream, 

A  pregnant  dream,  within  whose  shadowy  bounds 

He  recognised  the  earth-born  Star,  20 

And  That  which  glittered  from  afar; 

And  (strange  to  witness !)  from  the  frame 

Of  the  ethereal  Orb  there  came 

Intelligible  sounds. 

Much  did  it  taunt  the  humble  Light 

That  now,  when  day  was  fled,  and  night 

Hushed  the  dark  earth,  fast  closing  weary  eyes, 

A  very  reptile  could  presume 

To  show  her  taper  in  the  gloom, 

As  if  in  rivalship  with  One  30 

Who  sate  a  ruler  on  his  throne 

Erected  in  the  skies. 


'  Exalted  Star  ! '  the  Worm  replied, 

'  Abate  this  unbecoming  pride, 

Or  with  a  less  uneasy  lustre  shine ; 

Thou  shrink' st  as  momently  thy  rays 

Are  mastered  by  the  breathing  haze  ; 

While  neither  mist,  nor  thickest  cloud 

That  shapes  in  heaven  its  murky  shroud, 

Hath  power  to  injure  mine.  40 

'  But  not  for  this  do  I  aspire 
To  match  the  spark  of  local  fire, 
That  at  my  will  burns  on  the  dewy  lawn, 
With  thy  acknowledged  glories  ; — No  ! 
Yet,  thus  upbraided,  I  may  show 
What  favours  do  attend  me  here, 
Till,  like  thyself,  I  disappear 
Before  the  purple  dawn.' 
l-S 


274  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

When  this  in  modest  guise  was  said, 

Across  the  welkin  seemed  to  spread  50 

A  boding  sound — for  aught  but  sleep  unfit ! 

Hills  quaked,  the  rivers  backward  ran  ; 

That  Star,  so  proud  of  late,  looked  wan ; 

And  reeled  with  visionary  stir 

In  the  blue  depth,  like  Lucifer 

Cast  headlong  to  the  pit ! 

Fire  raged  :  and,  when  the  spangled  floor 

Of  ancient  ether  was  no  more, 

New   heavens  succeeded,  by  the  dream  brought 

forth : 

And  all  the  happy  Souls  that  rode  60 

Transfigured  through  that  fresh  abode 
Had  heretofore,  in  humble  trust, 
Shone  meekly  'mid  their  native  dust, 
The  Glow-worms  of  the  earth  ! 

This  knowledge,  from  an  Angel's  voice 

Proceeding,  made  the  heart  rejoice 

Of  Him  who  slept  upon  the  open  lea  : 

Waking  at  morn  he  murmured  not ; 

And,  till  life's  journey  closed,  the  spot 

Was  to  the  Pilgrim's  soul  endeared,  70 

Where  by  that  dream  he  had  been  cheered 

Beneath  the  shady  tree. 

1818 


XXVI 
THE  POET  AND  THE  CAGED  TURTLEDOVE 

AS  often  as  I  murmur  here 
jr-y_  My  half-formed  melodies, 
Straight  from  her  osier  mansion  near 

The  Turtledove  replies : 
Though  silent  as  a  leaf  before, 

The  captive  promptly  coos ; 
Is  it  to  teach  her  own  soft  lore, 

Or  second  my  weak  Muse  ? 

I  rather  think  the  gentle  Dove 

Is  murmuring  a  reproof,  so 

Displeased  that  I  from  lays  of  love 

Have  dared  to  keep  aloof; 


A  WREN'S  NEST  275 

That  I,  a  Bard  of  hill  and  dale, 

Have  carolled,  fancy  free, 
As  if  nor  dove  nor  nightingale 

Had  heart  or  voice  for  me. 

If  such  thy  meaning,  O  forbear, 

Sweet  Bird  !  to  do  me  wrong  ; 
Love,  blessed  Love,  is  everywhere 

The  spirit  of  my  song  :  20 

'Mid  grove,  and  by  the  calm  fireside, 

Love  animates  my  lyre — 
That  coo  again  ! — 'tis  not  to  chide, 

I  feel,  but  to  inspire. 

1830 

XXVII 
A  WREN'S  NEST 

A1ONG  the  dwellings  framed  by  birds 
In  field  or  forest  with  nice  care, 
Is  none  that  with  the  little  Wren's 
In  snugness  may  compare. 

No  door  the  tenement  requires, 

And  seldom  needs  a  laboured  roof; 
Yet  is  it  to  the  fiercest  sun 

Impervious,  and  storm-proof: 

So  warm,  so  beautiful  withal, 

In  perfect  fitness  for  its  aim,  10 

That  to  the  Kind  by  special  grace 

Their  instinct  surely  came. 

And  when  for  their  abodes  they  seek 

An  opportune  recess, 
The  hermit  has  no  finer  eye 

For  shadowy  quietness. 

These  find,  'mid  ivied  abbey-walls, 

A  canopy  in  some  still  nook ; 
Others  are  pent-housed  by  a  brae 

That  overhangs  a  brook.  ao 

There  to  the  brooding  bird  her  mate 

Warbles  by  fits  his  low  clear  song  ; 
And  by  the  busy  streamlet  both 

Are  sung  to  all  day  long. 


276  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Or  in  sequestered  lanes  they  build, 
Where,  till  the  flitting  bird's  return, 

Her  eggs  within  the  nest  repose, 
Like  relics  in  an  urn. 

But  still,  where  general  choice  is  good, 

There  is  a  better  and  a  best ;  30 

And,  among  fairest  objects,  some 
Are  fairer  than  the  rest ; 

This,  one  of  those  small  builders  proved 
In  a  green  covert,  where,  from  out 

The  forehead  of  a  pollard  oak, 
The  leafy  antlers  sprout ; 

For  She  who  planned  the  mossy  lodge, 

Mistrusting  her  evasive  skill, 
Had  to  a  Primrose  looked  for  aid 

Her  wishes  to  fulfil.  40 

High  on  the  trunk's  projecting  brow, 

And  fixed  an  infant's  span  above 
The  budding  flowers,  peeped  forth  the  nest 

The  prettiest  of  the  grove  ! 

The  treasure  proudly  did  I  show 

To  some  whose  minds  without  disdain 

Can  turn  to  little  things ;  but  once 
Looked  up  for  it  in  vain : 

'Tis  gone — a  ruthless  spoiler's  prey, 

Who  heeds  not  beauty,  love,  or  song,  50 

'Tis  gone !  (so  seemed  it)  and  we  grieved 

Indignant  at  the  wrong. 

Just  three  days  after,  passing  by 
In  clearer  light  the  moss-built  cell 

I  saw,  espied  its  shaded  mouth  ; 
And  felt  that  all  was  well. 

The  Primrose  for  a  veil  had  spread 
The  largest  of  her  upright  leaves  ; 

And  thus,  for  purposes  benign, 

A  simple  flower  deceives.  60 


LOVE  LIES  BLEEDING  277 

Concealed  from  friends  who  might  disturb 

Thy  quiet  with  no  ill  intent, 
Secure  from  evil  eyes  and  hands 

On  barbarous  plunder  bent, 

Rest,  Mother-bird  !  and  when  thy  young 
Take  flight,  and  thou  art  free  to  roam, 

When  withered  is  the  guardian  Flower, 
And  empty  thy  late  home, 

Think  how  ye  prospered,  thou  and  thine, 

Amid  the  unviolated  grove  70 

Housed  near  the  growing  Primrose-tuft 
In  foresight,  or  in  love. 

1833 

XXVIII 
LOVE  LIES  BLEEDING 

YOU  call  it,  '  Love  lies  bleeding,' — so  you  may, 
Though  the  red  Flower,  not  prostrate,  only 

droops, 

As  we  have  seen  it  here  from  day  to  day, 
From  month  to  month,  life  passing  not  awSy : 
A  flower  how  rich  in  sadness !     Even  thus  stoops, 
(Sentient  by  Grecian  sculpture's  marvellous  power), 
Thus  leans,  with  hanging  brow  and  body  bent 
Earthward  in  uncomplaining  languishment, 
The  dying  Gladiator.     So,  sad  Flower  ! 
('Tis  Fancy  guides  me  willing  to  be  led,  10 

Though  by  a  slender  thread), 
So  drooped  Adonis,  bathed  in  sanguine  dew 
Of  his  death-wound,  when  he  from  innocent  air 
The  gentlest  breath  of  resignation  drew  ; 
While  Venus  in  a  passion  of  despair 
Rent,  weeping  over  him,  her  golden  hair 
Spangled  with  drops  of  that  celestial  shower. 
She  suffered,  as  Immortals  sometimes  do  ; 
But  pangs  more  lasting  far  that  Lover  knew 
Who  first,  weighed  down  by  scorn,  in  some  lone 

bower  20 

Did  press  this  semblance  of  unpitied  smart 
Into  the  service  of  his  constant  heart, 
His  own  dejection,  downcast  Flower !  could  share 
With  thine,  and  gave  the  mournful  name  which  thou 

wilt  ever  bear. 

Published  1842 


278  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

XXIX 

COMPANION  TO  THE  FOREGOING 

TV  T  EVER  enlivened  with  the  liveliest  ray 
]^^      That  fosters  growth  or  checks  or  cheers  decay, 
Nor  by  the  heaviest  rain-drops  more  deprest, 
This  Flower,  that  first  appeared  as  summer's  guest, 
Preserves  her  beauty  'mid  autumnal  leaves, 
And  to  her  mournful  habits  fondly  cleaves. 
When  files  of  stateliest  plants  have  ceased  to  bloom, 
One  after  one  submitting  to  their  doom, 
When  her  coevals  each  and  all  are  fled, 
What  keeps  her  thus  reclined  upon  her  lonesome  bed  ?  10 

The  old  mythologists,  more  impressed  than  we 
Of  this  late  day  by  character  in  tree 
Or  herb  that  claimed  peculiar  sympathy, 
Or  by  the  silent  lapse  of  fountain  clear, 
Or  with  the  language  of  the  viewless  air 
By  bird  or  beast  made  vocal,  sought  a  cause 
To  solve  the  mystery,  not  in  Nature's  laws 
But  in  Man's  fortunes.     Hence  a  thousand  tales 
Sung  to  the  plaintive  lyre  in  Grecian  vales. 
Nor  doubt  that  something  of  their  spirit  swayed  20 

The  fancy-stricken  Youth  or  heart-sick  Maid, 
Who,  while  each  stood  companionless  and  eyed 
This  undeparting  Flower  in  crimson  dyed, 
Thought  of  a  wound  which  death  is  slow  to  cure, 
A  fate  that  has  endured  and  will  endure, 
And,  patience  coveting  yet  passion  feeding, 
Called  the  dejected  Lingerer,  Love  lies  Bleeding. 

Published  1842 

XXX 

RURAL  ILLUSIONS 

SYLPH  was  it  ?  or  a  Bird  more  bright 
Than  those  of  fabulous  stock  ? 
A  second  darted  by  ; — and  lo  ! 

Another  of  the  flock, 
Through  sunshine  flitting  from  the  bough 

To  nestle  in  the  rock. 
Transient  deception  !  a  gay  freak 

Of  April's  mimicries! 
Those  brilliant  strangers,  hailed  with  joy 

Among  the  budding  trees,  10 

Proved  last  year's  leaves,  pushed  from  the  spray 

To  frolic  on  the  breeze. 


THE  KITTEN  AND  FALLING  LEAVES    279 

Maternal  Flora  !  show  thy  face, 

And  let  thy  hand  be  seen, 
Thy  hand  here  sprinkling  tiny  flowers, 

That,  as  they  touch  the  green, 
Take  root  (so  seems  it)  and  look  up 

In  honour  of  their  Queen. 
Yet,  sooth,  those  little  starry  specks, 

That  not  in  vain  aspired  20 

To  be  confounded  with  live  growths, 

Most  dainty,  most  admired, 
Were  only  blossoms  dropped  from  twigs 

Of  their  own  offspring  tired. 

Not  such  the  World's  illusive  shows ; 

Her  wingless  flutterings, 
Her  blossoms  which,  though  shed,  outbrave 

The  floweret  as  it  springs, 
For  the  undeceived,  smile  as  they  may, 

Are  melancholy  things :  30 

But  gentle  Nature  plays  her  part 

With  ever-varying  wiles, 
And  transient  feignings  with  plain  truth 

So  well  she  reconciles, 
That  those  fond  Idlers  most  are  pleased 

Whom  oftenest  she  beguiles. 

1832 


XXXI 
THE  KITTEN  AND  FALLING  LEAVES 

THAT  way  look,  my  Infant,  lo  ! 
What  a  pretty  baby-show  ! 
See  the  Kitten  on  the  wall, 
Sporting  with  the  leaves  that  fall, 
Withered  leaves — one — two — and  three — 
From  the  lofty  elder-tree  ! 
Through  the  calm  and  frosty  air 
Of  this  morning  bright  and  fair, 
Eddying  round  and  round  they  sink 
Softly,  slowly  :  one  might  think, 
From  the  motions  that  are  made, 
Every  little  leaf  conveyed 
Sylph  or  Faery  hither  tending, — 
To  this  lower  world  descending, 
Each  invisible  and  mute, 
In  his  wavering  parachute. 


280  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

•But  the  Kitten,  how  she  starts, 


Crouches,  stretches,  paws,  and  darts ! 

First  at  one,  and  then  its  fellow, 

Just  as  light  and  just  as  yellow  ;  30 

There  are  many  now — now  one — 

Now  they  stop  and  there  are  none  : 

What  intenseness  of  desire 

In  her  upward  eye  of  fire  ! 

With  a  tiger-leap  half-way 

Now  she  meets  the  coming  prey, 

Lets  it  go  as  fast,  and  then 

Has  it  in  her  power  again  : 

Now  she  works  with  three  or  four, 

Like  an  Indian  conjurer;  30 

Quick  as  he  in  feats  of  art, 

Far  beyond  in  joy  of  heart. 

Were  her  antics  played  in  the  eye 

Of  a  thousand  standers-by, 

Clapping  hands  with  shout  and  stare, 

What  would  little  Tabby  care 

For  the  plaudits  of  the  crowd  ? 

Over  happy  to  be  proud, 

Over  wealthy  in  the  treasure 

Of  her  own  exceeding  pleasure  !  40 

'Tis  a  pretty  baby-treat ; 
Nor,  I  deem,  for  me  unmeet ; 
Here,  for  neither  Babe  nor  me, 
Other  playmate  can  I  see. 
Of  the  countless  living  things, 
That  with  stir  of  feet  and  wings 
(In  the  sun  or  under  shade, 
Upon  bough  or  grassy  blade) 
And  with  busy  revellings, 

Chirp  and  song,  and  murmurings,  50 

Made  this  orchard's  narrow  space, 
And  this  vale,  so  blithe  a  place ; 
Multitudes  are  swept  away 
Never  more  to  breathe  the  day  : 
Some  are  sleeping ;  some  in  bands 
Travelled  into  distant  lands ; 
Others  slunk  to  moor  and  wood, 
Far  from  human  neighbourhood  ; 
And  among  the  Kinds  that  keep 
With  us  closer  fellowship,  60 

With  us  openly  abide, 
All  have  laid  their  mirth  aside. 


THE  KITTEN  AND  FALLING  LEAVES    281 

Where  is  he  that  giddy  Sprite, 
Blue-cap,  with  his  colours  bright, 
Who  was  blest  as  bird  could  be, 
Feeding  in  the  apple-tree  ; 
Made  such  wanton  spoil  and  rout, 
Turning  blossoms  inside  out ; 
Hung — head  pointing  towards  the  ground — 
Fluttered,  perched,  into  a  round  70 

Bound  himself,  and  then  unbound  ; 
Lithest,  gaudiest  Harlequin  !  , 

Prettiest  tumbler  ever  seen  ! 
Light  of  heart  and  light  of  limb ; 
What  is  now  become  of  Him  ? 
Lambs,  that  through  the  mountains  went 
Frisking,  bleating  merriment, 
When  the  year  was  in  its  prime, 
They  are  sobered  by  this  time. 
If  you  look  to  vale  or  hill,  80 

If  you  listen,  all  is  still, 
Save  a  little  neighbouring  rill, 
That  from  out  the  rocky  ground 
Strikes  a  solitary  sound. 
Vainly  glitter  hill  and  plain, 
And  the  air  is  calm  in  vain ; 
Vainly  Morning  spreads  the  lure 
Of  a  sky  serene  and  pure  ; 
Creature  none  can  she  decoy 
Into  open  sign  of  joy  :  90 

Is  it  that  they  have  a  fear 
Of  the  dreary  season  near  ? 
Or  that  other  pleasures  be 
Sweeter  even  than  gaiety  ? 

Yet,  whate'er  enjoyments  dwell 
In  the  impenetrable  cell 
Of  the  silent  heart  which  Nature 
Furnishes  to  every  creature  ; 
Whatsoe'er  we  feel  and  know 
Too  sedate  for  outward  show,  100 

Such  a  light  of  gladness  breaks, 
Pretty  Kitten  !  from  thy  freaks, — 
Spreads  with  such  a  living  grace 
O'er  my  little  Dora's  face  ; 
Yes,  the  sight  so  stirs  and  charms 
Thee,  Baby,  laughing  in  my  arms, 
That  almost  I  could  repine 
That  your  transports  are  not  mine, 


282  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

That  I  do  not  wholly  fare 

Even  as  ye  do,  thoughtless  pair !  j 

And  I  will  have  my  careless  season 

Spite  of  melancholy  reason, 

Will  walk  through  life  in  such  a  way 

That,  when  time  brings  on  decay, 

Now  and  then  I  may  possess 

Hours  of  perfect  gladsomeness. 

— Pleased  by  any  random  toy ; 

By  a  kitten's  busy  joy, 

Or  an  infant's  laughing  eye 

Sharing  in  the  ecstasy ;  i 

I  would  fare  like  that  or  this, 

Find  my  wisdom  in  my  bliss ; 

Keep  the  sprightly  soul  awake, 

And  have  faculties  to  take, 

Even  from  things  by  sorrow  wrought, 

Matter  for  a  jocund  thought, 

Spite  of  care,  and  spite  of  grief, 

To  gambol  with  Life's  falling  Leaf. 

1804 

XXXII 
ADDRESS  TO  MY  INFANT  DAUGHTER,  DORA 

ON  BEING  REMINDED  THAT  SHE  WAS  A  MONTH  OLD 
THAT  DAY,  SEPTEMBER  16 


HAST  thou  then  survived — 


Mild  Offspring  of  infirm  humanity, 

Meek  Infant !  among  all  forlornest  things 

The  most  forlorn — one  life  of  that  bright  star, 

The  second  glory  of  the  Heavens? — Thou  hast; 

Already  hast  survived  that  great  decay, 

That  transformation  through  the  wide  earth  felt, 

And  by  all  nations.     In  that  Being's  sight 

From  whom  the  Race  of  human  kind  proceed, 

A  thousand  years  are  but  as  yesterday  ;  10 

And  one  day's  narrow  circuit  is  to  Him 

Not  less  capacious  than  a  thousand  years. 

But  what  is  time  ?     What  outward  glory  ?  neither 

A  measure  is  of  Thee,  whose  claims  extend 

Through  '  heaven's  eternal  year.' — Yet  hail  to  Thee, 

Frail,  feeble,  Monthling ! — by  that  name,  methinks, 

Thy  scanty  breathing-time  is  portioned  out 

Not  idly. — Hadst  thou  been  of  Indian  birth, 

Couched  on  a  casual  bed  of  moss  and  leaves, 


ADDRESS  TO  MY  INFANT  DAUGHTER    283 

And  rudely  canopied  by  leafy  boughs,  20 

Or  to  the  churlish  elements  exposed 

On  the  blank  plains, — the  coldness  of  the  night, 

Or  the  night's  darkness,  or  its  cheerful  face 

Of  beauty,  by  the  changing  moon  adorned, 

Would,  with  imperious  admonition,  then 

Have  scored  thine  age,  and  punctually  timed 

Thine  infant  history,  on  the  minds  of  those 

Who  might  have  wandered  with  thee. — Mother's  love, 

Nor  less  than  mother's  love  in  other  breasts, 

Will,  among  us  warm-clad  and  warmly  housed,         30 

Do  for  thee  what  the  finger  of  the  heavens 

Doth  all  too  often  harshly  execute 

For  thy  unblest  coevals,  amid  wilds 

Where  fancy  hath  small  liberty  to  grace 

The  affections,  to  exalt  them  or  refine  ; 

And  the  maternal  sympathy  itself, 

Though  strong,  is,  in  the  main,  a  joyless  tie 

Of  naked  instinct,  wound  about  the  heart. 

Happier,  far  happier  is  thy  lot  and  ours ! 

Even  now — to  solemnise  thy  helpless  state,  40 

And  to  enliven  in  the  mind's  regard 

Thy  passive  beauty — parallels  have  risen, 

Resemblances,  or  contrasts,  that  connect, 

Within  the  region  of  a  father's  thoughts, 

Thee  and  thy  mate  and  sister  of  the  sky. 

And  first ; — thy  sinless  progress,  through  a  world 

By  sorrow  darkened  and  by  care  disturbed, 

Apt  likeness  bears  to  hers,  through  gathered  clouds 

Moving  untouched  in  silver  purity, 

And  cheering  oft-times  their  reluctant  gloom.  50 

Fair  are  ye  both,  and  both  are  free  from  stain  : 

But  thou,  how  leisurely  thou  fill'st  thy  horn 

With  brightness  !  leaving  her  to  post  along, 

And  range  about,  disquieted  in  change, 

And  still  impatient  of  the  shape  she  wears. 

Once  up,  once  down  the  hill,  one  journey,  Babe, 

That  will  suffice  thee ;  and  it  seems  that  now 

Thou  hast  foreknowledge  that  such  task  is  thine  ; 

Thou  travellest  so  contentedly,  and  sleep' st 

In  such  a  heedless  peace.     Alas  !  full  soon  60 

Hath  this  conception,  grateful  to  behold, 

Changed  countenance,  like  an  object  sullied  o'er 

By  breathing  mist ;  and  thine  appears  to  be 

A  mournful  labour,  while  to  her  is  given 

Hope,  and  a  renovation  without  end. 

— That  smile  forbids  the  thought ;  for  on  thy  face 


284  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Smiles  are  beginning,  like  the  beams  of  dawn, 

To  shoot  and  circulate ;  smiles  have  there  been  seen  ; 

Tranquil  assurances  that  Heaven  supports 

The  feeble  motions  of  thy  life,  and  cheers  70 

Thy  loneliness  :  or  shall  those  smiles  be  called 

Feelers  of  love,  put  forth  as  if  to  explore 

This  untried  world,  and  to  prepare  thy  way 

Through  a  strait  passage  intricate  and  dim  ? 

Such  are  they ;  and  the  same  are  tokens,  signs, 

Which,  when  the  appointed  season  hath  arrived, 

Joy,  as  her  holiest  language,  shall  adopt ; 

And  Reason's  godlike  Power  be  proud  to  own. 

1804 

XXXIII 
THE  WAGGONER 

'  In  Cairo's  crowded  streets 

The  impatient  Merchant,  wondering,  waits  in  vain, 
And  Mecca  saddens  at  the  long  delay.' 

THOMSON. 

TO  CHARLES  LAMB,  ESQ. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, — When  I  sent  you,  a  few  weeks  ago,  the  Tale  of  Peter 
Bell,  you  asked  '  why  THE  WAGGONER  was  not  added  ? ' — To  say  the  truth, — 
from  the  higher  tone  of  imagination,  and  the  deeper  touches  of  passion  aimed 
at  in  the  former,  I  apprehended  this  little  Piece  could  not  accompany  it 
without  disadvantage.  In  the  year  1806,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  THE 
WAGGONER  was  read  to  you  in  manuscript,  and,  as  you  have  remembered  it 
for  so  long  a  time,  I  am  the  more  encouraged  to  hope,  that,  since  the  locali- 
ties on  which  the  Poem  partly  depends  did  not  prevent  its  being  interesting 
to  you,  it  may  prove  acceptable  to  others.  Being  therefore  in  some  measure 
the  cause  of  its  present  appearance,  you  must  allow  me  the  gratification  of 
inscribing  it  to  you ;  in  acknowledgment  of  the  pleasure  I  have  derived 
from  your  Writings,  and  of  the  high  esteem  with  which 

I  am  very  truly  yours, 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 
RYDAL  MOUNT,  May  20, 1819. 

CANTO  FIRST 

'*  I  MS  spent — this  burning  day  of  June  ! 

Soft    darkness    o'er    its     latest   gleams    is 

stealing ; 
The     buzzing    dor-hawk,     round    and    round,    is 

wheeling, — 
That  solitary  bird 
Is  all  that  can  be  heard 
In  silence  deeper  far  than  that  of  deepest  noon  ! 

Confiding  Glow-worms,  'tis  a  night 
Propitious  to  your  earth-born  light! 
But  where  the  scattered  stars  are  seen 
In  hazy  straits  the  clouds  between,  10 


THE  WAGGONER  285 

Each,  in  his  station  twinkling  not, 

Seems  changed  into  a  pallid  spot. 

The  mountains  against  heaven's  grave  weight 

Rise  up,  and  grow  to  wondrous  height. 

The  air,  as  in  a  lion's  den, 

Is  close  and  hot; — and  now  and  then 

Comes  a  tired  and  sultry  breeze 

With  a  haunting  and  a  panting, 

Like  the  stifling  of  disease  ; 

But  the  dews  allay  the  heat,  20 

And  the  silence  makes  it  sweet. 

Hush,  there  is  some  one  on  the  stir ! 
'Tis  Benjamin  the  Waggoner  ; 
Who  long  hath  trod  this  toilsome  way, 
Companion  of  the  night  and  day. 
That  far-off  tinkling' s  drowsy  cheer, 
Mixed  with  a  faint  yet  grating  sound 
In  a  moment  lost  and  found, 
The  Wain  announces — by  whose  side 
Along  the  banks  of  Rydal  Mere  30 

He  paces  on,  a  trusty  Guide, — 
Listen  !  you  can  scarcely  hear  ! 
Hither  he  his  course  is  bending ; — 
Now  he  leaves  the  lower  ground, 
And  up  the  craggy  hill  ascending 
Many  a  stop  and  stay  he  makes, 
Many  a  breathing-fit  he  takes  ; — 
Steep  the  way  and  wearisome, 
Yet  all  the  while  his  whip  is  dumb  ! 

The  Horses  have  worked  with  right  good-will,     40 

And  so  have  gained  the  top  of  the  hill ; 

He  was  patient,  they  were  strong, 

And  now  they  smoothly  glide  along, 

Recovering  breath,  and  pleased  to  win 

The  praises  of  mild  Benjamin. 

Heaven  shield  him  from  mishap  and  snare  ! 

But  why  so  early  with  this  prayer  ? 

Is  it  for  threatenings  in  the  sky  ? 

Or  for  some  other  danger  nigh  ? 

No ;  none  is  near  him  yet,  though  he  s° 

Be  one  of  much  infirmity ; 

For  at  the  bottom  of  the  brow, 

Where  once  the  DOVE  and  OLIVE-BOUGH 

Offered  a  greeting  of  good  ale 

To  all  who  entered  Grasmere  Vale ; 


286  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

And  called  on  him  who  must  depart 

To  leave  it  with  a  jovial  heart ; 

There,  where  the  DOVE  and  OLIVE-BOUGH 

Once  hung,  a  Poet  harbours  now, 

A  simple  water-drinking  Bard  ;  60 

Why  need  our  Hero  then  (though  frail 

His  best  resolves)  be  on  his  guard  ? 

He  marches  by,  secure  and  bold  ; 

Yet,  while  he  thinks  on  times  of  old, 

It  seems  that  all  looks  wondrous  cold  ; 

He  shrugs  his  shoulders,  shakes  his  head, 

And,  for  the  honest  folk  within, 

It  is  a  doubt  with  Benjamin 

Whether  they  be  alive  or  dead  ! 

Here  is  no  danger, — none  at  all !  70 

Beyond  his  wish  he  walks  secure  ; 
But  pass  a  mile — and  then  for  trial, — 
Then  for  the  pride  of  self-denial  ; 
If  he  resist  that  tempting  door, 
Which  with  such  friendly  voice  will  call ; 
If  he  resist  those  casement  panes, 
And  that  bright  gleam  which  thence  will  fall 
Upon  his  Leaders'  bells  and  manes, 
Inviting  him  with  cheerful  lure  : 
For  still,  though  all  be  dark  elsewhere,  80 

Some  shining  notice  will  be  there, 
Of  open  house  and  ready  fare. 

The  place  to  Benjamin  right  well 
Is  known,  and  by  as  strong  a  spell 
As  used  to  be  that  sign  of  love 
And  hope — the  OLIVE-BOUGH  and  DOVE  ; 
He  knows  it  to  his  cost,  good  Man  ! 
Who  does  not  know  the  famous  SWAN  ? 
Object  uncouth  !  and  yet  our  boast, 
For  it  was  painted  by  the  Host ;  90 

His  own  conceit  the  figure  planned, 
'Twas  coloured  all  by  his  own  hand  ; 
And  that  frail  Child  of  thirsty  clay, 
Of  whom  I  sing  this  rustic  lay, 
Could  tell  with  self-dissatisfaction 
Quaint  stories  of  the  bird's  attraction  ! l 

Well !  that  is  past — and  in  despite 
Of  open  door  and  shining  light. 

1  This  rude  piece  of  self-taught  art  (such  is  the  progress  of  refinement)  hM 
been  supplanted  by  a  professional  production. 


THE  WAGGONER  287 

And  now  the  conqueror  essays 

The  long  ascent  of  Dunmail-raise  ;  100 

And  with  his  team  is  gentle  here 

As  when  he  clomb  from  Rydal  Mere ; 

His  whip  they  do  not  dread — his  voice 

They  only  hear  it  to  rejoice. 

To  stand  or  go  is  at  their  pleasure  ; 

Their  efforts  and  their  time  they  measure 

By  generous  pride  within  the  breast ; 

And  while  they  strain,  and  while  they  rest, 

He  thus  pursues  his  thoughts  at  leisure. 


Now  am  I  fairly  safe  to-night —  no 

And  with  proud  cause  my  heart  is  light  : 
I  trespassed  lately  worse  than  ever — 
But  Heaven  has  blest  a  good  endeavour ; 
And,  to  my  soul's  content,  I  find 
The  evil  One  is  left  behind. 
Yes,  let  my  master  fume  and  fret, 
Here  am  I — with  my  horses  yet ! 
My  jolly  team,  he  finds  that  ye 
Will  work  for  nobody  but  me  ! 

Full  proof  of  this  the  Country  gained  ;  120 

It  knows  how  ye  were  vexed  and  strained, 
And  forced  unworthy  stripes  to  bear, 
When  trusted  to  another's  care. 
Here  was  it — on  this  rugged  slope, 
Which  now  ye  climb  with  heart  and  hope, 
I  saw  you,  between  rage  and  fear, 
Plunge,  and  fling  back  a  spiteful  ear, 
And  ever  more  and  more  confused, 
As  ye  were  more  and  more  abused  : 
As  chance  would  have  it,  passing  by  130 

I  saw  you  in  that  jeopardy  : 
A  word  from  me  was  like  a  charm ; 
Ye  pulled  together  with  one  mind  ; 
And  your  huge  burthen,  safe  from  harm. 
Moved  like  a  vessel  in  the  wind ! 
— Yes,  without  me,  up  hills  so  high 
'Tis  vain  to  strive  for  mastery. 
Then  grieve  not,  jolly  team  !  though  tough 
The  road  we  travel,  steep,  and  rough ; 
Though  Rydal-heights  and  Dunmail-raise,  140 

And  all  their  fellow  banks  and  braes, 
Full  often  make  you  stretch  and  strain, 
And  halt  for  breath  and  halt  again, 


288  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Yet  to  their  sturdiness  'tis  owing 
That  side  by  side  we  still  are  going ! 

While  Benjamin  in  earnest  mood 
His  meditations  thus  pursued, 
A  storm,  which  had  been  smothered  long, 
Was  growing  inwardly  more  strong; 
And,  in  its  struggles  to  get  free,  150 

Was  busily  employed  as  he. 
The  thunder  had  begun  to  growl — 
He  heard  not,  too  intent  of  soul ; 
The  air  was  now  without  a  breath — 
He  marked  not  that  'twas  still  as  death. 
But  soon  large  rain-drops  on  his  head 
Fell  with  the  weight  of  drops  of  lead  ; — 
He  starts — and  takes,  at  the  admonition, 
A  sage  survey  of  his  condition. 
The  road  is  black  before  his  eyes,  160 

Glimmering  faintly  where  it  lies ; 
Black  is  the  sky — and  every  hill, 
Up  to  the  sky,  is  blacker  still — 
Sky,  hill,  and  dale,  one  dismal  room, 
Hung  round  and  overhung  with  gloom  ; 
Save  that  above  a  single  height 
Is  to  be  seen  a  lurid  light, 
Above  Helm-crag l — a  streak  half  dead, 
A  burning  of  portentous  red ; 

And  near  that  lurid  light,  full  well  170 

The  ASTROLOGER,  sage  Sidrophel, 
Where  at  his  desk  and  book  he  sits, 
Puzzling  aloft  his  curious  wits ; 
He  whose  domain  is  held  in  common 
With  no  one  but  the  ANCIENT  WOMAN, 
Cowering  beside  her  rifted  cell, 
As  if  intent  on  magic  spell ; — 
Dread  pair,  that,  spite  of  wind  and  weather  3 
Still  sit  upon  Helm-crag  together  ! 

The  ASTROLOGER  was  not  unseen  180 

By  solitary  Benjamin ; 
But  total  darkness  came  anon, 
And  he  and  every  thing  was  gone : 
And  suddenly  a  ruffling  breeze, 
(That  would  have  rocked  the  sounding  trees 

1  A  mountain  of  Grasmere,  the  broken  summit  of  which  presents  two 
figures,  full  as  distinctly  shaped  as  that  of  the  famous  Cobbler  near 
Arroquhar  in  Scotland. 


THE  WAGGONER  289 

Had  aught  of  sylvan  growth  been  there) 

Swept  through  the  Hollow  long  and  bare  : 

The  rain  rushed  down — the  road  was  battered, 

As  with  the  force  of  billows  shattered ; 

The  horses  are  dismayed,  nor  know  190 

Whether  they  should  stand  or  go ; 

And  Benjamin  is  groping  near  them, 

Sees  nothing,  and  can  scarcely  hear  them. 

He  is  astounded, — wonder  not, — 

With  such  a  charge  in  such  a  spot ; 

Astounded  in  the  mountain  gap 

With  thunder-peals,  clap  after  clap, 

Close-treading  on  the  silent  flashes — 

And  somewhere,  as  he  thinks,  by  crashes 

Among  the  rocks ;  with  weight  of  rain,  200 

And  sullen  motions  long  and  slow, 

That  to  a  dreary  distance  go — 

Till,  breaking  in  upon  the  dying  strain, 

A  rending  o'er  his  head  begins  the  fray  again. 

Meanwhile,  uncertain  what  to  do, 
And  oftentimes  compelled  to  halt, 
The  horses  cautiously  pursue 
Their  way,  without  mishap  or  fault ; 
And  now  have  reached  that  pile  of  stones, 
Heaped  over  brave  King  Dunmail's  bones,  210 

He  who  had  once  supreme  command, 
Last  king  of  rocky  Cumberland  ; 
His  bones,  and  those  of  all  his  Power, 
Slain  here  in  a  disastrous  hour ! 

When,  passing  through  this  narrow  strait, 
Stony,  and  dark,  and  desolate, 
Benjamin  can  faintly  hear 
A  voice  that  comes  from  some  one  near, 
A  female  voice  : — '  Whoe'er  you  be, 
Stop,'  it  exclaimed,  '  and  pity  me  ! '  220 

And,  less  in  pity  than  in  wonder, 
Amid  the  darkness  and  the  thunder, 
The  Waggoner,  with  prompt  command, 
Summons  his  horses  to  a  stand. 

While,  with  increasing  agitation, 
The  Woman  urged  her  supplication, 
In  rueful  words,  with  sobs  between — 
The  voice  of  tears  that  fell  unseen  ; 


l-T 


290  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

There  came  a  flash — a  startling  glare, 

And  all  Seat-Sandal  was  laid  bare  !  230 

"Tis  not  a  time  for  nice  suggestion, 

And  Benjamin,  without  a  question, 

Taking  her  for  some  way-worn  rover, 

Said,  '  Mount,  and  get  you  under  cover !' 

Another  voice,  in  tone  as  hoarse 
As  a  swoln  brook  with  rugged  course, 
Cried  out,  '  Good  brother,  why  so  fast  ? 
I  've  had  a  glimpse  of  you — avast ! 
Or,  since  it  suits  you  to  be  civil, 
Take  her  at  once — for  good  and  evil ! '  240 

'  It  is  my  Husband,'  softly  said 
The  Woman,  as  if  half  afraid : 
By  this  time  she  was  snug  within, 
Through  help  of  honest  Benjamin; 
She  and  her  Babe,  which  to  her  breast 
With  thankfulness  the  Mother  pressed ; 
And  now  the  same  strong  voice  more  near 
Said  cordially,  '  My  Friend,  what  cheer  ? 
Rough  doings  these  !  as  God  's  my  judge, 
The  sky  owes  somebody  a  grudge !  250 

We  've  had  in  half  an  hour  or  less 
A  twelvemonth's  terror  and  distress  !' 

Then  Benjamin  entreats  the  Man 
Would  mount,  too,  quickly  as  he  can  : 
The  Sailor — Sailor  now  no  more, 
But  such  he  had  been  heretofore — 
To  courteous  Benjamin  replied, 
'  Go  you  your  way,  and  mind  not  me ; 
For  I  must  have,  whate'er  betide, 
My  Ass  and  fifty  things  beside, —  260 

Go,  and  I  '11  follow  speedily  ! ' 

The  Waggon  moves — and  with  its  load 
Descends  along  the  sloping  road ; 
And  the  rough  Sailor  instantly 
Turns  to  a  little  tent  hard  by  : 
For  when,  at  closing-in  of  day, 
The  family  had  come  that  way, 
Green  pasture  and  the  soft  warm  air 
Tempted  them  to  settle  there. — 
Green  is  the  grass  for  beast  to  graze,  270 

Around  the  stones  of  Dunmail-raise  ! 


THE  WAGGONER  291 

The  Sailor  gathers  up  his  bed, 
Takes  down  the  canvas  overhead ; 
And  after  farewell  to  the  place, 
A  parting  word — though  not  of  grace, 
Pursues,  with  Ass  and  all  his  store, 
The  way  the  Waggon  went  before. 

CANTO  SECOND 

IF  Wytheburn's  modest  House  of  prayer, 

As  lowly  as  the  lowliest  dwelling, 

Had,  with  its  belfry's  humble  stock, 

A  little  pair  that  hang  in  air, 

Been  mistress  also  of  a  clock, 

(And  one,  too,  not  in  crazy  plight), 

Twelve  strokes  that  clock  would  have  been  telling 

Under  the  brow  of  old  Helvellyn — 

Its  bead-roll  of  midnight, 

Then,  when  the  Hero  of  my  tale  10 

Was  passing  by,  and,  down  the  vale 

(The  vale  now  silent,  hushed,  I  ween, 

As  if  a  storm  had  never  been) 

Proceeding  with  a  mind  at  ease ; 

While  the  old  Familiar  of  the  seas, 

Intent  to  use  his  utmost  haste, 

Gained  ground  upon  the  Waggon  fast, 

And  gives  another  lusty  cheer ; 

Foi-,  spite  of  rumbling  of  the  wheels, 

A  welcome  greeting  he  can  hear ; —  20 

It  is  a  fiddle  in  its  glee 

Dinning  from  the  CHERRY  TREE  ! 

Thence  the  sound — the  light  is  there — 
As  Benjamin  is  now  aware, 
Who,  to  his  inward  thoughts  confined, 
Had  almost  reached  the  festive  door, 
When,  startled  by  the  Sailor's  roar, 
He  hears  a  sound  and  sees  the  light, 
And  in  a  moment  calls  to  mind 
That  'tis  the  village  MERRY-NIGHT  ! x  30 

Although  before  in  no  dejection, 
At  this  insidious  recollection 
His  heart  with  sudden  joy  is  filled, — 
His  ears  are  by  the  music  thrilled, 

1  A  term  well  known  in  the  North  of  England,  and  applied  to  rural 
Festivals  where  young  persons  meet  in  the  evening  for  the  purpose  of 
dancing. 


292  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

His  eyes  take  pleasure  in  the  road 

Glittering  before  him  bright  and  broad ; 

And  Benjamin  is  wet  and  cold, 

And  there  are  reasons  manifold 

That  make  the  good,  tow'rds  which  he 's  yearning, 

Look  fairly  like  a  lawful  earning.  40 

Nor  has  thought  time  to  come  and  go, 
To  vibrate  between  yes  and  no ; 
For,  cries  the  Sailor,  '  Glorious  chance 
That  blew  us  hither  ! — let  him  dance, 
Who  can  or  will ! — my  honest  soul, 
Our  treat  shall  be  a  friendly  bowl ! ' 
He  draws  him  to  the  door — 'Come  in, 
Come,  come,'  cries  he  to  Benjamin  ! 
And  Benjamin — ah,  woe  is  me  ! 
Gave  the  word — the  horses  heard  50 

And  halted,  though  reluctantly. 

'  Blithe  souls  and  lightsome  hearts  have  we, 
Feasting  at  the  CHERRY  TREE  ! ' 
This  was  the  outside  proclamation, 
This  was  the  inside  salutation  ; 
What  bustling — jostling — high  and  low  ! 
A  universal  overflow  ! 
What  tankards  foaming  from  the  tap ! 
What  store  of  cakes  in  every  lap  ! 
What  thumping — stumping — overhead  !  60 

The  thunder  had  not  been  more  busy  : 
With  such  a  stir  you  would  have  said, 
This  little  place  may  well  be  dizzy  ! 
'Tis  who  can  dance  with  greatest  vigour — 
'Tis  what  can  be  most  prompt  and  eager; 
As  if  it  heard  the  fiddle's  call, 
The  pewter  clatters  on  the  wall ; 
The  very  bacon  shows  its  feeling, 
Swinging  from  the  smoky  ceiling  ! 

A  steaming  bowl,  a  blazing  fire,  70 

What  greater  good  can  heart  desire  ? 
'Twere  worth  a  wise  man's  while  to  try 
The  utmost  anger  of  the  sky  : 
To  seek  for  thoughts  of  a  gloomy  cast, 
If  such  the  bright  amends  at  last. 
Now  should  you  say  I  judge  amiss, 
The  CHERRY  TREE  shows  proof  of  this ; 


THE  WAGGONER  293 

For  soon,  of  all  the  happy  there, 

Our  Travellers  are  the  happiest  pair  ; 

All  care  with  Benjamin  is  gone —  80 

A  Caesar  past  the  Rubicon  ! 

He  thinks  not  of  his  long,  long,  strife; — 

The  Sailor,  Man  by  nature  gay, 

Hath  no  resolves  to  throw  away ; 

And  he  hath  now  forgot  his  Wife, 

Hath  quite  forgotten  her — or  may  be 

Thinks  her  the  luckiest  soul  on  earth, 

Within  that  warm  and  peaceful  berth, 

Under  cover, 

Terror  over,  90 

Sleeping  by  her  sleeping  Baby. 

With  bowl  that  sped  from  hand  to  hand, 
The  gladdest  of  the  gladsome  band, 
Amid  their  own  delight  and  fun, 
They  hear — when  every  dance  is  done, 
When  every  whirling  bout  is  o'er — 
The  fiddle's  squeak l — that  call  to  bliss, 
Ever  followed  by  a  kiss  ; 
They  envy  not  the  happy  lot, 
But  enjoy  their  own  the  more  !  100 

While  thus  our  jocund  Travellers  fare, 
Up  springs  the  Sailor  from  his  chair — 
Limps  (for  I  might  have  told  before 
That  he  was  lame)  across  the  floor — 
Is  gone — returns — and  with  a  prize  ; 
With  what  ? — a  Ship  of  lusty  size  ; 
A  gallant  stately  Man-of-war, 
Fixed  on  a  smoothly-sliding  car. 
Surprise  to  all,  but  most  surprise 
To  Benjamin,  who  rubs  his  eyes,  no 

Not  knowing  that  he  had  befriended 
A  Man  so  gloriously  attended  ! 

'  This/  cries  the  Sailor,  '  a  Third-rate  is — 
Stand  back,  and  you  shall  see  her  gratis ! 
This  was  the  Flag-ship  at  the  Nile, 
The  VANGUARD — you  may  smirk  and  smile, 
But,  pretty  Maid,  if  you  look  near, 
You'll  find  you've  much  in  little  here! 

1  At  the  close  of  each  strathspey,  or  jig,  a  particular  note  from  the 
fidille  summons  the  Rustic  to  the  agreeable  duty  of  saluting  his  partner. 


294  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

A  nobler  ship  did  never  swim, 

And  you  shall  see  her  in  full  trim  :  120 

I  '11  set,  my  friends,  to  do  you  honour, 

Set  every  inch  of  sail  upon  her.' 

So  said,  so  done ;  and  masts,  sails,  yards, 

He  names  them  all ;  and  interlards 

His  speech  with  uncouth  terms  of  art, 

Accomplished  in  the  showman's  part; 

And  then,  as  from  a  sudden  check, 

Cries  out — f'Tis  there,  the  quarter-deck 

On  which  brave  Admiral  Nelson  stood — 

A  sight  that  would  have  roused  your  blood !          130 

One  eye  he  had,  which,  bright  as  ten, 

Burned  like  a  fire  among  his  men ; 

Let  this  be  land,  and  that  be  sea, 

Here  lay  the  French — and  thus  came  we  !' 

Hushed  was  by  this  the  fiddle's  sound, 
The  dancers  all  were  gathered  round, 
And  such  the  stillness  of  the  house, 
You  might  have  heard  a  nibbling  mouse  ; 
While,  borrowing  helps  where'er  he  may, 
The  Sailor  through  the  story  runs  140 

Of  ships  to  ships  and  guns  to  guns ; 
And  does  his  utmost  to  display 
The  dismal  conflict,  and  the  might 
And  terror  of  that  marvellous  night ! 
'  A  bowl,  a  bowl  of  double  measure,' 
Cries  Benjamin,  '  a  draught  of  length, 
To  Nelson,  England's  pride  and  treasure, 
Her  bulwark  and  her  tower  of  strength  ! ' 
When  Benjamin  had  seized  the  bowl, 
The  mastiff,  from  beneath  the  waggon,  150 

Where  he  lay,  watchful  as  a  dragon, 
Rattled  his  chain ; — 'twas  all  in  vain, 
For  Benjamin,  triumphant  soul  ! 
He  heard  the  monitory  growl  ; 
Heard — and  in  opposition  quaffed 
A  deep,  determined,  desperate  draught ! 
Nor  did  the  battered  Tar  forget, 
Or  flinch  from  what  he  deemed  his  debt : 
Then,  like  a  hero  crowned  with  laurel, 
Back  to  her  place  the  ship  he  led;  160 

Wheeled  her  back  in  full  apparel  ; 
And  so,  flag  flying  at  mast-head, 
Re-yoked  her  to  the  Ass : — anon 
Cries  Benjamin,  '  We  must  be  gone.' 


THE  WAGGONER  295 

Thus,  after  two  hours'  hearty  stay, 
Again  behold  them  on  their  way  ! 

CANTO  THIRD 

RIGHT  gladly  had  the  horses  stirred, 

When  they  the  wished-for  greeting  heard, 

The  whip's  loud  notice  from  the  door, 

That  they  were  free  to  move  once  more. 

You  think,  those  doings  must  have  bred 

In  them  disheartening  doubts  and  dread ; 

No,  not  a  horse  of  all  the  eight, 

Although  it  be  a  moonless  night, 

Fears  either  for  himself  or  freight; 

For  this  they  know  (and  let  it  hide,  10 

In  part,  the  offences  of  their  guide) 

That  Benjamin,  with  clouded  brains, 

Is  worth  the  best  with  all  their  pains ; 

And,  if  they  had  a  prayer  to  make, 

The  prayer  would  be  that  they  may  take 

With  him  whatever  comes  in  course, 

The  better  fortune  or  the  worse  ; 

That  no  one  else  may  have  business  near  them, 

And,  drunk  or  sober,  he  may  steer  them. 

So  forth  in  dauntless  mood  they  fare,  20 

And  with  them  goes  the  guardian  pair. 

Now,  heroes,  for  the  true  commotion, 
The  triumph  of  your  late  devotion  ! 
Can  aught  on  earth  impede  delight, 
Still  mounting  to  a  higher  height; 
And  higher  still — a  greedy  flight ! 
Can  any  low-born  care  pursue  her, 
Can  any  mortal  clog  come  to  her  ? 
No  notion  have  they — not  a  thought, 
That  is  from  joyless  regions  brought !  30 

And,  while  they  coast  the  silent  lake, 
Their  inspiration  I  partake  ; 
Share  their  empyreal  spirits — yea, 
With  their  enraptured  vision  see — 
O  fancy — what  a  jubilee ! 
What  shifting  pictures — clad  in  gleams 
Of  colour  bright  as  feverish  dreams  ! 
Earth,  spangled  sky,  and  lake  serene, 
Involved  and  restless  all — a  scene 
Pregnant  with  mutual  exaltation,  40 

Rich  change,  and  multiplied  creation  ! 


296  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

This  sight  to  me  the  Muse  imparts ; — 

And  then,  what  kindness  in  their  hearts  ! 

What  tears  of  rapture,  what  vow-making, 

Profound  entreaties,  and  hand-shaking  ! 

What  solemn,  vacant,  interlacing, 

As  if  they  'd  fall  asleep  embracing  ! 

Then,  in  the  turbulence  of  glee, 

And  in  the  excess  of  amity, 

Says  Benjamin, '  That  Ass  of  thine,  50 

He  spoils  thy  sport,  and  hinders  mine : 

If  he  were  tethered  to  the  waggon, 

He  'd  drag  as  well  what  he  is  dragging ; 

And  we,  as  brother  should  with  brother, 

Might  trudge  it  alongside  each  other  ! ' 

Forthwith,  obedient  to  command, 
The  horses  made  a  quiet  stand  ; 
And  to  the  waggon's  skirts  was  tied 
The  Creature,  by  the  Mastiff's  side, 
The  Mastiff  wondering,  and  perplext  60 

With  dread  of  what  will  happen  next ; 
And  thinking  it  but  sorry  cheer 
To  have  such  company  so  near  ! 

This  new  arrangement  made,  the  Wain 
Through  the  still  night  proceeds  again  ; 
No  Moon  hath  risen  her  light  to  lend  ; 
But  indistinctly  may  be  kenned 
The  VANGUARD,  following  close  behind, 
Sails  spread,  as  if  to  catch  the  wind ! 

'  Thy  wife  and  child  are  snug  and  warm,  70 

Thy  ship  will  travel  without  harm  ; 
I  like,'  said  Benjamin, '  her  shape  and  stature : 
And  this  of  mine — this  bulky  creature 
Of  which  I  have  the  steering — this, 
Seen  fairly,  is  not  much  amiss  ! 
We  want  your  streamers,  friend,  you  know  ; 
But,  altogether  as  we  go, 
We  make  a  kind  of  handsome  show  ! 
Among  these  hills,  from  first  to  last, 
We  've  weathered  many  a  furious  blast ;  80 

Hard  passage  forcing  on,  with  head 
Against  the  storm,  and  canvas  spread. 
I  hate  a  boaster  ;  but  to  thee 
Will  say't,  who  know'st  both  land  and  sea, 
The  unluckiest  hulk  that  stems  the  brine 
Is  hardly  worse  beset  than  mine, 


THE  WAGGONER  297 

When  cross-winds  on  her  quarter  beat; 

And,  fairly  lifted  from  my  feet, 

I  stagger  onward — heaven  knows  how  ; 

But  not  so  pleasantly  as  now  :  90 

Poor  pilot  I,  by  snows  confounded, 

And  many  a  foundrous  pit  surrounded  ! 

Yet  here  we  are,  by  night  and  day 

Grinding  through  rough  and  smooth  our  way ; 

Through  foul  and  fair  our  task  fulfilling ; 

And  long  shall  be  so  yet — God  willing  ! ' 

'Ay/  said  the  Tar,  'through  fair  and  foul — 
But  save  us  from  yon  screeching  owl ! ' 
That  instant  was  begun  a  fray 

Which  called  their  thoughts  another  way  :  100 

The  Mastiff,  ill-conditioned  carl  ! 
What  must  he  do  but  growl  and  snarl, 
Still  more  and  more  dissatisfied 
With  the  meek  comrade  at  his  side  ! 
Till,  not  incensed  though  put  to  proof, 
The  Ass,  uplifting  a  hind  hoof, 
Salutes  the  Mastiff  on  the  head  ; 
And  so  were  better  manners  bred, 
And  all  was  calmed  and  quieted. 

'  Yon  screech-owl,'  says  the  Sailor,  turning      no 
Back  to  his  former  cause  of  mourning, 
'  Yon  owl ! — pray  God  that  all  be  well ! 
'Tis  worse  than  any  funeral  bell ; 
As  sure  as  I  've  the  gift  of  sight, 
We  shall  be  meeting  ghosts  to-night ! ' 
— Said  Benjamin,  'This  whip  shall  lay 
A  thousand,  if  they  cross  our  way. 
I  know  that  Wanton's  noisy  station, 
I  know  him  and  his  occupation  ; 
The  jolly  bird  hath  learned  his  cheer  120 

Upon  the  banks  of  Windermere ; 
Where  a  tribe  of  them  make  merry, 
Mocking  the  Man  that  keeps  the  ferry  ; 
Hallooing  from  an  open  throat, 
Like  travellers  shouting  for  a  boat. 
— The  tricks  he  learned  at  Windermere 
This  vagrant  owl  is  playing  here — 
That  is  the  worst  of  his  employment : 
He 's  at  the  top  of  his  enjoyment ! ' 

This  explanation  stilled  the  alarm,  130 

Cured  the  foreboder  like  a  charm ; 


298  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

This,  and  the  manner,  and  the  voice, 

Summoned  the  Sailor  to  rejoice ; 

His  heart  is  up — he  fears  no  evil 

From  life  or  death,  from  man  or  devil ; 

He  wheels — and,  making  many  stops, 

Brandished  his  crutch  against  the  mountain  tops ; 

And,  while  he  talked  of  blows  and  scars, 

Benjamin,  among  the  stars, 

Beheld  a  dancing — and  a  glancing  •  140 

Such  retreating  and  advancing 

As,  I  ween,  was  never  seen 

In  bloodiest  battle  since  the  days  of  Mars ! 

CANTO  FOURTH 

THUS  they,  with  freaks  of  proud  delight, 
Beguile  the  remnant  of  the  night ; 
And  many  a  snatch  of  jovial  song 
Regales  them  as  they  wind  along ; 
While  to  the  music,  from  on  high, 
The  echoes  make  a  glad  reply. — 
But  the  sage  Muse  the  revel  heeds 
No  farther  than  her  story  needs ; 
Nor  will  she  servilely  attend 

The  loitering  journey  to  its  end.  10 

— Blithe  spirits  of  her  own  impel 
The  Muse,  who  scents  the  morning  air, 
To  take  of  this  transported  pair 
A  brief  and  unreproved  farewell ; 
To  quit  the  slow-paced  waggon's  side, 
And  wander  down  yon  hawthorn  dell, 
With  murmuring  Greta  for  her  guide. 
— There  doth  she  ken  the  awful  form 
Of  Raven-crag — black  as  a  storm — 
Glimmering  through  the  twilight  pale ;  20 

And  Ghimmer-crag,1  his  tall  twin  brother, 
Each  peering  forth  to  meet  the  other : — 
And,  while  she  roves  through  St.  John's  Vale, 
Along  the  smooth  unpathwayed  plain, 
By  sheep-track  or  through  cottage  lane, 
Where  no  disturbance  comes  to  intrude 
Upon  the  pensive  solitude, 
Her  unsuspecting  eye,  perchance, 
With  the  rude  shepherd's  favoured  glance, 
Beholds  the  faeries  in  array,  30 

Whose  party-coloured  garments  gay 
The  silent  company  betray  : 

1  The  crag  of  the  ewe  lamb. 


THE  WAGGONER  299 

Red,  green,  and  blue  ;  a  moment's  sight ! 

For  Skiddaw-top  with  rosy  light 

Is  touched — and  all  the  band  take  flight. 

— Fly  also,  Muse  !  and  from  the  dell 

Mount  to  the  ridge  of  Nathdale  Fell ; 

Thence  look  thou  forth  o'er  wood  and  lawn 

Hoar  with  the  frost-like  dews  of  dawn  ; 

Across  yon  meadowy  bottom  look,  40 

Where  close  fogs  hide  their  parent  brook  ; 

And  see,  beyond  that  hamlet  small, 

The  ruined  towers  of  Threlkeld-hall, 

Lurking  in  a  double  shade, 

By  trees  and  lingering  twilight  made  ! 

There,  at  Blencathara's  rugged  feet, 

Sir  Lancelot  gave  a  safe  retreat 

To  noble  Clifford  ;  from  annoy 

Concealed  the  persecuted  boy, 

Well  pleased  in  rustic  garb  to  feed  50 

His  flock,  and  pipe  on  shepherd's  reed 

Among  this  multitude  of  hills, 

Crags,  woodlands,  waterfalls,  and  rills  ; 

Which  soon  the  morning  shall  enfold, 

From  east  to  west,  in  ample  vest 

Of  massy  gloom  and  radiance  bold. 

The  mists,  that  o'er  the  streamlet's  bed 
Hung  low,  begin  to  rise  and  spread  ; 
Even  while  I  speak,  their  skirts  of  grey 
Are  smitten  by  a  silver  ray ;  60 

And  lo  ! — up  Castrigg's  naked  steep 
(Where,  smoothly  urged,  the  vapours  sweep 
Along — and  scatter  and  divide, 
Like  fleecy  clouds  self-multiplied) 
The  stately  waggon  is  ascending, 
With  faithful  Benjamin  attending, 
Apparent  now  beside  his  team — 
Now  lost  amid  a  glittering  steam  : 
And  with  him  goes  his  Sailor-friend, 
By  this  time  near  their  journey's  end  ;  70 

And,  after  their  high-minded  riot, 
Sickening  into  thoughtful  quiet  ; 
As  if  the  morning's  pleasant  hour 
Had  for  their  joys  a  killing  power. 
And,  sooth,  for  Benjamin  a  vein 
Is  opened  of  still  deeper  pain, 
As  if  his  heart  by  notes  were  stung 
From  out  the  lowly  hedge-rows  flung ; 


300  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

As  if  the  warbler  lost  in  light 

Reproved  his  soarings  of  the  night,  80 

In  strains  of  rapture  pure  and  holy 

Upbraided  his  distempered  folly. 


Drooping  is  he,  his  step  is  dull ; 
But  the  horses  stretch  and  pull  ; 
With  increasing  vigour  climb, 
Eager  to  repair  lost  time ; 
Whether,  by  their  own  desert, 
Knowing  what  cause  there  is  for  shame, 
They  are  labouring  to  avert 

As  much  as  may  be  of  the  blame,  90 

Which,  they  foresee,  must  soon  alight 
Upon  his  head,  whom,  in  despite 
Of  all  his  failings,  they  love  best ; 
Whether  for  him  they  are  distrest ; 
Or,  by  length  of  fasting  roused, 
Are  impatient  to  be  housed  : 
Up  against  the  hill  they  strain 
Tugging  at  the  iron  chain, 
Tugging  all  with  might  and  main, 
Last  and  foremost,  every  horse  100 

To  the  utmost  of  his  force  ! 
And  the  smoke  and  respiration, 
Rising  like  an  exhalation, 
Blend  with  the  mist — a  moving  shroud 
To  form,  an  undissolving  cloud  ; 
Which,  with  slant  ray,  the  merry  sun 
Takes  delight  to  play  upon. 
Never  golden-haired  Apollo, 
Pleased  some  favourite  chief  to  follow 
Through  accidents  of  peace  or  war,  no 

In  a  perilous  moment  threw 
Around  the  object  of  his  care 
Veil  of  such  celestial  hue  ;  \ 

Interposed  so  bright  a  screen — 
Him  and  his  enemies  between  ! 


Alas  !  what  boots  it  ? — who  can  hide, 
When  the  malicious  Fates  are  bent 
On  working  out  an  ill  intent  ? 
Can  destiny  be  turned  aside  ? 
No — sad  progress  of  my  story  ! 
Benjamin,  this  outward  glory 


THE  WAGGONER  301 

Cannot  shield  thee  from  thy  Master, 

Who  from  Keswick  has  pricked  forth, 

Sour  and  surly  as  the  north  ; 

And,  in  fear  of  some  disaster, 

Comes  to  give  what  help  he  may, 

And  to  hear  what  thou  canst  say  ; 

If,  as  needs  he  must  forbode, 

Thou  hast  been  loitering  on  the  road ! 

His  fears,  his  doubts,  may  now  take  flight —        130 

The  wished-for  object  is  in  sight ; 

Yet,  trust  the  Muse,  it  rather  hath 

Stirred  him  up  to  livelier  wrath  ; 

Which  he  stifles,  moody  man  ! 

With  all  the  patience  that  he  can  ; 

To  the  end  that,  at  your  meeting, 

He  may  give  thee  decent  greeting. 


There  he  is — resolved  to  stop, 
Till  the  waggon  gains  the  top  ; 
But  stop  he  cannot — must  advance  :  140 

Him  Benjamin,  with  lucky  glance, 
Espies — and  instantly  is  ready, 
Self-collected,  poised,  and  steady : 
And,  to  be  the  better  seen, 
Issues  from  his  radiant  shroud, 
From  his  close-attending  cloud, 
With  careless  air  and  open  mien. 
Erect  his  port,  and  firm  his  going  ; 
So  struts  yon  cock  that  now  is  crowing ; 
And  the  morning  light  in  grace  150 

Strikes  upon  his  lifted  face, 
Hurrying  the  pallid  hue  away 
That  might  his  trespasses  betray. 
But  what  can  all  avail  to  clear  him, 
Or  what  need  of  explanation, 
Parley  or  interrogation  ? 
For  the  Master  sees,  alas  ! 
That  unhappy  Figure  near  him, 
Limping  o'er  the  dewy  grass, 

Where  the  road  it  fringes,  sweet,  160 

Soft  and  cool  to  way-worn  feet ; 
And,  O  indignity  !  an  Ass, 
By  his  noble  Mastiffs  side, 
Tethered  to  the  waggon's  tail : 
And  the  ship,  in  all  her  pride, 
Following  after  in  full  sail ! 


302  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Not  to  speak  of  babe  and  mother ; 

Who,  contented  with  each  other, 

And  snug  as  birds  in  leafy  arbour, 

Find,  within,  a  blessed  harbour  !  170 

With  eager  eyes  the  Master  pries ; 
Looks  in  and  out,  and  through  and  through  ; 
Says  nothing — till  at  last  he  spies 
A  wound  upon  the  Mastiff's  head, 
A  wound  where  plainly  might  be  read 
What  feats  an  Ass's  hoof  can  do  ! 
But  drop  the  rest : — this  aggravation, 
This  complicated  provocation, 
A  hoard  of  grievances  unsealed  ; 
All  past  forgiveness  it  repealed;  180 

And  thus,  and  through  distempered  blood 
On  both  sides,  Benjamin  the  good, 
The  patient,  and  the  tender-hearted, 
Was  from  his  team  and  waggon  parted ; 
When  duty  of  that  day  was  o'er, 
Laid  down  his  whip — and  served  no  more. — 
Nor  could  the  waggon  long  survive, 
Which  Benjamin  had  ceased  to  drive  : 
It  lingered  on  ; — guide  after  guide 
Ambitiously  the  office  tried ;  190 

But  each  unmanageable  hill 
Called  for  his  patience  and  his  skill ; — 
And  sure  it  is,  that  through  this  night, 
And  what  the  morning  brought  to  light, 
Two  losses  had  we  to  sustain, 
We  lost  both  WAGGONER  and  WAIN! 


Accept,  O  Friend,  for  praise  or  blame, 
The  gift  of  this  adventurous  song  ; 
A  record  which  I  dared  to  frame, 
Though  timid  scruples  checked  me  long; 
They  checked  me — and  I  left  the  theme 
Untouched  ; — in  spite  of  many  a  gleam 
Of  fancy  which  thereon  was  shed, 
Like  pleasant  sunbeams  shifting  still 
Upon  the  side  of  a  distant  hill : 
But  Nature  might  not  be  gainsaid  ; 
For  what  I  have  and  what  I  miss 
I  sing  of  these  ; — it  makes  my  bliss  ! 


THE  WAGGONER  303 

Nor  is  it  I  who  play  the  part, 

But  a  shy  spirit  in  my  heart,  210 

That  comes  and  goes — will  sometimes  leap 

From  hiding-places  ten  years  deep  ; 

Or  haunts  me  with  familiar  face, 

Returning,  like  a  ghost  unlaid, 

Until  the  debt  I  owe  be  paid. 

Forgive  me,  then ;  for  I  had  been 

On  friendly  terms  with  this  Machine  : 

In  him,  while  he  was  wont  to  trace 

Our  roads,  through  many  a  long  year's  space, 

A  living  almanack  had  we;  220 

We  had  a  speaking  diary, 

That  in  this  uneventful  place, 

Gave  to  the  days  a  mark  and  name 

By  which  we  knew  them  when  they  came. 

— Yes,  I,  and  all  about  me  here, 

Through  all  the  changes  of  the  year, 

Had  seen  him  through  the  mountains  go, 

In  pomp  of  mist  or  pomp  of  snow, 

Majestically  huge  and  slow  : 

Or  with  a  milder  grace  adorning  230 

The  landscape  of  a  summer's  morning ; 

While  Grasmere  smoothed  her  liquid  plain 

The  moving  image  to  detain ; 

And  mighty  Fairfield,  with  a  chime 

Of  echoes,  to  his  march  kept  time  ; 

When  little  other  business  stirred, 

And  little  other  sound  was  heard  ; 

In  that  delicious  hour  of  balm, 

Stillness,  solitude,  and  calm, 

While  yet  the  valley  is  arrayed,  240 

On  this  side  with  a  sober  shade; 

On  that  is  prodigally  bright — 

Crag,  lawn,  and  wood — with  rosy  light. 

— But  most  of  all,  thou  lordly  Wain  ! 

I  wish  to  have  thee  here  again, 

When  windows  flap  and  chimney  roars, 

And  all  is  dismal  out  of  doors  ; 

And,  sitting  by  my  fire,  I  see 

Eight  sorry  carts,  no  less  a  train ! 

Unworthy  successors  of  thee,  250 

Come  straggling  through  the  wind  and  rain  : 

And  oft,  as  they  pass  slowly  on, 

Beneath  my  windows,  one  by  one, 

See,  perched  upon  the  naked  height 

The  summit  of  a  cumbrous  freight, 


304  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

A  single  traveller — and  there 

Another  ;  then  perhaps  a  pair — 

The  lame,  the  sickly,  and  the  old  ; 

Men,  women,  heartless  with  the  cold ; 

And  babes  in  wet  and  starveling  plight ;  260 

Which  once,  be  weather  as  it  might, 

Had  still  a  nest  within  a  nest, 

Thy  shelter — and  their  mother's  breast ! 

Then  most  of  all,  then  far  the  most, 

Do  I  regret  what  we  have  lost ; 

Am  grieved  for  that  unhappy  sin 

Which  robbed  us  of  good  Benjamin  ; — 

And  of  his  stately  Charge,  which  none 

Could  keep  alive  when  He  was  gone  ! 

1805 


THERE  WAS  A  BOY  305 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION 

I 
THERE  WAS  A  BOY 

THERE  was  a  Boy ;  ye  knew  him  well,  ye  cliffs 
And  islands  of  Winander  !  many  a  time, 
At  evening,  when  the  earliest  stars  began 
To  move  along  the  edges  of  the  hills, 
Rising  or  setting,  would  he  stand  alone, 
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 
Of  jocund  din  !     And,  when  there  came  a  pause 
Of  silence  such  as  baffled  his  best  skill : 
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. 

This  boy  was  taken  from  his  mates,  and  died 
In  childhood,  ere  he  was  full  twelve  years  old. 
Pre-eminent  in  beauty  is  the  vale 
Where  he  was  born  and  bred :  the  churchyard  hangs 
Upon  a  slope  above  the  village-school ;  30 

And  through  that  churchyard  when  my  way  has  led 
On  summer-evenings,  I  believe  that  there 
A  long  half-hour  together  I  have  stood 
Mute — looking  at  the  grave  in  which  he  lies  ! 

1798 
1-U 


306  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

II 
TO  THE  CUCKOO 

O  BLITHE  New-comer !  I  have  heard, 
I  hear  thee  and  rejoice. 

0  Cuckoo !  shall  I  call  thee  Bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  Voice  ? 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass 
Thy  twofold  shout  I  hear; 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 
At  once  far  off,  and  near. 

Though  babbling  only  to  the  Vale 

Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers,  10 

Thou  bringest  unto  me  a  tale 

Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  Spring  ! 

Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 

No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing, 

A  voice,  a  mystery  ; 

The  same  whom  in  my  school-boy  days 

1  listened  to  ;  that  Cry 

Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways 

In  bush,  and  tree,  and  sky.  ao 

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 ; 
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  ! 

1802 


AIREY-FORCE  VALLEY  307 

HI 
A  NIGHT-PIECE 

THE  sky  is  overcast 

With  a  continuous  cloud  of  texture  close, 

Heavy  and  wan,  all  whitened  by  the  Moon, 

Which  through  that  veil  is  indistinctly  seen, 

A  dull,  contracted  circle,  yielding  light 

So  feebly  spread  that  not  a  shadow  falls, 

Chequering  the  ground — from  rock,  plant,  tree,  or  tower. 

At  length  a  pleasant  instantaneous  gleam 

Startles  the  pensive  traveller  while  he  treads 

His  lonesome  path,  with  unobserving  eye  10 

Bent  earthwards ;  he  looks  up — the  clouds  are  split 

Asunder, — and  above  his  head  he  sees 

The  clear  Moon,  and  the  glory  of  the  heavens. 

There  in  a  black-blue  vault  she  sails  along, 

Followed  by  multitudes  of  stars,  that,  small 

And  sharp,  and  bright,  along  the  dark  abyss 

Drive  as  she  drives :  how  fast  they  wheel  away, 

Yet  vanish  not ! — the  wind  is  in  the  tree, 

But  they  are  silent ; — still  they  roll  along 

Immeasurably  distant ;  and  the  vault,  20 

Built  round  by  those  white  clouds,  enormous  clouds, 

Still  deepens  its  unfathomable  depth. 

At  length  the  Vision  closes  ;  and  the  mind, 

Not  undisturbed  by  the  delight  it  feels, 

Which  slowly  settles  into  peaceful  calm, 

Is  left  to  muse  upon  the  solemn  scene. 

1798 

IV 
AIREY-FORCE  VALLEY 

NOT  a  breath  of  air 

Ruffles  the  bosom  of  this  leafy  glen. 

From  the  brook's  margin,  wide  around,  the  trees 

Are  steadfast  as  the  rocks  ;  the  brook  itself, 

Old  as  the  hills  that  feed  it  from  afar, 

Doth  rather  deepen  than  disturb  the  calm 

Where  all  things  else  are  still  and  motionless. 

And  yet,  even  now,  a  little  breeze,  perchance 

Escaped  from  boisterous  winds  that  rage  without. 

Has  entered,  by  the  sturdy  oaks  unfelt,  10 

But  to  its  gentle  touch  how  sensitive 

Is  the  light  ash  !  that,  pendent  from  the  brow 


308  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Of  yon  dim  cave,  in  seeming  silence  makes 

A  soft  eye-music  of  slow-waving  boughs, 

Powerful  almost  as  vocal  harmony 

To  stay  the  wanderer's  steps  and  soothe  his  thoughts. 

Published  1842 


YEW-TREES 

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 
To  Scotland's  heaths ;  or  those  that  crossed  the  sea 
And  drew  their  sounding  bows  at  A/incour, 
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 ; 
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 
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  undistui'bed  of  mossy  stone,  30 

United  worship  ;  or  in  mute  repose 
To  lie,  and  listen  to  the  mountain  flood 
Murmuring  from  Glaramara's  inmost  caves. 

1803 

VI 
NUTTING 

-Ix  seems  a  day 


(I  speak  of  one  from  many  singled  out) 


NUTTING  309 

One  of  those  heavenly  days  that  cannot  die  ; 

When,  in  the  eagerness  of  boyish  hope, 

I  left  our  cottage-threshold,  sallying  forth 

With  a  huge  wallet  o'er  my  shoulders  slung, 

A  nutting-crook  in  hand ;  and  turned  my  steps 

Tow'rd  some  far-distant  wood,  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 — 

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, 

Forcing  my  way,  I  came  to  one  dear  nook 

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  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 

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 

That,  fleeced  with  moss,  under  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,  <o 

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 

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 : 


310  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Ere  from  the  mutilated  bower  I  turned  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. — 

Then,  dearest  Maiden,  move  along  these  shades 

In  gentleness  of  heart ;  with  gentle  hand 

Touch — for  there  is  a  spirit  in  the  woods. 

1799 

VII 

THE  SIMPLON  PASS 
BROOK  and  road 


Were  fellow-travellers  in  this  gloomy  Pass, 

And  with  them  did  we  journey  several  hours 

At  a  slow  step.     The  immeasurable  height 

Of  woods  decaying,  never  to  be  decayed, 

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, 

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 — 

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. 

Published  1845 

VIII 

SHE  was  a  Phantom  of  delight 
When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight ; 
A  lovely  Apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 
Her  eyes  as  stars  of  Twilight  fair ; 
Like  Twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  Dawn ; 
A  dancing  Shape,  an  Image  gay, 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  way-lay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 
A  Spirit,  yet  a  Woman  too  ! 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION          311 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin-liberty  ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 

A  Creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food  ; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles.      20 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene  - 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine  ; 
A  Being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  Traveller  between  life  and  death  ; 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill ; 
A  perfect  Woman,  nobly  planned, 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command  ; 
And  yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  angelic  light.  30 

1804 


IX 

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 ; 
A  song  in  mockery  and  despite 
Of  shades,  and  dews,  and  silent  night ; 
And  steady  bliss,  and  all  the  loves 
Now  sleeping  in  these  peaceful  groves. 


I  heard  a  Stock-dove  sing  or  say 

His  homely  tale,  this  very  day  ; 

His  voice  was  buried  among  trees, 

Yet  to  be  come-at  by  the  breeze  : 

He  did  not  cease  ;  but  cooed — and  cooed  ; 

And  somewhat  pensively  he  wooed  : 

He  sang  of  love,  with  quiet  blending, 

Slow  to  begin,  and  never  ending ; 

Of  serious  faith,  and  inward  glee  ; 

That  was  the  song — the  song  for  me  ! 

1807 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


X 

r  I  AHREE  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 
A  Lady  of  my  own. 

'  Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 

Both  law  and  impulse :  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 ; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  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 

By  silent  sympathy. 

'The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 

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 

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 

Here  in  this  happy  dell.' 

Thus  Nature  spake — The  work  was  done — 
How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run  ! 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION          313 

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. 

1799 

XI 

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 ; 

She  neither  hears  nor  sees  ; 
Rolled  round  in  earth's  diurnal  course, 

With  rocks,  and  stones,  and  trees. 

1799 

XII 

I   WANDERED  lonely  as  a  cloud 
That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 
A  host,  of  golden  daffodils  ; 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 

And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 

They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 

Along  the  margin  of  a  bay  :  10 

Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 

Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced  ;  but  they 

Out- did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee : 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay, 

In  such  a  jocund  company  : 

I  gazed — and  gazed — but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought : 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood,  20 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude  ; 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

1804 


314  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

XIII 
THE  REVERIE  OF  POOR  SUSAN 

A^1  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  when  daylight  appears, 
Hangs  a  Thrush  that  sings  loud,  it  has  sung  for 

three  years  : 

Poor  Susan  has  passed  by  the  spot,  and  has  heard 
In  the  silence  of  morning  the  song  of  the  Bird. 

'Tis  a  note  of  enchantment ;  what  ails  her  ?     She  sees 
A  mountain  ascending,  a  vision  of  trees  ; 
Bright  volumes  of  vapour  through  Lothbury  glide, 
And  a  river  flows  on  through  the  vale  of  Cheapside. 

Green  pastures  she  views  in  the  midst  of  the  dale, 
Down  which  she  so  often  has  tripped  with  her  pail ;     10 
And  a  single  small  cottage,  a  nest  like  a  dove's, 
The  one  only  dwelling  on  earth  that  she  loves. 

She  looks,  and  her  heart  is  in  heaven :  but  they  fade, 
The  mist  and  the  river,  the  hill  and  the  shade : 
The  stream  will  not  flow,  and  the  hill  will  not  rise, 
And  the  colours  have  all  passed  away  from  her  eyes  ! 

1797 

XIV 
POWER  OF  MUSIC 

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

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

What  an  eager  assembly  !  what  an  empire  is  this  ! 
The  weary  have  life,  and  the  hungry  have  bliss;  10 

The  mourner  is  cheered,  and  the  anxious  have  rest ; 
And  the  guilt-burthened  soul  is  110  longer  opprest. 

As  the   Moon  brightens  round  her  the  clouds  of  the 

night, 

So  He,  where  he  stands,  is  a  centre  of  light ; 
It  gleams  on  the  face,  there,  of  dusky-browed  Jack, 
And  the  pale-visaged  Baker's,  with  basket  on  back. 


STAR-GAZERS  315 

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

The  Porter  sits  down  on  the  weight  which  he  bore  ;    21 
The  Lass  with  her  barrow  wheels  hither  her  store  ; — 
If  a  thief  could  be  here  he  might  pilfer  at  ease ; 
She  sees  the  Musician,  'tis  all  that  she  sees  ! 

He  stands,  backed  by  the  wall ; — he  abates  not  his  din  ; 
His  hat  gives  him  vigour,  with  boons  dropping  in, 
From   the   old  and  the  young,  from  the  poorest ;  and 

there ! 
The  one-pennied  Boy  has  his  penny  to  spare. 

0  blest  are  the  hearers,  and  proud  be  the  hand 

Of  the  pleasure  it  spreads  through  so  thankful  a  band ; 

1  am  glad  for  him,  blind  as  he  is  ! — all  the  while  31 
If  they  speak  'tis  to  praise,  and  they  praise  with  a  smile. 

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

Mark  that  Cripple  who  leans  on  his  crutch  ;  like  a  tower 
That  long  has  leaned  forward,  leans  hour  after  hour  ! — 
That  Mother,  whose  spirit  in  fetters  is  bound,  39 

While  she  dandles  the  Babe  in  her  arms  to  the  sound. 

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

1806 

XV 
STAR-GAZERS 

WHAT  crowd  is  this  ?  what  have  we  here !  we  must 
not  pass  it  by  ; 

A  Telescope  upon  its  frame,  and  pointed  to  the  sky : 
Long  is  it  as  a  barber's  pole,  or  mast  of  little  boat, 
Some  little  pleasure-skiff,  that  doth  on  Thames's  waters  float. 


316  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

The  Showman  chooses  well  his  place,  'tis  Leicester's  busy 

Square ; 
And  is  as  happy  in  his  night,  for  the  heavens  are  blue  and 

fair; 
Calm,  though  impatient,  is  the  crowd  ;  each  stands  ready 

with  the  fee, 
And  envies  him  that 's  looking  ; — what  an  insight  must  it  be  ! 

Yet,  Showman,  where  can  lie  the  cause  ?  Shall  thy  Imple- 
ment have  blame, 

A  boaster  that,  when  he  is  tried,  fails,  and  is  put  to  shame  ? 
Or  is  it  good  as  others  are,  and  be  their  eyes  in  fault  ?  n 
Their  eyes,  or  minds  ?  or,  finally,  is  yon  resplendent  vault  ? 

Is  nothing  of  that  radiant  pomp  so  good  as  we  have  here  ? 
Or  gives  a  thing  but  small  delight  that  never  can  be  dear  ? 
The  silver  moon  with  all  her  vales,  and  hills  of  mightiest 

fame, 
Doth  she  betray  us  when  they  're  seen  ?  or  are  they  but  a 

name? 

Or  is  it  rather  that  Conceit  rapacious  is  and  strong, 

And  bounty  never  yields  so  much  but  it  seems  to  do  her 

wrong  ? 

Or  is  it  that,  when  human  Souls  a  journey  long  have  had 
And  are  returned  into  themselves,  they  cannot  but  be  sad  ?  20 

Or  must  we  be  constrained  to  think  that  these  Spectators 
rude, 

Poor  in  estate,  of  manners  base,  men  of  the  multitude, 

Have  souls  which  never  yet  have  risen,  and  therefore  pros- 
trate lie  ? 

No,  no,  this  cannot  be ; — men  thirst  for  power  and  majesty  ! 

Does,  then,  a  deep  and  earnest  thought  the  blissful  mind 

employ 

Of  him  Avho  gazes,  or  has  gazed  ?  a  grave  and  steady  joy, 
That  doth  reject  all  show  of  pride,  admits  no  outward  sign, 
Because  not  of  this  noisy  world,  but  silent  and  divine  !         28 

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

1806 


WRITTEN  IN  MARCH  317 

XVI 
WRITTEN  IN  MARCH 

WHILE  RESTING  ON  THE  BRIDGE  AT  THE  FOOT  OF 
BROTHER'S  WATER 

THE  Cock  is  crowing, 
The  stream  is  flowing, 

The  small  birds  twitter, 

The  lake  doth  glitter, 
The  green  field  sleeps  in  the  sun ; 

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  : 

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 

1802 

XVII 

ERE !  though  such  power  do  in  thy  magic  live 
As  might  from  India's  farthest  plain 
Recall  the  not  unwilling  Maid, 

Assist  me  to  detain 

The  lovely  Fugitive : 

Check  with  thy  notes  the  impulse  which,  betrayed 
By  her  sweet  farewell  looks,  I  longed  to  aid. 
Here  let  me  gaze  enrapt  upon  that  eye, 
The  impregnable  and  awe-inspiring  fort 
Of  contemplation,  the  calm  port  10 

By  reason  fenced  from  winds  that  sigh 
Among  the  restless  sails  of  vanity. 
But  if  no  wish  be  hers  that  we  should  part, 
A  humbler  bliss  would  satisfy  my  heart. 

Where  all  things  are  so  fair, 
Enough  by  her  dear  side  to  breathe  the  air 

Of  this  Elysian  weather ; 


318  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

And  on,  or  in,  or  near,  the  brook,  espy 
Shade  upon  the  sunshine  lying 

Faint  and  somewhat  pensively ; 
And  downward  Image  gaily  vying 

With  its  upright  living  tree 
'Mid  silver  clouds,  and  openings  of  blue  sky 
As  soft  almost  and  deep  as  her  cerulean  eye. 

Nor  less  the  joy  with  many  a  glance 
Cast  up  the  Stream  or  down  at  her  beseeching, 
To  mark  its  eddying  foam-balls  prettily  distrest 
By  ever-changing  shape  and  want  of  rest ; 

Or  watch,  with  mutual  teaching, 

The  current  as  it  plays 

In  flashing  leaps  and  stealthy  creeps 

Adown  a  rocky  maze ; 

Or  note  (translucent  summer's  happiest  chance  !) 
In  the  slope-channel  floored  with  pebbles  bright, 
Stones  of  all  hues,  gem  emulous  of  gem, 
So  vivid  that  they  take  from  keenest  sight 
The  liquid  veil  that  seeks  not  to  hide  them. 

Published  1842 

XVIII 
BEGGARS 

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, 
And  on  her  head  a  cap  as  white  as  new-fallen  snow. 

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 

To  lead  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 

Such  woes,  I  knew,  could  never  be ; 

And  yet  a  boon  I  gave  her,  for  the  creature 

Was  beautiful  to  see — '  a  weed  of  glorious  feature.' 


SEQUEL  TO  THE  FOREGOING  319 

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. 

The  other  wore  a  rimless  crown 

With  leaves  of  laurel  stuck  about ; 

And  while  both  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.       30 

Yet  they,  so  blithe  of  heart,  seemed  fit 

For  finest  tasks  of  earth  or  air  : 

Wings  let  them  have,  and  they  might  flit 

Precursors  to  Aurora's  car, 

Scattering  fresh  flowers  ;  though  happier  far,  I  ween, 

To  hunt  their  fluttering  game  o'er  rock  and  level  green. 

They  dart  across  my  path — but  lo, 

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. 

'  She  has  been  dead.  Sir,  many  a  day.' — 
'  Hush,  boys  !  you  're  telling  me  a  lie ; 
It  was  your  Mother,  as  I  say  ! ' 
And,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
'  Come  !  come  ! '  cried  one,  and  without  more  ado 
Off  to  some  other  play  the  joyous  Vagrants  flew  ! 

1802 

XIX 
SEQUEL  TO  THE  FOREGOING 

COMPOSED    MANY    YEARS    AFTER 

WHERE  are  they  now,  those  wanton  Boys? 
For  whose  free  range  the  daedal  earth 
Was  filled  with  animated  toys, 
And  implements  of  frolic  mirth  ; 


320  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

With  tools  for  ready  wit  to  guide ; 

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 ! 

They  met  me  in  a  genial  hour, 
When  universal  nature  breathed 
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; 
With  songs  the  budded  groves  resounding; 
And  to  my  heart  are  still  endeared 
The  thoughts  with  which  it  then  was  cheered  ; 
The  faith  which  saw  that  gladsome  pair 
Walk  through  the  fire  with  unsinged  hair.  30 

Or,  if  such  faith  must  needs  deceive — 
Then,  Spirits  of  beauty  and  of  grace, 
Associates  in  that  eager  chase ; 
Ye,  who  within  the  blameless  mind 
Your  favourite  seat  of  empire  find — 
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  inj  ury  ?  40 

Destined,  whate'er  their  earthly  doom, 
For  mercy  and  immortal  bloom  ? 

1817 

XX 

GIPSIES 

YET  are  they  here,  the  same  unbroken  knot 
Of  human  Beings,  in  the  self-same  spot  ! 
Men,  women,  children,  yea  the  frame 
Of  the  whole  spectacle  the  same ! 


RUTH  321 

Only  their  fire  seems  bolder,  yielding  light, 
Now  deep  and  red,  the  colouring  of  night ; 
That  on  their  Gipsy-faces  falls, 
Their  bed  of  straw  and  blanket- walls. 
— Twelve  hours,  twelve  bounteous  hours  are  gone, 

while  I 

Have  been  a  traveller  under  open  sky,  10 

Much  witnessing  of  change  and  cheer, 
Yet  as  I  left  I  find  them  here  ! 
The  weary  Sun  betook  himself  to  rest ; — 
Then  issued  Vesper  from  the  fulgent  west, 
Outshining  like  a  visible  God 
The  glorious  path  in  which  he  trod. 
And  now,  ascending,  after  one  dark  hour 
And  one  night's  diminution  of  her  power, 
Behold  the  mighty  Moon  !  this  way 
She  looks  as  if  at  them — but  they  20 

Regard  not  her : — oh,  better  wrong  and  strife 
(By  nature  transient)  than  this  torpid  life ; 
Life  which  the  very  stars  reprove 
As  on  their  silent  tasks  they  move  ! 
Yet,  witness  all  that  stirs  in  heaven  or  earth ! 
In  scorn  I  speak  not ; — they  are  what  their  birth 
And  breeding  suffer  them  to  be ; 
Wild  outcasts  of  society  ! 

1807 

XXI 
RUTH 

WHEN  Ruth  was  left  half  desolate, 
Her  Father  took  another  Mate  ; 
And  Ruth,  not  seven  years  old, 
A  slighted  child,  at  her  own  will 
Went  wandering  over  dale  and  hill, 
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 ; 

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 
She  seemed  to  live  ;  her  thoughts  her  own  ; 
1— x 


322  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Herself  her  own  delight ; 
Pleased  with  herself,  nor  sad,  nor  gay ; 
And,  passing  thus  the  live-long  day, 
She  grew  to  woman's  height. 

There  came  a  Youth  from  Georgia's  shore — 

A  military  casque  he  wore,  20 

With  splendid  feathers  drest; 

He  brought  them  from  the  Cherokees  ; 

The  feathers  nodded  in  the  breeze, 

And  made  a  gallant  crest. 

From  Indian  blood  you  deem  him  sprung : 

But  no !  he  spake  the  English  tongue, 

And  bore  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, 

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 ; 

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. 


RUTH  323 

He  spake  of  plants  that  hourly  change 

Their  blossoms,  through  a  boundless  range 

Of  intermingling  hues ; 

With  budding,  fading,  faded  flowers 

They  stand  the  wonder  of  the  bowers 

From  morn  to  evening  dews.  60 

He  told  of  the  magnolia,  spread 
High  as  a  cloud,  high  over  head  ! 
The  cypress  and  her  spire ; 
— Of  flowers  that  with  one  scarlet  gleam 
Cover  a  hundred  leagues,  and  seem 
To  set  the  hills  on  fire. 

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. 

f  How  pleasant,'  then  he  said,  '  it  were 

A  fisher  or  a  hunter  there, 

In  sunshine  or  in  shade 

To  wander  with  an  easy  mind ; 

And  build  a  household  fire,  and  find 

A  home  in  every  glade  ! 

'  What  days  and  what  bright  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 

Fond  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, 

And  drive  the  flying  deer ! 


324  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

'  Beloved  Ruth  ! ' — No  more  he  said. 

The  wakeful  Ruth  at  midnight  shed 

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.' 
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  no 

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, 

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.  «      xao 

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, 

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  thought, 
The  beauteous  forms  of  nature  wrought, 
Fair  trees  and  gorgeous  flowers ; 
The  breezes  their  own  languor  lent  ; 
The  stars  had  feelings,  which  they  sent 
Into  those  favoured  bowers. 


RUTH  325 

Yet,  in  his  worst  pursuits,  I  ween 

That  sometimes  there  did  intervene  140 

Pure  hopes  of  high  intent : 

For  passions,  linked  to  forms  so  fair 

And  stately,  needs  must  have  their  share 

Of  noble  sentiment. 

But  ill  he  lived,  much  evil  saw, 

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 
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, 
Encompassed  me  on  every  side 
When  I,  in  confidence  and  pride, 
Had  crossed  the  Atlantic  main. 

'  Before  me  shone  a  glorious  world — 

Fresh  as  a  banner  bright,  unfurled  170 

To  music  suddenly : 

I  looked  upon  those  hills  and  plains, 

And  seemed  as  if  let  loose  from  chains, 

To  live  at  liberty. 

'  No  more  of  this  ;  for  now,  by  thee 

Dear  Ruth  !  more  happily  set  free 

With  nobler  zeal  I  burn  ; 

My  soul  from  darkness  is  released, 

Like  the  whole  sky  when  to  the  east 

The  morning  doth  return.'  180 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Full  soon  that  better  mind  was  gone  ; 
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 
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  ; 

And  there,  with  many  a  doleful  song 

Made  of  wild  words,  her  cup  of  wrong 

She  fearfully  caroused. 

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  with  cheerful  knell 

Did  o'er  the  pebbles  play. 

When  Ruth  three  seasons  thus  had  lain, 

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, 
There  did  she  rest ;  and  dwell  alone 
Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

The  engines  of  her  pain,  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. 


RUTH  327 

A  Barn  her  winter  bed  supplies ; 

But,  till  the  warmth  of  summer  skies 

And  summer  days  is  gone, 

(And  all  do  in  this  tale  agree) 

She  sleeps  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 

And  other  home  hath  none. 

An  innocent  life,  yet  far  astray  ! 

And  Ruth  will,  long  before  her  day,  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. 

If  she  is  prest  by  want  of  food, 

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.  340 

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 
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, 

For  thee  a  funeral  bell  shall  ring, 

And  all  the  congregation  sing 

A  Christian  psalm  for  thee. 

1799 


328  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

XXII 

RESOLUTION  AND  INDEPENDENCE 
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 ; 
The  Jay  makes  answer  as  the  Magpie  chatters; 
And  all  the  air  is  filled  with  pleasant  noise  of  waters. 


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 

The  hare  is  running  races  in  her  mirth  ; 

And  with  her  feet  she  from  the  plashy  earth 

Raises  a  mist,  that,  glittering  in  the  sun, 

Runs  with  her  all  the  way,  wherever  she  doth  run. 


I  was  a  Traveller  then  upon  the  moor ; 

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 ; 
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  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  creatures  do  I  fare ; 

Far  from  the  world  I  walk,  and  from  all  care ; 


RESOLUTION  AND  INDEPENDENCE      329 


But  there  may  come  another  day  to  me — 
Solitude,  pain  of  heart,  distress,  and  poverty. 


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  ; 

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  ? 

VII 

I  thought  of  Chatterton,  the  marvellous  Boy, 

The  sleepless  Soul  that  perished  in  his  pride ; 

Of  Him  who  walked  in  glory  and  in  joy 

Following  his  plough,  along  the  mountain-side  : 

By  our  own  spirits  are  we  deified : 

We  Poets  in  our  youth  begin  in  gladness  ; 

But  thereof  come  in  the  end  despondency  and  madness. 


Now,  whether  it  were  by  peculiar  grace,  50 

A  leading  from  above,  a  something  given, 

Yet  it  befell  that,  in  this  lonely  place, 

When  I  with  these  untoward  thoughts  had  striven, 

Beside  a  pool  bare  to  the  eye  of  heaven 

I  saw  a  Man  before  me  unawares  : 

The  oldest  man  he  seemed  that  ever  wore  grey  hairs. 

IX 

As  a  huge  stone  is  sometimes  seen  to  lie 

Couched  on  the  bald  top  of  an  eminence ; 

Wonder  to  all  who  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  on  a  shelf 

Of  rock  or  sand  reposeth,  there  to  sun  itself; 


Such  seemed  this  Man,  not  all  alive  nor  dead, 

Nor  all  asleep — in  his  extreme  old  age  : 

His  body  was  bent  double,  feet  and  head 

Coming  together  in  life's  pilgrimage  ; 

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  had  cast.       70 


330  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


XI 

Himself  he  propped,  limbs,  body,  and  pale  face, 
Upon  a  long  grey  staff  of  shaven  wood  : 
And,  still  as  I  drew  near  with  gentle  pace, 
Upon  the  margin  of  that  moorish  flood 
Motionless  as  a  cloud  the  old  Man  stood, 
That  heareth  not  the  loud  winds  when  they  call. 
And  moveth  all  together,  if  it  move  at  all. 

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 ; 

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, 

In  courteous  speech  which  forth  he  slowly  drew : 

And  him  with  further  words  I  thus  bespake, 

'  What  occupation  do  you  there  pursue  ? 

This  is  a  lonesome  place  for  one  like  you.' 

Ere  he  replied,  a  flash  of  mild  surprise  90 

Broke  from  the  sable  orbs  of  his  yet-vivid  eyes. 

XIV 

His  words  came  feebly,  from  a  feeble  chest, 

But  each  in  solemn  order  followed  each, 

With  something  of  a  lofty  utterance  drest — 

Choice  word  and  measured  phrase,  above  the  reach 

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 

To  gather  leeches,  being  old  and  poor :  100 

Employment  hazardous  and  wearisome  ! 

And  he  had  many  hardships  to  endure  : 

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. 


RESOLUTION  AND  INDEPENDENCE     331 


XVI 

The  old  Man  still  stood  talking  by  my  side; 

But  now  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 ; 

Or  like  a  man  from  some  far  region  sent, 

To  give  me  human  strength,  by  apt  admonishment. 

XVII 

My  former  thoughts  returned  :  the  fear  that  kills  ; 

And  hope  that  is  unwilling  to  be  fed ; 

Cold,  pain,  and  labour,  and  all  fleshly  ills ; 

And  mighty  Poets  in  their  misery  dead. 

— Perplexed,  and  longing  to  be  comforted, 

My  question  eagerly  did  I  renew, 

'  How  is  it  that  you  live,  and  what  is  it  you  do  ? ' 

XVIII 

He  with  a  smile  did  then  his  words  repeat ; 

And  said  that,  gathering  leeches,  far  and  wide 

He  travelled  ;  stirring  thus  about  his  feet 

The  waters  of  the  pools  where  they  abide. 

'  Once  I  could  meet  with  them  on  every  side  ; 

But  they  have  dwindled  long  by  slow  decay ; 

Yet  still  I  persevere,  and  find  them  where  I  may.' 


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  with  this  he  other  matter  blended, 
Cheerfully  uttered,  with  demeanour  kind, 
But  stately  in  the  main;  and,  when  he  ended, 
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  '11  think  of  the  Leech-gatherer  on  the  lonely  moor  ! '  140 

1802 


332  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

XXIII 
THE  THORN 


"TnHERE  is  a  Thorn— it  looks  so  old, 

In  truth,  you  'd  find  it  hard  to  say 
How  it  could  ever  have  been  young, 
It  looks  so  old  and  grey. 
Not  higher  than  a  two  years'  child 
It  stands  erect,  this  aged  Thorn ; 
No  leaves  it  has,  no  prickly  points ; 
It  is  a  mass  of  knotted  joints, 
A  wretched  thing  forlorn. 

It  stands  erect,  and  like  a  stone  10 

With  lichens  is  it  overgrown. 

ii 

'  Like  rock  or  stone,  it  is  o'ergrown, 

With  lichens  to  the  very  top, 

And  hung  with  heavy  tufts  of  moss, 

A  melancholy  crop : 

Up  from  the  earth  these  mosses  creep, 

And  this  poor  Thorn  they  clasp  it  round 

So  close,  you  'd  say  that  they  are  bent 

With  plain  and  manifest  intent 

To  drag  it  to  the  ground  ;  20 

And  all  have  joined  in  one  endeavour 

To  bury  this  poor  Thorn  for  ever. 

HI 

'  High  on  a  mountain's  highest  ridge, 

Where  oft  the  stormy  winter  gale 

Cuts  like  a  scythe,  while  through  the  clouds 

It  sweeps  from  vale  to  vale  ; 

Not  five  yards  from  the  mountain  path, 

This  Thorn  you  on  your  left  espy ; 

And  to  the  left,  three  yards  beyond, 

You  see  a  little  muddy  pond  30 

Of  water — never  dry, 

Though  but  of  compass  small,  and  bare 

To  thirsty  suns  and  parching  air. 


'  And,  close  beside  this  aged  Thorn, 
There  is  a  fresh  and  lovely  sight, 
A  beauteous  heap,  a  hill  of  moss, 
Just  half  a  foot  in  height. 


THE  THORN  333 

All  lovely  colours  there  you  see, 

All  colours  that  were  ever  seen ; 

And  mossy  network  too  is  there,  40 

As  if  by  hand  of  lady  fair 

The  work  had  woven  been ; 

And  cups,  the  darlings  of  the  eye, 

So  deep  is  their  vermilion  dye. 


'  Ah  me  !  what  lovely  tints  are  there 

Of  olive  green  and  scarlet  bright, 

In  spikes,  in  branches,  and  in  stars, 

Green,  red,  and  pearly  white  ! 

This  heap  of  earth  o'ergrown  with  moss, 

Which  close  beside  the  Thorn  you  see,  50 

So  fresh  in  all  its  beauteous  dyes, 

Is  like  an  infant's  grave  in  size, 

As  like  as  like  can  be  : 

But  never,  never  any  where, 

An  infant's  grave  was  half  so  fair. 

<<  vi 

'Now  would  you  see  this  aged  Thorn, 

This  pond,  and  beauteous  hill  of  moss, 

You  must  take  care  and  choose  your  time 

The  mountain  when  to  cross. 

For  oft  there  sits  between  the  heap,  60 

So  like  an  infant's  grave  in  size, 

And  that  same  pond  of  which  I  spoke, 

A  Woman  in  a  scarlet  cloak, 

And  to  herself  she  cries, 

"  Oh  misery !  oh  misery ! 

Oh  woe  is  me  !  oh  misery  ! " 

VII 

'  At  all  times  of  the  day  and  night 

This  wretched  Woman  thither  goes  ; 

And  she  is  known  to  every  star, 

And  every  wind  that  blows  ;  70 

And  there,  beside  the  Thorn,  she  sits 

When  the  blue  daylight 's  in  the  skies, 

And  when  the  whirlwind  's  on  the  hill, 

Or  frosty  air  is  keen  and  still, 

And  to  herself  she  cries, 

"  Oh  misery  !  oh  misery  ! 

Oh  woe  is  me !  oh  misery  ! " 


334  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

VIII 

'  Now  wherefore,  thus,  by  day  and  night, 

In  rain,  in  tempest,  and  in  snow, 

Thus  to  the  dreary  mountain-top  80 

Does  this  poor  Woman  go  ? 

And  why  sits  she  beside  the  Thorn 

When  the  blue  daylight 's  in  the  sky 

Or  when  the  whirlwind  's  on  the  hill, 

Or  frosty  air  is  keen  and  still, 

And  wherefore  does  she  cry  ? — 

0  wherefore  ?  wherefore  ?  tell  me  why 
Does  she  repeat  that  doleful  cry  ? ' 

IX 

'  I  cannot  tell  ;  I  wish  I  could  ; 

For  the  true  reason  no  one  knows  :  90 

But  would  you  gladly  view  the  spot, 

The  spot  to  which  she  goes ; 

The  hillock  like  an  infant's  grave, 

The  pond — and  Thorn,  so  old  and  grey ; 

Pass  by  her  door — 'tis  seldom  shut — 

And,  if  you  see  her  in  her  hut — 

Then  to  the  spot  away ! 

1  never  heard  of  such  as  dare 
Approach  the  spot  when  she  is  there.' 


'  But  wherefore  to  the  mountain-top 

Can  this  unhappy  Woman  go, 

Whatever  star  is  in  the  skies, 

Whatever  wind  may  blow  ? ' 

'  Full  twenty  years  are  past  and  gone 

Since  she  (her  name  is  Martha  Ray) 

Gave  with  a  maiden's  true  good-will 

Her  company  to  Stephen  Hill ; 

And  she  was  blithe  and  gay, 

While  friends  and  kindred  all  approved 

Of  him  whom  tenderly  she  loved. 

XI 

'  And  they  had  fixed  the  wedding  day, 

The  morning  that  must  wed  them  both ; 

But  Stephen  to  another  Maid 

Had  sworn  another  oath  ; 

And,  with  this  other  Maid,  to  church 


THE  THORN  335 

Unthinking  Stephen  went — 

Poor  Martha  !  on  that  woeful  day 

A  pang  of  pitiless  dismay 

Into  her  soul  was  sent ; 

A  fire  was  kindled  in  her  breast,  120 

Which  might  not  burn  itself  to  rest. 

XII 

'  They  say,  full  six  months  after  this, 

While  yet  the  summer  leaves  were  green, 

She  to  the  mountain-top  would  go, 

And  there  was  often  seen. 

What  could  she  seek  ? — or  wish  to  hide  ? 

Her  state  to  any  eye  was  plain ; 

She  was  with  child,  and  she  was  mad  ; 

Yet  often  was  she  sober  sad 

From  her  exceeding  pain.  130 

O  guilty  Father — would  that  death 

Had  saved  him  from  that  breach  of  faith  ! 

XIII 

'  Sad  case  for  such  a  brain  to  hold 

Communion  with  a  stirring  child  ! 

Sad  case,  as  you  may  think,  for  one 

Who  had  a  brain  so  wild ! 

Last  Christmas-eve  we  talked  of  this, 

And  grey-haired  Wilfred  of  the  glen 

Held  that  the  unborn  infant  wrought 

About  its  mother's  heart,  and  brought  140 

Her  senses  back  again  : 

And,  when  at  last  her  time  drew  near, 

Her  looks  were  calm,  her  senses  clear. 

xrv 

'  More  know  I  not,  I  wish  I  did, 

And  it  should  all  be  told  to  you ; 

For  what  became  of  this  poor  child 

No  mortal  ever  knew ; 

Nay — if  a  child  to  her  was  born 

No  earthly  tongue  could  ever  tell ; 

And  if 'twas  born  alive  or  dead,  150 

Far  less  could  this  with  proof  be  said ; 

But  some  remember  well, 

That  Martha  Ray  about  this  time 

Would  up  the  mountain  often  climb. 


336  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

XV 

'  And  all  that  winter,  when  at  night 

The  wind  blew  from  the  mountain-peak, 

'Twas  worth  your  while,  though  in  the  dark, 

The  churchyard  path  to  seek  : 

For  many  a  time  and  oft  were  heard 

Cries  coming  from  the  mountain  head  :  160 

Some  plainly  living  voices  were  ; 

And  others,  I  've  heard  many  swear, 

Were  voices  of  the  dead  : 

I  cannot  think,  whate'er  they  say, 

They  had  to  do  with  Martha  Ray. 

XVI 

'  But  that  she  goes  to  this  old  Thorn, 

The  Thorn  which  I  described  to  you, 

And  there  sits  in  a  scarlet  cloak, 

I  will  be  sworn  is  true. 

For  one  day  with  my  telescope,  170 

To  view  the  ocean  wide  and  bright, 

When  to  this  country  first  I  came, 

Ere  I  had  heard  of  Martha's  name, 

I  climbed  the  mountain's  height : — 

A  storm  came  on,  and  I  could  see 

No  object  higher  than  my  knee. 


'  'Twas  mist  and  rain,  and  storm  and  rain  : 

No  screen,  no  fence  could  I  discover; 

And  then  the  wind !  in  sooth,  it  was 

A  wind  full  ten  times  over.  180 

I  looked  around,  I  thought  I  saw 

A  jutting  crag, — and  off  I  ran, 

Head-foremost,  through  the  driving  rain, 

The  shelter  of  the  crag  to  gain ; 

And,  as  I  am  a  man, 

Instead  of  jutting  crag  I  found 

A  Woman  seated  on  the  ground. 


'  I  did  not  speak — I  saw  her  face  ; 

Her  face  ! — it  was  enough  for  me ; 

I  turned  about  and  heard  her  cry,  190 

"Oh  misery!  oh  misery!" 

And  there  she  sits,  until  the  moon 


THE  THORN  337 

Through  half  the  clear  blue  sky  will  go ; 

And,  when  the  little  breezes  make 

The  waters  of  the  pond  to  shake, 

As  all  the  country  know, 

She  shudders,  and  you  hear  her  cry, 

"  Oh  misery  !  oh  misery  !  " 

XIX 

'  But  what 's  the  Thorn  ?  and  what  the  pond  r 

And  what  the  hill  of  moss  to  her  ?  200 

And  what  the  creeping  breeze  that  comes 

The  little  pond  to  stir  ?  ' 

'  I  cannot  tell ;  but  some  will  say 

She  hanged  her  baby  on  the  tree  ; 

Some  say  she  drowned  it  in  the  pond, 

Which  is  a  little  step  beyond  : 

But  all  and  each  agree, 

The  little  Babe  was  buried  there, 

Beneath  that  hill  of  moss  so  fair. 


xx 

'  I  've  heard,  the  moss  is  spotted  red  210 

With  drops  of  that  poor  infant's  blood  ; 

But  kill  a  new-born  infant  thus, 

I  do  not  think  she  could  ! 

Some  say,  if  to  the  pond  you  go, 

And  fix  on  it  a  steady  view, 

The  shadow  of  a  babe  you  trace, 

A  baby  and  a  baby's  face, 

And  that  it  looks  at  you  ; 

Whene'er  you  look  on  it,  'tis  plain 

The  baby  looks  at  you  again.  220 

XXI 

'  And  some  had  sworn  an  oath  that  she 
Should  be  to  public  justice  brought ; 
And  for  the  little  infant's  bones 
With  spades  they  would  have  sought. 
But  instantly  the  hill  of  moss 
Before  their  eyes  began  to  stir ! 
And,  for  full  fifty  yards  around, 
The  grass — it  shook  upon  the  ground  ! 
Yet  all  do  still  aver 

The  little  Babe  lies  buried  there,  330 

Beneath  that  hill  of  moss  so  fair. 
1-Y 


338  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


XXII 

'  I  cannot  tell  how  this  may  be, 
But  plain  it  is  the  Thorn  is  bound 
With  heavy  tufts  of  moss  that  strive 
To  drag  it  to  the  ground  ; 
And  this  I  know,  full  many  a  time, 
/       When  she  was  on  the  mountain  high, 
By  day,  and  in  the  silent  night, 
When  all  the  stars  shone  clear  and  bright, 
That  I  have  heard  her  cry,  240 

"  Oh  misery  !  oh  misery ! 
Oh  woe  is  me  !  oh  misery  1 " 

1798 

XXIV 
HART-LEAP  WELL 

HART-LKAP  WELL  is  a  small  spring  of  water,  about  five  miles  from  Rich- 
mond in  Yorkshire,  and  near  the  side  of  the  road  that  leads  from  Richmond 
to  Askrigg.  Its  name  is  derived  from  a  remarkable  Chase,  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. 

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. 

'Another  horse  !' — That  shout  the  vassal  heard 
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 ; 
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,  Swift,  and  Music,  noblest  of  their  kind, 
Follow,  and  up  the  weary  mountain  strain.  ao 


HART-LEAP  WELL 

The  Knight  hallooed,  he  cheered  and  chid  them  on 
With  suppliant  gestures  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  ? 
The  bugles  that  so  joyfully  were  blown  ? 
— This  chase  it  looks  not  like  an  earthly  chase ; 
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  his  whip,  nor  blew  his  horn, 
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 ; 

Weak  as  a  lamb  the  hour  that  it  is  yeaned  ; 

And  white  with  foam  as  if  with  cleaving  sleet.  40 

Upon  his  side  the  Hart  was  lying  stretched  : 

His  nostril  touched  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, 

(Never  had  living  man  such  joyful  lot !) 

Sir  Walter  walked  all  round,  north,  south,  and  west, 

And  gazed  and  gazed  upon  that  darling  spot. 

And  climbing  up  the  hill — (it  was  at  least 
Four  roods  of  sheer  ascent)  Sir  Walter  found  50 

Three  several  hoof-marks  which  the  hunted  Beast 
Had  left  imprinted  on  the  grassy  ground. 

Sir  Walter  wiped  his  face,  and  cried,  '  Till  now 
Such  sight  was  never  seen  by  human  eyes : 
Three  leaps  have  borne  him  from  this  lofty  brow 
Down  to  the  very  fountain  where  he  lies. 


340  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

'  I  '11  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 !  to  make  thy  praises  known, 
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, 
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.  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 
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 ;  90 

And  with  the  dancers  and  the  minstrel's  song 

Made  merriment  within  that  pleasant  bower. 


HART-LEAP  WELL  341 

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, 
And  I  to  this  would  add  another  tale. 


PART  SECOND 

The  moving  accident  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  thinking  hearts. 

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 : 
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  ; 
So  that  you  just  might  say,  as  then  I  said, 
'  Here  in  old  time  the  hand  of  man  hath  been.' 

I  looked  upon  the  hill  both  far  and  near, 
More  doleful  place  did  never  eye  survey ; 
It  seemed  as  if  the  spring-time  came  not  here, 
And  Nature  here  were  willing  to  decay. 

I  stood  in  various  thoughts  and  fancies  lost, 
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. 

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 — 
Some  say  that  they  are  beeches,  others  elms — 
These  were  the  bower ;  and  here  a  mansion  stood, 
The  finest  palace  of  a  hundred  realms  ! 


342  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

'  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, 
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, 
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 ; 
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  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  thorn 
He  heard  the  birds  their  morning  carols  sing ; 
And  he,  perhaps,  for  aught  we  know,  was  born 
Not  half  a  furlong  from  that  self-same  spring. 

'  Now,  here  is  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. 


FEAST  OF  BROUGHAM  CASTLE         343 

'The  Being,  that  is  in  the  clouds  and  air, 
That  is  in  the  green  leaves  among  the  groves, 
Maintains  a  deep  and  reverential  care 
For  the  unoffending  creatures  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 
These  monuments  shall  all  be  overgrown. 

'One  lesson,  Shepherd,  let  us  two  divide, 

Taught  both  by  what  she  shows,  and  what  conceals  ; 

Never  to  blend  our  pleasure  or  our  pride 

With  sorrow  of  the  meanest  thing  that  feels.'  180 

1800 

XXV 
SONG  AT  THE  FEAST  OF  BROUGHAM  CASTLE 

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

HIGH  in  the  breathless  Hall  the  Minstrel  sate, 
And   Emont's   murmur   mingled   with  the 

Song.— 

The  words  of  ancient  time  I  thus  translate, 
A  festal  strain  that  hath  been  silent  long  : — 

'  From  town  to  town,  from  tower  to  tower, 

The  red  rose  is  a  gladsome  flower. 

Her  thirty  years  of  winter  past, 

The  red  rose  is  revived  at  last ; 

She  lifts  her  head  for  endless  spring, 

For  everlasting  blossoming  :  10 

Both  roses  flourish,  red  and  white : 

In  love  and  sisterly  delight 

The  two  that  were  at  strife  are  blended, 

And  all  old  troubles  now  are  ended. — 

Joy  !  joy  to  both  !  but  most  to  her 

Who  is  the  flower  of  Lancaster ! 

Behold  her  how  She  smiles  to-day 

On  this  great  throng,  this  bright  array ! 


344  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Fair  greeting  doth  she  send  to  all 

From  every  corner  of  the  hall ;  20 

But  chiefly  from  above  the  board 

Where  sits  in  state  our  rightful  Lord, 

A  Clifford  to  his  own  restored  ! 

'  They  came  with  banner,  spear,  and  shield ; 
And  it  was  proved  in  Bosworth-field. 
Not  long  the  Avenger  was  withstood — 
Earth  helped  him  with  the  cry  of  blood  : 
St.  George  was  for  us,  and  the  might 
Of  blessed  Angels  crowned  the  right. 
Loud  voice  the  Land  has  uttered  forth,  30 

We  loudest  in  the  faithful  north  : 
Our  fields  rejoice,  our  mountains  ring, 
Our  streams  proclaim  a  welcoming ; 
Our  strong-abodes  and  castles  see 
The  glory  of  their  loyalty. 

'  How  glad  is  Skipton  at  this  hour — 
Though  lonely,  a  deserted  Tower ; 
Knight,  squire,  and  yeoman,  page  and  groom, 
We  have  them  at  the  feast  of  Brough'm. 
How  glad  Pendragon — though  the  sleep  40 

Of  years  be  on  her ! — She  shall  reap 
A  taste  of  this  great  pleasure,  viewing 
As  in  a  dream  her  own  renewing. 
Rejoiced  is  Brough,  right  glad,  I  deem, 
Beside  her  little  humble  stream ; 
And  she  that  keepeth  watch  and  ward 
Her  statelier  Eden's  course  to  guard ; 
They  both  are  happy  at  this  hour, 
Though  each  is  but  a  lonely  Tower  : — 
But  here  is  perfect  joy  and  pride  50 

For  one  fair  House  by  Emont's  side, 
This  day,  distinguished  without  peer, 
To  see  her  Master  and  to  cheer — 
Him,  and  his  Lady-mother  dear  ! 

'  Oh  !  it  was  a  time  forlorn 
When  the  fatherless  was  born — 
Give  her  wings  that  she  may  fly, 
Or  she  sees  her  infant  die  ! 
Swords  that  are  with  slaughter  wild 
Hunt  the  Mother  and  the  Child.  60 

Who  will  take  them  from  the  light  ? 
— Yonder  is  a  man  in  sight — 


FEAST  OF  BROUGHAM  CASTLE         345 

Yonder  is  a  house — but  where  ? 

No,  they  must  not  enter  there. 

To  the  caves,  and  to  the  brooks, 

To  the  clouds  of  heaven  she  looks  ; 

She  is  speechless,  but  her  eyes 

Pray  in  ghostly  agonies. 

Blissful  Mary,  Mother  mild, 

Maid  and  Mother  undefiled,  70 

Save  a  Mother  and  her  Child ! 

'  Now  Who  is  he  that  bounds  with  joy 
On  Carrock's  side,  a  Shepherd-boy  ? 
No  thoughts  hath  he  but  thoughts  that  pass 
Light  as  the  wind  along  the  grass. 
Can  this  be  He  who  hither  came 
In  secret,  like  a  smothered  flame  ? 
O'er  whom  such  thankful  tears  were  shed 
For  shelter,  and  a  poor  man's  bread  ! 
God  loves  the  Child  ;  and  God  hath  willed  80 

That  those  dear  words  should  be  fulfilled, 
The  Lady's  words,  when  forced  away 
The  last  she  to  her  Babe  did  say  : 
"  My  own,  my  own,  thy  Fellow-guest 
I  may  not  be  ;  but  rest  thee,  rest, 
For  lowly  shepherd's  life  is  best !  " 

*  Alas  !  when  evil  men  are  strong 
No  life  is  good,  no  pleasure  long. 
The  Boy  must  part  from  Mosedale's  groves, 
And  leave  Blencathara's  rugged  coves,  90 

And  quit  the  flowers  that  summer  brings 
To  Glenderamakin's  lofty  springs  ; 
Must  vanish,  and  his  careless  cheer 
Be  turned  to  heaviness  and  fear. 
— Give  Sir  Lancelot  Threlkeld  praise  ! 
Hear  it,  good  man,  old  in  days  ! 
Thou  tree  of  covert  and  of  rest 
For  this  young  Bird  that  is  distrest ; 
Among  thy  branches  safe  he  lay, 
And  he  was  free  to  sport  and  play,  100 

When  falcons  were  abroad  for  prey. 

'A  recreant  harp,  that  sings  of  fear 
And  heaviness  in  Clifford's  ear  ! 
I  said,  when  evil  men  are  strong, 
No  life  is  good,  no  pleasure  long, 


346  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

A  weak  and  cowardly  untruth  ! 

Our  Clifford  was  a  happy  Youth, 

And  thankful  through  a  weary  time, 

That  brought  him  up  to  manhood's  prime. 

— Again  he  wanders  forth  at  will,  no 

And  tends  a  flock  from  hill  to  hill  : 

His  garb  is  humble  ;  ne'er  was  seen 

Such  garb  with  such  a  noble  mien ; 

Among  the  shepherd-grooms  no  mate 

Hath  he,  a  Child  of  strength  and  state  ! 

Yet  lacks  not  friends  for  simple  glee, 

Nor  yet  for  higher  sympathy. 

To  his  side  the  fallow-deer 

Came,  and  rested  without  fear ; 

The  eagle,  lord  of  land  and  sea,  120 

Stooped  down  to  pay  him  fealty; 

And  both  the  undying  fish  that  swim 

Through  Bowscale-tarn  did  wait  on  him ; 

The  pair  were  servants  of  his  eye 

In  their  immortality ; 

And  glancing,  gleaming,  dark  or  bright, 

Moved  to  and  fro,  for  his  delight. 

He  knew  the  rocks  which  Angels  haunt 

Upon  the  mountains  visitant ; 

He  hath  kenned  them  taking  wing:  130 

And  into  caves  where  Faeries  sing 

He  hath  entered ;  and  been  told 

By  Voices  how  men  lived  of  old. 

Among  the  heavens  his  eye  can  see 

The  face  of  thing  that  is  to  be ; 

And,  if  that  men  report  him  right, 

His    tongue    could    whisper    words    of 

might. 

— Now  another  day  is  come, 
Fitter  hope,  and  nobler  doom  ; 

He  hath  thrown  aside  his  crook,  140 

And  hath  buried  deep  his  book  ; 
Armour  rusting  in  his  halls 
On  the  blood  of  Clifford  calls  ;— 
"  Quell  the  Scot,"  exclaims  the  Lance — 
Bear  me  to  the  heart  of  France, 
Is  the  longing  of  the  Shield — 
Tell  thy  name,  thou  trembling  Field  ; 
Field  of  death,  where'er  thou  be, 
Groan  thou  with  our  victory  ! 

Happy  day,  and  mighty  hour,  150 

When  our  Shepherd,  in  his  power, 


LINES  347 

Mailed  and  horsed,  with  lance  and  sword, 

To  his  ancestors  restored 

Like  a  re-appearing  Star, 

Like  a  glory  from  afar 

First  shall  head  the  flock  of  war  ! ' 

Alas !  the  impassioned  minstrel  did  not  know 
How,  by  Heaven's  grace,  this  Clifford's  heart  was 

framed : 

How  he,  long  forced  in  humble  walks  to  go, 
Was  softened  into  feeling,  soothed,  and  tamed.       160 

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

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

Glad  were  the  vales,  and  every  cottage-hearth  ; 
The  Shepherd-lord  was  honoured  more  and  more  ; 
And,  ages  after  he  was  laid  in  earth,  171 

'  The  good  Lord  Clifford '  was  the  name  he  bore. 

1807 

XXVI 
LINES 

COMPOSED  A  FEW  MILES  ABOVE  TINTERN  ABBEY,  ON  REVISITING 
THE  BANKS  OF  THE  WYE  DURING  A  TOUR.       JULY  13,  1798 

FIVE   years   have   past;    five    summers,    with    the 
length 

Of  five  long  winters  !  and  again  I  hear 
These  waters,  rolling  from  their  mountain-springs 
With  a  soft  inland  murmur.1 — Once  again 
Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs, 
That  on  a  wild  secluded  scene  impress 
Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion  ;  and  connect 
The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 
The  day  is  come  when  I  again  repose 
Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view  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 

1  The  river  is  not  affected  by  the  tides  a  few  miles  above  Tintern. 


348  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

'Mid  groves  and  copses.     Once  again  I  see 

These  hedge-rows,  hardly  hedge-rows,  little  lines 

Of  sportive  wood  run  wild  :  these  pastoral  farms, 

Green  to  the  very  door ;  and  wreaths  of  smoke 

Sent  up,  in  silence,  from  among  the  trees  ! 

With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem 

Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods,  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 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye  : 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them, 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart ; 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind, 
With  tranquil  restoration  : — feelings  too  30 

Of  unremembered  pleasure :  such,  perhaps, 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life, 
His  little,  nameless,  unremembered,  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.     Nor  less,  I  trust, 
To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift, 
Of  aspect  more  sublime ;  that  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery, 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world,  40 

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 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul : 
While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

If  this 

Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh  !  how  oft —  50 

In  darkness  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight;  when  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world, 
Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart — 
How  oft,  in  spirit,  have  I  turned  to  thee, 
O  sylvan  Wye !  thou  wanderer  thro'  the  woods, 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee  ! 


LINES  349 

And  now,  with  gleams  of  half-extinguished  thought, 
With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint, 
And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity,  60 

The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again  : 
While  here  I  stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 
Of  present  pleasure,  but  with  pleasing  thoughts 
That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 
For  future  years.     And  so  I  dare  to  hope, 
Though  changed,  no  doubt,  from  what  I  was  when  first 
I  came  among  these  hills  ;  when  like  a  roe 
I  bounded  o'er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 
Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams, 
Wherever  nature  led :  more  like  a  man  70 

Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads,  than  one 
Who  sought  the  thing  he  loved.     For  nature  then 
(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days 
And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone  by) 
To  me  was  all  in  all. — I  cannot  paint 
What  then  I  was.     The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion  :  the  tall  rock, 
The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 
Their  colours  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 
An  appetite  ;  a  feeling  and  a  love,  80 

That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 
By  thought  supplied,  nor  any  interest 
Unborrowed  from  the  eye. — That  time  is  past, 
And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 
And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.     Not  for  this 
Faint  I,  nor  mourn  nor  murmur ;  other  gifts 
Have  followed  ;  for  such  loss,  I  would  believe, 
Abundant  recompense.     For  I  have  learned 
To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth ;  but  hearing  oftentimes  90 

The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity, 
Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 
To  chasten  and  subdue. — And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts  ;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man : 
A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels  100 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things.     Therefore  am  I  still 
A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods 
And  mountains ;  and  of  all  that  we  behold 


350  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

From  this  green  earth  ;  of  all  the  mighty  world 

Of  eye,  and  ear, — both  what  they  half  create,1 

And  what  perceive  ;  well  pleased  to  recognise 

In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense 

The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 

The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul  no 

Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Nor  perchance, 

If  I  were  not  thus  taught,  should  I  the  more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay : 
For  thou  art  with  me  here  upon  the  banks 
Of  this  fair  river ;  thou  my  dearest  Friend, 
My  dear,  dear  Friend  ;  and  in  thy  voice  I  catch 
The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 
My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 
Of  thy  wild  eyes.     Oh  !  yet  a  little  while 
May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once,  120 

My  dear,  dear  Sister  !  and  this  prayer  I  make, 
Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her ;  'tis  her  privilege, 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy  :  for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues, 
Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men, 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all  130 

The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 
Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings.     Therefore  let  the  moon 
Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk ; 
And  let  the  misty  mountain-winds  be  free 
To  blow  against  thee :  and,  in  after  years, 
When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  matured 
Into  a  sober  pleasure  ;  when  thy  mind 
Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms,  140 

Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 
For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies ;  oh  !  then, 
If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief, 
Should  be  thy  portion,  with  what  healing  thoughts 
Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me, 
And  these  my  exhortations  !     Nor,  perchance — 
If  I  should  be  where  I  no  more  can  hear 
Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes  these  gleams 

1  This  line  has  &  close  resemblance  to  an  admirable  line  of  Young's,  the 
exact  expression  of  which  I  do  not  recollect. 


FRENCH  REVOLUTION  351 

Of  past  existence — wilt  thou  then  forget 

That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful  stream  150 

We  stood  together ;  and  that  I,  so  long 

A  worshipper  of  Nature,  hither  came 

Unwearied  in  that  service  :  rather  say 

With  warmer  love — oh  !  with  far  deeper  zeal 

Of  holier  love.     Nor  wilt  thou  then  forget, 

That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 

Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty  cliffs, 

And  this  green  pastoral  landscape,  were  to  me 

More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for  thy  sake ! 

1798 

XXVII 

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  ! 
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 
Some  ground  not  mine ;  and,  strong  her  strength  above, 
My  Soul,  an  Apparition  in  the  place, 
Tread  there  with  steps  that  no  one  shall  reprove  ! 

1803 

XXVIII 
FRENCH  REVOLUTION 

AS  IT  APPEARED  TO  ENTHUSIASTS  AT  ITS  COMMENCEMENT.1 
REPRINTED  FROM  '  THE  FRIEND  ' 

OH  !  pleasant  exercise  of  hope  and  joy  ! 
For  mighty  were  the  auxiliars  which  then  stood 
Upon  our  side,  we  who  were  strong  in  love  ! 
Bliss  was  it  in  that  dawn  to  be  alive, 
But  to  be  young  was  veiy  heaven ! — Oh  !  times, 
In  which  the  meagre,  stale,  forbidding  ways 

1  This  and  the  Extract,  page  134,  and  the  first  Piece  of  this  Class,  are  from 
the  unpublished  Poem  of  which  some  account  is  given  in  the  Preface  to  THE 
EXCURSION. 


352  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Of  custom,  law,  and  statute,  took  at  once 
The  attraction  of  a  country  in  romance  ! 
When  Reason  seemed  the  most  to  assert  her  rights, 
When  most  intent  on  making  of  herself  10 

A  prime  Enchantress — to  assist  the  work 
Which  then  was  going  forward  in  her  name  ! 
Not  favoured  spots  alone,  but  the  whole  earth, 
The  beauty  wore  of  promise,  that  which  sets 
(As  at  some  moment  might  not  be  unfelt 
Among  the  bowers  of  paradise  itself) 
The  budding  rose  above  the  rose  full  blown. 
What  temper  at  the  prospect  did  not  wake 
To  happiness  unthought  of?     The  inert 
Were  roused,  and  lively  natures  rapt  away !  20 

They  who  had  fed  their  childhood  upon  dreams, 
The  playfellows  of  fancy,  who  had  made 
All  powers  of  swiftness,  subtilty,  and  strength 
Their  ministers, — who  in  lordly  wise  had  stirred 
Among  the  grandest  objects  of  the  sense, 
,    And  dealt  with  whatsoever  they  found  there 
As  if  they  had  within  some  lurking  right 
To  wield  it ; — they,  too,  who,  of  gentle  mood, 
Had  watched  all  gentle  motions,  and  to  these 
Had  fitted  their  own  thoughts,  schemers  more  mild,    30 
And  in  the  region  of  their  peaceful  selves ; — 
Now  was  it  that  both  found,  the  meek  and  lofty 
Did  both  find,  helpers  to  their  heart's  desire, 
And  stuff  at  hand,  plastic  as  they  could  wish ; 
Were  called  upon  to  exercise  their  skill, 
Not  in  Utopia,  subterranean  fields, 
Or  some  secreted  island,  Heaven  knows  where ! 
But  in  the  very  world,  which  is  the  world 
Of  all  of  us, — the  place  where  in  the  end 
We  find  our  happiness,  or  not  at  all !  40 

1804 

XXIX 

YES,  it  was  the  mountain  Echo, 
Solitary,  clear,  profound, 
Answering  to  the  shouting  Cuckoo, 
Giving  to  her  sound  for  sound  ! 

Unsolicited  reply 

To  a  babbling  wanderer  sent ; 

Like  her  ordinary  cry, 

Like — but  oh,  how  different ! 


TO  A  SKYLARK 

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

Have  not  we  too  ? — yes,  we  have 
Answers,  and  we  know  not  whence  ; 
Echoes  from  beyond  the  grave, 
Recognised  intelligence  ! 

Such  rebounds  our  inward  ear 
Catches  sometimes  from  afar — 
Listen,  ponder,  hold  them  dear ; 
For  of  God, — of  God  they  are. 

1806 


XXX 

TO  A  SKYLARK 

•[7  THEREAL  minstrel !  pilgrim  of  the  sky  ! 

j  Dost  thou  despise  the  earth  where  cares  abound  ? 

Or,  while  the  wings  aspire,  are  heart  and  eye 
Both  with  thy  nest  upon  the  dewy  ground  ? 
Thy  nest  which  thou  canst  drop  into  at  will, 
Those  quivering  wings  composed,  that  music  still ! 

Leave  to  the  nightingale  her  shady  wood  ; 
A  privacy  of  glorious  light  is  thine ; 
Whence  thou  dost  pour  upon  the  world  a  flood 
Of  harmony,  with  instinct  more  divine ;  10 

Type  of  the  wise  who  soar,  but  never  roam  ; 
True  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and  Home  ! 

1825 


XXXI 
LAODAMIA 

'  T  T  T ITH  sacrifice  before  the  rising  morn 
VV     Vows  have  I  made   by  fruitless   hope 

spired  ; 

And  from  the  infernal  Gods,  'mid  shades  forlorn 
Of  night,  my  slaughtered  Lord  have  I  required : 
Celestial  pity  I  again  implore ; — 
Restore  him  to  my  sight — great  Jove,  restore  ! ' 
1— Z 


354.  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

So  speaking,  and  by  fervent  love  endowed 

With  faith,  the  Suppliant  heavenward  lifts  her  hands; 

While,  like  the  sun  emerging  from  a  cloud, 

Her  countenance  brightens — and  her  eye  expands ; 

Her  bosom  heaves  and  spreads,  her  stature  grows ;  n 

And  she  expects  the  issue  in  repose. 

0  terror  !  what  hath  she  perceived  ? — O  joy  ! 
What  doth  she  look  on  ? — whom  doth  she  behold  r 
Her  Hero  slain  upon  the  beach  of  Troy  ? 

His  vital  presence  ?  his  corporeal  mould  ? 
It  is — if  sense  deceive  her  not — 'tis  He  ! 
And  a  God  leads  him,  winged  Mercury  ! 

Mild  Hermes  spake — and  touched  her  with  his  wand 
That  calms  all  fear ;  '  Such  grace  hath  crowned  thy 
prayer,  20 

Laodamia  !  that  at  Jove's  command 
Thy  Husband  walks  the  paths  of  upper  air : 
He  comes  to  tarry  with  thee  three  hours'  space  ; 
Accept  the  gift,  behold  him  face  to  face  ! ' 

Forth  sprang  the   impassioned  Queen  her  Lord  to 

clasp ; 

Again  that  consummation  she  essayed  ; 
But  unsubstantial  Form  eludes  her  grasp 
As  often  as  that  eager  grasp  was  made. 
The  Phantom  parts — but  parts  to  re-unite, 
And  re-assume  his  place  before  her  sight.  30 

'  Protesilaus,  lo  !  thy  guide  is  gone  ! 
Confirm,  I  pray,  the  vision  with  thy  voice : 
This  is  our  palace, — yonder  is  thy  throne ; 
Speak,  and  the  floor  thou  tread'st  on  will  rejoice. 
Not  to  appal  me  have  the  gods  bestowed 
This  precious  boon ;  and  blest  a  sad  abode.' 

'  Great  Jove,  Laodamia  !  doth  not  leave 
His  gifts  imperfect : — Spectre  though  I  be, 

1  am  not  sent  to  scare  thee  or  deceive ; 

But  in  reward  of  thy  fidelity.  40 

And  something  also  did  my  worth  obtain ; 
For  fearless  virtue  bringeth  boundless  gain. 

'  Thou  knowest,  the  Delphic  oracle  foretold 
That  the  first  Greek  who  touched  the  Trojan  strand 
Should  die  ;  but  me  the  threat  could  not  withhold  : 
A  generous  cause  a  victim  did  demand ; 


LAODAMIA  355 

And  forth  I  leapt  upon  the  sandy  plain ; 
A  self-devoted  chief — by  Hector  slain.' 

'  Supreme  of  Heroes — bravest,  noblest,  best ! 

Thy  matchless  courage  I  bewail  no  more,  50 

Which  then,  when  tens  of  thousands  were  deprest 

By  doubt,  propelled  thee  to  the  fatal  shore ; 

Thou  found'st — and  I  forgive  thee — here  thou  art — 

A  nobler  counsellor  than  my  poor  heart. 

'  But  thou,  though  capable  of  sternest  deed, 

Wert  kind  as  resolute,  and  good  as  brave  ; 

And  he,  whose  power  restores  thee,  hath  decreed 

Thou  should' st  elude  the  malice  of  the  grave  : 

Redundant  are  thy  locks,  thy  lips  as  fair 

As  when  their  breath  enriched  Thessalian  air.  60 

'  No  Spectre  greets  me, — no  vain  Shadow  this ; 
Come,  blooming  Hero,  place  thee  by  my  side ! 
Give,  on  this  well-known  couch,  one  nuptial  kiss 
To  me,  this  day  a  second  time  thy  bride  ! ' 
Jove  frowned  in  heaven :  the  conscious  Parcae  threw 
Upon  those  roseate  lips  a  Stygian  hue. 

'  This  visage  tells  thee  that  my  doom  is  past : 

Nor  should  the  change  be  mourned,  even  if  the  joys 

Of  sense  were  able  to  return  as  fast 

And  surely  as  they  vanish.     Earth  destroys  70 

Those  raptures  duly — Erebus  disdains : 

Calm  pleasures  there  abide — majestic  pains. 

'  Be  taught,  O  faithful  Consort,  to  control 
Rebellious  passion  :  for  the  Gods  approve 
The  depth,  and  not  the  tumult,  of  the  soul ; 
A  fervent,  not  ungovernable,  love. 
Thy  transports  moderate  ;  and  meekly  mourn 
When  I  depart,  for  brief  is  my  sojourn — ' 

'  Ah  wherefore  ? — Did  not  Hercules  by  force 

Wrest  from  the  guardian  Monster  of  the  tomb          80 

Alcestis,  a  reanimated  corse, 

Given  back  to  dwell  on  earth  in  vernal  bloom  ? 

Medea's  spells  dispersed  the  weight  of  years, 

And  JEson  stood  a  youth  'mid  youthful  peers. 


356  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

f  The  Gods  to  us  are  merciful — and  they 
Yet  further  may  relent :  for  mightier  far 
Than  strength  of  nerve  and  sinew,  or  the  sway 
Of  magic  potent  over  sun  and  star, 
Is  love,  though  oft  to  agony  distrest, 
And  though  his   favourite  seat   be   feeble   woman's 
breast.  90 

'  But  if  thou  goest,  I  follow — '     '  Peace  ! '  he  said, — 

She  looked  upon  him  and  was  calmed  and  cheered ; 

The  ghastly  colour  from  his  lips  had  fled ; 

In  his  deportment,  shape,  and  mien,  appeared 

Elysian  beauty,  melancholy  grace, 

Brought  from  a  pensive  though  a  happy  place. 

He  spake  of  love,  such  love  as  Spirits  feel 

In  worlds  whose  course  is  equable  and  pure ; 

No  fears  to  beat  away — no  strife  to  heal — 

The  past  unsighed  for,  and  the  future  sure  ;  100 

Spake  of  heroic  arts  in  graver  mood 

Revived,  with  finer  harmony  pursued  ; 

Of  all  that  is  most  beauteous — imaged  there 

In  happier  beauty  ;  more  pellucid  streams, 

An  ampler  ether,  a  diviner  air, 

And  fields  invested  with  purpureal  gleams; 

Climes  which  the  sun,  who  sheds  the  brightest  day 

Earth  knows,  is  all  unworthy  to  survey. 

Yet  there  the  Soul  shall  enter  which  hath  earned 

That  privilege  by  virtue. — '  111,'  said  he,  no 

'  The  end  of  man's  existence  I  discerned, 

Who  from  ignoble  games  and  revelry 

Could  draw,  when  we  had  parted,  vain  delight, 

While  tears  were  thy  best  pastime,  day  and  night ; 

'  And  while  my  youthful  peers  before  my  eyes 
(Each  hero  following  his  peculiar  bent) 
Prepared  themselves  for  glorious  enterprise 
By  martial  sports, — or,  seated  in  the  tent, 
Chieftains  and  kings  in  council  were  detained ; 
What  time  the  fleet  at  Aulis  lay  enchained.  120 

'  The  wished-for  wind  was  given  : — I  then  revolved 

The  oracle,  upon  the  silent  sea  ; 

And,  if  no  worthier  led  the  way,  resolved 

That,  of  a  thousand  vessels,  mine  should  be 


LAODAMIA  357 

The  foremost  prow  in  pressing  to  the  strand, — 
Mine  the  first  blood  that  tinged  the  Trojan  sand 

'  Yet  bitter,  oft-times  bitter,  was  the  pang 

When  of  thy  loss  I  thought,  beloved  Wife ! 

On  thee  too  fondly  did  my  memory  hang, 

And  on  the  joys  we  shared  in  mortal  life, —  130 

The    paths    which    we    had    trod — these    fountains, 

flowers ; 
My  new-planned  cities,  and  unfinished  towers. 

'  But  should  suspense  permit  the  Foe  to  cry, 
"  Behold  they  tremble  ! — haughty  their  array, 
Yet  of  their  number  no  one  dares  to  die  ?  " 
In  soul  I  swept  the  indignity  away  : 
Old  frailties  then  recurred  : — but  lofty  thought, 
In  act  embodied,  my  deliverance  wrought. 

'  And  Thou,  though  strong  in  love,  art  all  too  weak 

In  reason,  in  self-government  too  slow;  140 

I  counsel  thee  by  fortitude  to  seek 

Our  blest  re-union  in  the  shades  below. 

The  invisible  world  with  thee  hath  sympathised  ; 

Be  thy  affections  raised  and  solemnised. 

*  Learn,  by  a  mortal  yearning,  to  ascend — 
Seeking  a  higher  object.     Love  was  given, 
Encouraged,  sanctioned,  chiefly  for  that  end ; 
For  this  the  passion  to  excess  was  driven — 
That  self  might  be  annulled  :  her  bondage  prove 
The  fetters  of  a  dream  opposed  to  love/ —  150 

Aloud  she  shrieked  !  for  Hermes  re-appears  ! 
Round   the   dear  Shade  she  would  have  clung — 'tis 

vain  : 

The  hours  are  past — too  brief  had  they  been  years ; 
And  him  no  mortal  effort  can  detain  : 
Swift,  toward  the  realms  that  know  not  earthly  day, 
He  through  the  portal  takes  his  silent  way, 
And  on  the  palace-floor  a  lifeless  corse  She  lay. 

Thus,  all  in  vain  exhorted  and  reproved, 

She  perished ;  and,  as  for  a  wilful  crime, 

By  the  just  Gods  whom  no  weak  pity  moved,  160 

Was  doomed  to  wear  out  her  appointed  time, 

Apart  from  happy  Ghosts,  that  gather  flowers 

Of  blissful  quiet  'mid  unfading  bowers. 


358  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

— Yet  tears  to  human  suffering  are  due ; 
And  mortal  hopes  defeated  and  o'erthrown 
Are  mourned  by  man,  and  not  by  man  alone, 
As  fondly  he  believes. — Upon  the  side 
Of  Hellespont  (such  faith  was  entertained) 
A  knot  of  spiry  trees  for  ages  grew 
From  out  the  tomb  of  him  for  whom  she  died  ;        170 
And  ever,  when  such  stature  they  had  gained 
That  Ilium's  walls  were  subject  to  their  view, 
The  trees'  tall  summits  withered  at  the  sight ; 
A  constant  interchange  of  growth  and  blight ! 1 

1814 

XXXII 
DION 

(SEE  PLUTARCH) 
i 

ERENE,  and  fitted  to  embrace, 

Where'er  he  turned,  a  swan-like  grace 

Of  haughtiness  without  pretence, 

And  to  unfold  a  still  magnificence, 

Was  princely  Dion,  in  the  power 

And  beauty  of  his  happier  hour. 

And  what  pure  homage  then  did  wait 

On  Dion's  virtues,  while  the  lunar  beam 

Of  Plato's  genius,  from  its  lofty  sphere, 

Fell  round  him  in  the  grove  of  Academe,  10 

Softening  their  inbred  dignity  austere — 

That  he,  not  too  elate 

With  self-sufficing  solitude, 
But  with  majestic  lowliness  endued, 
Might  in  the  universal  bosom  reign, 
And  from  affectionate  observance  gain 
Help,  under  every  change  of  adverse  fate. 


Five  thousand  warriors — O  the  rapturous  day ! 

Each  crowned  with  flowers,  and  armed  with  spear  and 

shield, 

Or  ruder  weapon  which  their  course  might  yield,     20 
To  Syracuse  advance  in  bright  array. 

1  For  the  account  of  these  long-lived  trees,  see  Pliny's  Natural  History, 
lib.  xvi.  cap.  44 ;  and  for  the  features  in  the  character  of  Protesilaus,  see 
the  Iphigenia  in  Aulis  of  Euripides.  Virgil  places  the  Shade  of  Laodamia 
in  a  mournful  region,  among  unhappy  Lovers, 

His  Laodamia     w 

It  cornea. 


DION  359 

Who  leads  them  on  ? — The  anxious  people  see 

Long-exiled  Dion  marching  at  their  head, 

He  also  crowned  with  flowers  of  Sicily, 

And  in  a  white,  far-beaming,  corslet  clad ! 

Pure  transport  undisturbed  by  doubt  or  fear 

The  gazers  feel ;  and,  rushing  to  the  plain, 

Salute  those  strangers  as  a  holy  train 

Or  blest  procession  (to  the  Immortals  dear) 

That  brought  their  precious  liberty  again.  30 

Lo !  when  the  gates  are  entered,  on  each  hand, 

Down  the  long  street,  rich  goblets  filled  with  wine 

In  seemly  order  stand, 
On  tables  set,  as  if  for  rites  divine  ; — 
And,  as  the  great  Deliverer  marches  by, 
He  looks  on  festal  ground  with  fruits  bestrown  ; 
And  flowers  are  on  his  person  thrown 

In  boundless  prodigality ; 

Nor  doth  the  general  voice  abstain  from  prayer, 
Invoking  Dion's  tutelary  care,  40 

As  if  a  very  Deity  he  were ! 


HI 

Mourn,  hills  and  groves  of  Attica !  and  mourn, 

Ilissus,  bending  o'er  thy  classic  urn  ! 

Mourn,  and  lament  for  him  whose  spirit  dreads 

Your  once  sweet  memory,  studious  walks  and  shades  ! 

For  him  who  to  divinity  aspired, 

Not  on  the  breath  of  popular  applause, 

But  through  dependence  on  the  sacred  laws 

Framed  in  the  schools  where  Wisdom  dwelt  retired, 

Intent  to  trace  the  ideal  path  of  right  5* 

(More  fair  than  heaven's  broad  causeway  paved  with 

stars) 
Which    Dion    learned     to    measure    with     sublime 

delight ; — 

But  He  hath  overleaped  the  eternal  bars ; 
And,  following  guides  whose  craft  holds  no  consent 
With  aught  that  breathes  the  ethereal  element, 
Hath  stained  the  robes  of  civil  power  with  blood, 
Unjustly  shed,  though  for  the  public  good. 
Whence  doubts  that  came  too  late,  and  wishes  vain, 
Hollow  excuses,  and  triumphant  pain ; 
And  oft  his  cogitations  sink  as  low  60 

As,  through  the  abysses  of  a  joyless  heart, 
The  heaviest  plummet  of  despair  can  go — 
But  whence  that  sudden  check  ?  that  fearful  start ! 


360  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

He  hears  an  uncouth  sound — 
Anon  his  lifted  eyes 

Saw,  at  a  long-drawn  gallery's  dusky  bound, 

A  Shape  of  more  than  mortal  size 

And  hideous  aspect,  stalking  round  and  round  ! 
A  woman's  garb  the  Phantom  wore, 
And  fiercely  swept  the  marble  floor, —  70 

Like  Auster  whirling  to  and  fro, 
His  force  on  Caspian  foam  to  try  ; 

Or  Boreas  when  he  scours  the  snow 

That  skins  the  plains  of  Thessaly, 

Or  when  aloft  on  Maenalus  he  stops 

His  flight,  'mid  eddying  pine-tree  tops  ! 

IV 

So,  but  from  toil  less  sign  of  profit  reaping, 
The  sullen  Spectre  to  her  purpose  bowed, 
Sweeping — vehemently  sweeping — 
No  pause  admitted,  no  design  avowed  !  80 

s  Avaunt,  inexplicable  Guest ! — avaunt/ 
Exclaimed  the  Chieftain — '  let  me  rather  see 
The  coronal  that  coiling  vipers  make ; 
The  torch  that  flames  with  many  a  lurid  flake, 
And  the  long  train  of  doleful  pageantry 
Which  they  behold,  whom  vengeful  Furies  haunt ; 
Who,  while  they  struggle  from  the  scourge  to  flee, 
Move  where  the  blasted  soil  is  not  unworn, 
And,  in  their  anguish,  bear  what  other  minds  have 

borne ! ' 

v 

But  Shapes,  that  come  not  at  an  earthly  call,  90 

Will  not  depart  when  mortal  voices  bid ; 
Lords  of  the  visionary  eye  whose  lid, 
Once  raised,  remains  aghast,  and  will  not  fall ! 
Ye  Gods,  thought  He,  that  servile  Implement 

Obeys  a  mystical  intent ! 
Your  Minister  would  brush  away 
The  spots  that  to  my  soul  adhere ; 
But  should  she  labour  night  and  day, 
They  will  not,  cannot  disappear ; 

Whence  angry  perturbations, — and  that  look  100 

Which  no  philosophy  can  brook  ! 

VI 

Ill-fated  Chief!  there  are  whose  hopes  are  built 
Upon  the  ruins  of  thy  glorious  name ; 
Who,  through  the  portal  of  one  moment's  guilt, 
Pursue  thee  with  their  deadly  aim ! 


THE  PASS  OF  KIRKSTONE  361 

O  matchless  perfidy  !  portentous  lust 

Of  monstrous  crime  ! — that  horror-striking  blade, 

Drawn  in  defiance  of  the  Gods,  hath  laid 

The  noble  Syracusan  low  in  dust ! 

Shudder'd  the  walls — the  marble  city  wept —          no 

And  sylvan  places  heaved  a  pensive  sigh ; 

But  in  calm  peace  the  appointed  Victim  slept, 

As  he  had  fallen  in  magnanimity ; 

Of  spirit  too  capacious  to  require 

That   Destiny  her  course   should   change ;    too 
just 

To  his  own  native  greatness  to  desire 

That  wretched  boon,  days  lengthened   by  mis- 
trust. 

So  were  the  hopeless  troubles,  that  involved 

The  soul  of  Dion,  instantly  dissolved. 

Released  from  life  and  cares  of  princely  state,          120 

He  left  this  moral  grafted  on  his  Fate  ; 

'  Him  only  pleasure  leads,  and  peace  attends, 

Him,  only  him,  the  shield  of  Jove  defends, 

Whose  means  are  fair  and  spotless  as  his  ends.' 

1816 


XXXIII 
THE  PASS  OF  KIRKSTONE 


WITHIN  the  mind  strong  fancies  work, 
A  deep  delight  the  bosom  thrills, 
Oft  as  I  pass  along  the  fork 
Of  these  fraternal  hills : 
Where,  save  the  rugged  road,  we  find 
No  appanage  of  human  kind, 
Nor  hint  of  man  ;  if  stone  or  rock 
Seem  not  his  handy-work  to  mock 
By  something  cognizably  shaped  ; 
Mockery — or  model  roughly  hewn, 
And  left  as  if  by  earthquake  strewn, 
Or  from  the  Flood  escaped : 
Altars  for  Druid  service  fit, 
(But  where  no  fire  was  ever  lit, 
Unless  the  glow-worm  to  the  skies 
Thence  offer  nightly  sacrifice) ; 
Wrinkled  Egyptian  monument ; 
Green  moss-grown  tower ;  or  hoary  tent ; 


362  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Tents  of  a  camp  that  never  shall  be  raised — 
On  which  four  thousand  years  have  gazed  ! 


Ye  plough-shares  sparkling  on  the  slopes  ! 

Ye  snow-white  lambs  that  trip 

Imprisoned  'mid  the  formal  props 

Of  restless  ownership ! 

Ye  trees,  that  may  to-morrow  fall 

To  feed  the  insatiate  Prodigal ! 

Lawns,  houses,  chattels,  groves,  and  fields, 

All  that  the  fertile  valley  shields ; 

Wages  of  folly — baits  of  crime, 

Of  life's  uneasy  game  the  stake,  30 

Playthings  that  keep  the  eyes  awake 

Of  drowsy,  dotard  Time ; — 

O  care  !  O  guilt ! — O  vales  and  plains, 

Here,  'mid  his  own  unvexed  domains, 

A  Genius  dwells,  that  can  subdue 

At  once  all  memory  of  You, — 

Most  potent  when  mists  veil  the  sky, 

Mists  that  distort  and  magnify, 

While  the  coarse  rushes,  to  the  sweeping  breeze, 

Sigh  forth  their  ancient  melodies  !  40 


List  to  those  shriller  notes  ! — that  march 

Perchance  was  on  the  blast, 

When,  through  this  Height's  inverted  arch, 

Rome's  earliest  legion  passed  ! 

— They  saw,  adventurously  impelled, 

And  older  eyes  than  theirs  beheld, 

This  block — and  yon,  whose  church-like  frame 

Gives  to  this  savage  Pass  its  name. 

Aspiring  Road!  that  lov'st  to  hide 

Thy  daring  in  a  vapoury  bourn,  50 

Not  seldom  may  the  hour  return 

When  thou  shalt  be  my  guide : 

And  I  (as  all  men  may  find  cause, 

When  life  is  at  a  weary  pause, 

And  they  have  panted  up  the  hill 

Of  duty  with  reluctant  will) 

Be  thankful,  even  though  tired  and  faint, 

For  the  rich  bounties  of  constraint ; 

Whence  oft  invigorating  transports  flow 

That  choice  lacked  courage  to  bestow  !  60 


TO  ENTERPRISE  363 


My  Soul  was  grateful  for  delight 

That  wore  a  threatening  brow  ; 

A  veil  is  lifted — can  she  slight 

The  scene  that  opens  now  ? 

Though  habitation  none  appear, 

The  greenness  tells,  man  must  be  there; 

The  shelter — that  the  perspective 

Is  of  the  clime  in  which  we  live  ; 

Where  Toil  pursues  his  daily  round ; 

Where  Pity  sheds  sweet  tears — and  Love,  70 

In  woodbine  bower  or  birchen  grove, 

Inflicts  his  tender  wound. 

— Who  comes  not  hither  ne'er  shall  know 

How  beautiful  the  world  below  ; 

Nor  can  he  guess  how  lightly  leaps 

The  brook  adown  the  rocky  steeps. 

Farewell,  thou  desolate  Domain  ! 

Hope,  pointing  to  the  cultured  plain, 

Carols  like  a  shepherd-boy ; 

And  who  is  she  ? — Can  that  be  Joy  !  8c 

Who,  with  a  sunbeam  for  her  guide, 

Smoothly  skims  the  meadows  wide  ; 

While  Faith,  from  yonder  opening  cloud, 

To  hill  and  vale  proclaims  aloud, 

'Whate'er  the  weak  may  dread,  the  wicked  dare, 

Thy  lot,  O  Man,  is  good,  thy  portion  fair  ! ' 

1817 

XXXIV 
TO  ENTERPRISE 

KEEP  for  the  Young  the  impassioned  smile 
Shed   from   thy   countenance,  as   I    see   thee 

stand 

High  on  that  chalky  cliff  of  Britain's  Isle, 
A  slender  volume  grasping  in  thy  hand — 
(Perchance  the  pages  that  relate 
The  various  turns  of  Crusoe's  fate) — 
Ah,  spare  the  exulting  smile, 
And  drop  thy  pointing  finger  bright 
As  the  first  flash  of  beacon  light ; 
But  neither  veil  thy  head  in  shadows  dim,  10 

Nor  turn  thy  face  away 
From  One  who,  in  the  evening  of  his  day, 
To  thee  would  offer  no  presumptuous  hymn ! 


364  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


Bold  Spirit !  who  art  free  to  rove 

Among  the  starry  courts  of  Jove, 

And  oft  in  splendour  dost  appear 

Embodied  to  poetic  eyes, 

While  traversing  this  nether  sphere, 

Where  Mortals  call  thee  ENTERPRISE. 

Daughter  of  Hope  !  her  favourite  Child,  20 

Whom  she  to  young  Ambition  bore, 

When  hunter's  arrow  first  defiled 

The  grove,  and  stained  the  turf  with  gore  ; 

Thee  winged  Fancy  took,  and  nursed 

On  broad  Euphrates'  palmy  shore, 

And  where  the  mightier  Waters  burst 

From  caves  of  Indian  mountains  hoar  ! 

She  wrapped  thee  in  a  panther's  skin ; 

And  Thou,  thy  favourite  food  to  win, 

The  flame-eyed  eagle  oft  wouldst  scare  30 

From  her  rock-fortress  in  mid  air, 

With  infant  shout ;  and  often  sweep, 

Paired  with  the  ostrich,  o'er  the  plain; 

Or,  tired  with  sport,  wouldst  sink  asleep 

Upon  the  couchant  lion's  mane  ! 

With  rolling  years  thy  strength  increased  ; 

And,  far  beyond  thy  native  East, 

To  thee,  by  varying  titles  known 

As  variously  thy  power  was  shown, 

Did  incense-bearing  altars  rise,  40 

Which  caught  the  blaze  of  sacrifice, 

From  suppliants  panting  for  the  skies ! 


What  though  this  ancient  Earth  be  trod 

No  more  by  step  of  Demi-god 

Mounting  from  glorious  deed  to  deed 

As  thou  from  clime  to  clime  didst  lead ; 

Yet  still  the  bosom  beating  high, 

And  the  hushed  farewell  of  an  eye 

Where  no  procrastinating  gaze 

A  last  infirmity  betrays,  50 

Prove  that  thy  heaven-descended  sway 

Shall  ne'er  submit  to  cold  decay. 

By  thy  divinity  impelled, 

The  Stripling  seeks  the  tented  field  ; 

The  aspiring  Virgin  kneels ;  and,  pale 

With  awe,  receives  the  hallowed  veil, 


TO  ENTERPRISE  865 

A  soft  and  tender  Heroine 

Vowed  to  severer  discipline ; 

Inflamed  by  thee,  the  blooming  Boy 

Makes  of  the  whistling  shrouds  a  toy,  60 

And  of  the  ocean's  dismal  breast 

A  play-ground, — or  a  couch  of  rest ; 

'Mid  the  blank  world  of  snow  and  ice, 

Thou  to  his  dangers  dost  enchain 

The  Chamois-chaser  awed  in  vain 

By  chasm  or  dizzy  precipice  ; 

And  hast  Thou  not  with  triumph  seen 

How  soaring  Mortals  glide  between 

Or  through  the  clouds,  and  brave  the  light 

With  bolder  than  Icarian  flight  ?  70 

How  they,  in  bells  of  crystal,  dive — 

Where  winds  and  waters  cease  to  strive — 

For  no  unholy  visitings, 

Among  the  monsters  of  the  Deep, 

And  all  the  sad  and  precious  things 

Which  there  in  ghastly  silence  sleep  ? 

Or,  adverse  tides  and  currents  headed, 

And  breathless  calms  no  longer  dreaded, 

In  never-slackening  voyage  go 

Straight  as  an  arrow  from  the  bow  ;  80 

And,  slighting  sails  and  scorning  oars, 

Keep  faith  with  Time  on  distant  shores  ? 

— Within  our  fearless  reach  are  placed 

The  secrets  of  the  burning  Waste ; 

Egyptian  tombs  unlock  their  dead, 

Nile  trembles  at  his  fountain  head  ; 

Thou  speak' st — and  lo  !  the  polar  Seas 

Unbosom  their  last  mysteries. 

— But  oh  !  what  transports,  what  sublime  reward, 

Won  from  the  world  of  mind,  dost  thou  prepare        90 

For  philosophic  Sage ;  or  high-souled  Bard 

Who,  for  thy  service  trained  in  lonely  woods, 

Hath  fed  on  pageants  floating  through  the  air, 

Or  calentured  in  depth  of  limpid  floods  ; 

Nor  grieves — tho'  doomed  thro'  silent  night  to  bear 

The  domination  of  his  glorious  themes, 

Or  struggle  in  the  net-work  of  thy  dreams  ! 


If  there  be  movements  in  the  Patriot's  soul, 
From  source  still  deeper,  and  of  higher  worth, 
'Tis  thine  the  quickening  impulse  to  control, 
And  in  due  season  send  the  mandate  forth ; 


366  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Thy  call  a  prostrate  Nation  can  restore, 

When  but  a  single  Mind  resolves  to  crouch  no  more. 

IV 

Dread  Minister  of  wrath  ! 

Who  to  their  destined  punishment  dost  urge 

The  Pharaohs  of  the  earth,  the  men  of  hardened 

heart ! 

Not  unassisted  by  the  nattering  stars, 
Thou  strew' st  temptation  o'er  the  path 
When  they  in  pomp  depart 

With  trampling  horses  and  refulgent  cars —  u 

Soon  to  be  swallowed  by  the  briny  surge  ; 
Or  cast,  for  lingering  death,  on  unknown  strands ; 
Or  caught  amid  a  whirl  of  desert  sands — 
An  Army  now,  and  now  a  living  hill 
That  a  brief  while  heaves  with  convulsive  throes — 
Then  all  is  still; 

Or,  to  forget  their  madness  and  their  woes, 
Wrapt  in  a  winding-sheet  of  spotless  snows ! 


Back  flows  the  willing  current  of  my  Song  : 

If  to  provoke  such  doom  the  Impious  dare,  120 

Why  should  it  daunt  a  blameless  prayer  ? 

— Bold  Goddess !  range  our  Youth  among ; 

Nor  let  thy  genuine  impulse  fail  to  beat 

In  hearts  no  longer  young ; 

Still  may  a  veteran  Few  have  pride 

In  thoughts  whose  sternness  makes  them  sweet ; 

In  fixed  resolves  by  Reason  justified ; 

That  to  their  object  cleave  like  sleet 

Whitening  a  pine  tree's  northern  side, 

When  fields  are  naked  far  and  wide,  130 

And  withered  leaves,  from  earth's  cold  breast 

Up-caught  in  whirlwinds,  nowhere  can  find  rest. 


But  if  such  homage  thou  disdain 
As  doth  with  mellowing  years  agree, 
One  rarely  absent  from  thy  train 
More  humble  favours  may  obtain 
For  thy  contented  Votary. 
She,  who  incites  the  frolic  lambs 
In  presence  of  their  heedless  dams, 


TO 367 

And  to  the  solitary  fawn  140 

Vouchsafes  her  lessons,  bounteous  Nymph 

That  wakes  the  breeze,  the  sparkling  lymph 

Doth  hurry  to  the  lawn ; 

She,  who  inspires  that  strain  of  joyance  holy 

Which  the  sweet  Bird,  misnamed  the  melancholy, 

Pours  forth  in  shady  groves,  shall  plead  for  me ; 

And  vernal  mornings  opening  bright 

With  views  of  undefined  delight, 

And  cheerful  songs,  and  suns  that  shine 

On  busy  days,  with  thankful  nights,  be  mine.  150 


But  thou,  O  Goddess !  in  thy  favourite  Isle 

(Freedom's  impregnable  redoubt, 

The  wide  earth's  store-house  fenced  about 

With  breakers  roaring  to  the  gales 

That  stretch  a  thousand  thousand  sails) 

Quicken  the  slothful,  and  exalt  the  vile  ! — 

Thy  impulse  is  the  life  of  Fame ; 

Glad  Hope  would  almost  cease  to  be 

If  torn  from  thy  society ; 

And  Love,  when  worthiest  of  his  name,  160 

Is  proud  to  walk  the  earth  with  Thee  ! 

Between  1820  and  1822 


XXXV 
TO 


ON    HER    FIRST    ASCENT   TO    THE    SUMMIT  OF    HELVELLYN 

T  NMATE  of  a  mountain-dwelling, 

Thou  hast  clomb  aloft,  and  gazed 
From  the  watch-towers  of  Helvellyn  ; 
Awed,  delighted,  and  amazed  ! 

Potent  was  the  spell  that  bound  thee 
Not  unwilling  to  obey ; 
For  blue  Ether's  arms,  flung  round  thee, 
Stilled  the  pan  tings  of  dismay. 

Lo  !  the  dwindled  woods  and  meadows; 
What  a  vast  abyss  is  there  ! 
Lo !  the  clouds,  the  solemn  shadows, 
And  the  glistenings — heavenly  fair ! 


368  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

And  a  record  of  commotion 
Which  a  thousand  ridges  yield  ; 
Ridge,  and  gulf,  and  distant  ocean 
Gleaming  like  a  silver  shield  ! 

Maiden !  now  take  flight ; — inherit 

Alps  or  Andes — they  are  thine  ! 

With  the  morning's  roseate  Spirit 

Sweep  their  length  of  snowy  line ;  20 

Or  survey  their  bright  dominions 
In  the  gorgeous  colours  drest 
Flung  from  off  the  purple  pinions, 
Evening  spreads  throughout  the  west ! 

Thine  are  all  the  choral  fountains 
Warbling  in  each  sparry  vault 
Of  the  untrodden  lunar  mountains ; 
Listen  to  their  songs  ! — or  halt, 

To  Niphates'  top  invited, 

Whither  spiteful  Satan  steered ;  30 

Or  descend  where  the  ark  alighted, 

When  the  green  earth  re-appeared  ; 

For  the  power  of  hills  is  on  thee, 
As  was  witnessed  through  thine  eye 
Then,  when  old  Helvellyn  won  thee 
To  confess  their  majesty  ! 

1816 

XXXVI 
TO  A  YOUNG  LADY 

WHO  HAD  BEEN  REPROACHED  FOR  TAKING  LONG  WALKS 
IN  THE  COUNTRY 

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,  and  be 
A  light  to  young  and  old. 

There,  healthy  as  a  shepherd  boy, 
And  treading  among  flowers  of  joy 


WATER  FOWL  869 

Which  at  no  season  fade, 

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 ; 

But  an  old  age  serene  and  bright, 

And  lovely  as  a  Lapland  night, 

Shall  lead  thee  to  thy  grave. 

Published  1802 

XXXVII 
WATER  FOWL 

'  LET  me  be  allowed  the  aid  of  verse  to  describe  the  evolutions  which  these 
visitants  sometimes  perform,  on  a  fine  day  towards  the  close  of  winter.' 
— Extract  from  the  Author's  Book  on  the  Lakes. 

MARK  how  the  feathered  tenants  of  the  flood, 
With  grace  of  motion  that  might  scarcely  seem 
Inferior  to  angelical,  prolong 
Their  curious  pastime  !  shaping  in  mid  air 
(And  sometimes  with  ambitious  wing  that  soars 
High  as  the  level  of  the  mountain-tops) 
A  circuit  ampler  than  the  lake  beneath — 
Their  own  domain ;  but  ever,  while  intent 
On  tracing  and  retracing  that  large  round, 
Their  jubilant  activity  evolves  10 

Hundreds  of  curves  and  circlets,  to  and  fro, 
Upward  and  downward,  progress  intricate 
Yet  unperplexed,  as  if  one  spirit  swayed 
Their  indefatigable  flight.     'Tis  done — 
Ten  times,  or  more,  I  fancied  it  had  ceased ; 
But  lo  !  the  vanished  company  again 
Ascending ;  they  approach — I  hear  their  wings, 
Faint,  faint  at  first ;  and  then  an  eager  sound, 
Past  in  a  moment — and  as  faint  again  ! 
They  tempt  the  sun  to  sport  amid  their  plumes ;      20 
They  tempt  the  water,  or  the  gleaming  ice, 
To  show  them  a  fair  image  ;  'tis  themselves, 
Their  own  fair  forms,  upon  the  glimmering  plain, 
Painted  more  soft  and  fair  as  they  descend 
Almost  to  touch  ; — then  up  again  aloft, 
Up  with  a  sally  and  a  flash  of  speed, 
As  if  they  scorned  both  resting-place  and  rest  ! 

1812 
1— AA 


370  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

XXXVIII 
VIEW  FROM  THE  TOP  OF  BLACK  COMB1 

r  I  "'HIS  Height  a  ministering  Angel  might  select : 

For  from  the  summit  of  BLACK  COMB  (dread  name 
Derived  from  clouds  and  storms  !)  the  amplest  range 
Of  unobstructed  prospect  may  be  seen 
That  British  ground  commands  : — low  dusky  tracts, 
Where  Trent  is  nursed,  far  southward  !  Cambrian  hills 
To  the  south-west,  a  multitudinous  show  ; 
And,  in  a  line  of  eye-sight  linked  with  these, 
The  hoary  peaks  of  Scotland  that  give  birth 
To  Tiviot's  stream,  to  Annan,  Tweed,  and  Clyde : —     10 
Crowding  the  quarter  whence  the  sun  comes  forth 
Gigantic  mountains  rough  with  crags;  beneath, 
Right  at  the  imperial  station's  western  base, 
Main  ocean,  breaking  audibly,  and  stretched 
Far  into  silent  regions  blue  and  pale ; — 
And  visibly  engirding  Mona's  Isle 
That,  as  we  left  the  plain,  before  our  sight 
Stood  like  a  lofty  mount,  uplifting  slowly 
(Above  the  convex  of  the  watery  globe) 
Into  clear  view  the  cultured  fields  that  streak  ao 

Her  habitable  shores  but  now  appears 
A  dwindled  object,  and  submits  to  lie 
At  the  spectator's  feet. — Yon  azure  ridge, 
Is  it  a  perishable  cloud  ?     Or  there 
Do  we  behold  the  line  of  Erin's  coast  ? 
Land  sometimes  by  the  roving  shepherd-swain 
(Like  the  bright  confines  of  another  world) 
Not  doubtfully  perceived. — Look  homeward  now  ! 
In  depth,  in  height,  in  circuit,  how  serene 
The  spectacle,  how  pure  ! — Of  Nature's  works,  30 

In  earth,  and  air,  and  earth-embracing  sea, 
A  revelation  infinite  it  seems ; 
Display  august  of  man's  inheritance, 
Of  Britain's  calm  felicity  and  power ! 

1813 

1  Black  Comb  stands  at  the  southern  extremity  of  Cumberland  :  its  base 
covers  a  much  greater  extent  of  ground  than  any  other  mountain  in  those 
parts ;  and,  from  its  situation,  the  summit  commands  a  more  extensive  view 
than  any  other  point  in  Britain. 


THE  HAUNTED  TREE  371 

XXXIX 
THE  HAUNTED  TREE 

TO  

*  I  "'HOSE  silver  clouds  collected  round  the  sun 

His  mid-day  warmth  abate  not,  seeming  less 
To  overshade  than  multiply  his  beams 
By  soft  reflection — grateful  to  the  sky, 
To  rocks,  fields,  woods.     Nor  doth  our  human  sense 
Ask,  for  its  pleasure,  screen  or  canopy 
More  ample  than  the  time-dismantled  Oak 
Spreads  o'er  this  tuft  of  heath,  which  now,  attired 
In  the  whole  fulness  of  its  bloom,  affords 
Couch  beautiful  as  e'er  for  earthly  use  10 

Was  fashioned ;  whether  by  the  hand  of  Art, 
That  eastern  Sultan,  amid  flowers  enwrought 
On  silken  tissue,  might  diffuse  his  limbs 
In  languor ;  or  by  Nature,  for  repose 
Of  panting  Wood-nymph,  wearied  with  the  chase. 
O  Lady !  fairer  in  thy  Poet's  sight 
Than  fairest  spiritual  creature  of  the  groves, 
Approach; — and,  thus  invited,  crown  with  rest 
The  noon-tide  hour  :  though  truly  some  there  are 
Whose  footsteps  superstitiously  avoid  20 

This  venerable  Tree ;  for,  when  the  wind 
Blows  keenly,  it  sends  forth  a  creaking  sound 
(Above  the  general  roar  of  woods  and  crags) 
Distinctly  heard  from  far — a  doleful  note ! 
As  if  (so  Grecian  shepherds  would  have  deemed) 
The  Hamadryad,  pent  within,  bewailed 
Some  bitter  wrong.     Nor  is  it  unbelieved, 
By  ruder  fancy,  that  a  troubled  ghost 
Haunts  the  old  trunk  ;  lamenting  deeds  of  which 
The  flowery  ground  is  conscious.     But  no  wind  30 

Sweeps  now  along  this  elevated  ridge  ; 
Not  even  a  zephyr  stirs  ; — the  obnoxious  Tree 
Is  mute ;  and,  in  his  silence,  would  look  down, 
O  lovely  Wanderer  of  the  trackless  hills, 
On  thy  reclining  form  with  more  delight 
Than  his  coevals  in  the  sheltered  vale 
Seem  to  participate,  the  while  they  view 
Their  own  far- stretching  arms  and  leafy  heads 
Vividly  pictured  in  some  glassy  pool, 
That,  for  a  brief  space,  checks  the  hurrying  stream  !    40 

1819 


372  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

XL 
THE  TRIAD 

SHOW  me  the  noblest  Youth  of  present  time, 
Whose  trembling  fancy  would  to  love  give  birth  ; 
Some  God  or  Hero,  from  the  Olympian  clime 
Returned,  to  seek  a  Consort  upon  earth  ; 
Or,  in  no  doubtful  prospect,  let  me  see 
The  brightest  star  of  ages  yet  to  be, 
And  I  will  mate  and  match  him  blissfully. 

I  will  not  fetch  a  Naiad  from  a  flood 

Pure  as  herself — (song  lacks  not  mightier  power) 

Nor  leaf-crowned  Dryad  from  a  pathless  wood,          10 

Nor  Sea-nymph  glistening  from  her  coral  bower ; 

Mere  Mortals,  bodied  forth  in  vision  still, 

Shall  with  Mount  Ida's  triple  lustre  fill 

The  chaster  coverts  of  a  British  hill. 

'  Appear  ! — obey  my  lyre's  command  ! 
Come,  like  the  Graces,  hand  in  hand  ! 
For  ye,  though  not  by  birth  allied, 
Are  Sisters  in  the  bond  of  love ; 
Nor  shall  the  tongue  of  envious  pride 
Presume  those  interweavings  to  reprove  90 

In  you,  which  that  fair  progeny  of  Jove 
Learned  from  the  tuneful  spheres  that  glide 
In  endless  union,  earth  and  sea  above.' 
— I  sing  in  vain  ;- — the  pines  have  hushed  their  waving: 
A  peerless  Youth  expectant  at  my  side, 
Breathless  as  they,  with  imabated  craving 
Looks  to  the  earth,  and  to  the  vacant  air; 
And,  with  a  wandering  eye  that  seems  to  chide, 
Asks  of  the  clouds  what  occupants  they  hide  : — 
But  why  solicit  more  than  sight  could  bear,  30 

By  casting  on  a  moment  all  we  dare  ? 
Invoke  we  those  bright  Beings  one  by  one ; 
And  what  was  boldly  promised,  truly  shall  be  done. 

'  Fear  not  a  constraining  measure  ! 
— Yielding  to  this  gentle  spell, 
Lucida  !  from  domes  of  pleasure, 
Or  from  cottage-sprinkled  dell, 
Come  to  regions  solitary, 
Where  the  eagle  builds  her  aery, 
Above  the  hermit's  long-forsaken  cell ! '  40 

— She  comes  ! — behold 


THE  TRIAD  373 

That  Figure,  like  a  ship  with  snow-white  sail ; 

Nearer  she  draws ;  a  breeze  uplifts  her  veil ; 

Upon  her  coming  wait 

As  pure  a  sunshine  and  as  soft  a  gale 

As  e'er,  on  herbage  covering  earthly  mould, 

Tempted  the  bird  of  Juno  to  unfold 

His  richest  splendour — when  his  veering  gait 

And  every  motion  of  his  starry  train 

Seem  governed  by  a  strain  50 

Of  music,  audible  to  him  alone. 

'  O  Lady,  worthy  of  earth's  proudest  throne  ! 
Nor  less,  by  excellence  of  nature,  fit 
Beside  an  unambitious  hearth  to  sit 
Domestic  queen,  where  grandeur  is  unknown  ; 
What  living  man  could  fear 
The  worst  of  Fortune's  malice,  wert  Thou  near, 
Humbling  that  lily-stem,  thy  sceptre  meek, 
That  its  fair  flowers  may  from  his  cheek 
Brush  the  too  happy  tear  ?  60 

Queen,  and  handmaid  lowly  ! 

Whose  skill  can  speed  the  day  with  lively  cares, 

And  banish  melancholy 

By  all  that  mind  invents  or  hand  prepares ; 

O  Thou,  against  whose  lip,  without  its  smile 

And  in  its  silence  even,  no  heart  is  proof; 

Whose  goodness,  sinking  deep,  would  reconcile 

The  softest  Nursling  of  a  gorgeous  palace 

To  the  bare  life  beneath  the  hawthorn-roof 

Of  Sherwood's  Archer,  or  in  caves  of  Wallace —        70 

Who  that  hath  seen  thy  beauty  could  content 

His  soul  with  but  a  glimpse  of  heavenly  day  ? 

Who  that  hath  loved  thee,  but  would  lay 

His  strong  hand  on  the  wind,  if  it  were  bent 

To  take  thee  in  thy  majesty  away  ? 

— Pass  onward  (even  the  glancing  deer 

Till  we  depart  intrude  not  here ;) 

That  mossy  slope,  o'er  which  the  woodbine  throws 

A  canopy,  is  smoothed  for  thy  repose  ! ' 

Glad  moment  is  it  when  the  throng  80 

Of  warblers  in  full  concert  strong 

Strive,  and  not  vainly  strive,  to  rout 

The  lagging  shower,  and  force  coy  Phcebus  out, 

Met  by  the  rainbow's  form  divine, 

Issuing  from  her  cloudy  shrine ; — 


374  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

So  may  the  thrillings  of  the  lyre 

Prevail  to  further  our  desire, 

While  to  these  shades  a  sister  Nymph  I  call. 

'  Come,  if  the  notes  thine  ear  may  pierce, 
Come,  youngest  of  the  lovely  Three,  90 

Submissive  to  the  might  of  verse 
And  the  dear  voice  of  harmony, 
By  none  more  deeply  felt  than  Thee  ! ' 
— I  sang ;  and  lo  !  from  pastimes  virginal 
She  hastens  to  the  tents 
Of  nature,  and  the  lonely  elements. 
Air  sparkles  round  her  with  a  dazzling  sheen ; 
But  mark  her  glowing  cheek,  her  vesture  green  ! 
And,  as  if  wishful  to  disarm 

Or  to  repay  the  potent  Charm,  100 

She  bears  the  stringed  lute  of  old  romance, 
That  cheered  the  trellised  arbour's  privacy, 
And  soothed  war-wearied  knights  in  raftered  hall. 
How  vivid,  yet  how  delicate,  her  glee  ! 
So  tripped  the  Muse,  inventress  of  the  dance ; 
So,  truant  in  waste  woods,  the  blithe  Euphrosyne  ! 

But  the  ringlets  of  that  head 

Why  are  they  ungarlanded  ? 

Why  bedeck  her  temples  less 

Than  the  simplest  shepherdess  ?  no 

Is  it  not  a  brow  inviting 

Choicest  flowers  that  ever  breathed, 

Which  the  myrtle  would  delight  in 

With  Idalian  rose  enwreathed  ? 

But  her  humility  is  well  content 

With  one  wild  floweret  (call  it  not  forlorn) 

FLOWER  OF  THE  WINDS,  beneath  her  bosom  worn — 

Yet  more  for  love  than  ornament. 

Open,  ye  thickets  !  let  her  fly, 

Swift  as  a  Thracian  Nymph  o'er  field  and  height !    120 

For  She,  to  all  but  those  who  love  her,  shy, 

Would  gladly  vanish  from  a  Stranger's  sight ; 

Though,  where  she  is  beloved  and  loves, 

Light  as  the  wheeling  butterfly  she  moves ; 

Her  happy  spirit  as  a  bird  is  free, 

That  rifles  blossoms  on  a  tree, 

Turning  them  inside  out  with  arch  audacity. 

Alas  !  how  little  can  a  moment  show 


THE  TRIAD  375 

Of  an  eye  where  feeling  plays 

In  ten  thousand  dewy  rays ;  130 

A  face  o'er  which  a  thousand  shadows  go  ! 

— She  stops — is  fastened  to  that  rivulet's  side; 

And  there  (while,  with  sedater  mien, 

O'er  timid  waters  that  have  scarcely  left 

Their  birth-place  in  the  rocky  cleft 

She  bends)  at  leisure  may  be  seen 

Features  to  old  ideal  grace  allied, 

Amid  their  smiles  and  dimples  dignified — 

Fit  countenance  for  the  soul  of  primal  truth ; 

The  bland  composure  of  eternal  youth  !  140 

What  more  changeful  than  the  sea  ? 

But  over  his  great  tides 

Fidelity  presides ; 

And  this  light-hearted  Maiden  constant  is  as  he. 

High  is  her  aim  as  heaven  above, 

And  wide  as  ether  her  good-will ; 

And,  like  the  lowly  reed,  her  love 

Can  drink  its  nurture  from  the  scantiest  rill : 

Insight  as  keen  as  frosty  star 

Is  to  her  charity  no  bar,  150 

Nor  interrupts  her  frolic  graces 

When  she  is,  far  from  these  wild  places, 

Encircled  by  familiar  faces. 

O  the  charm  that  manners  draw, 

Nature,  from  thy  genuine  law  ! 

If  from  what  her  hand  would  do, 

Her  voice  would  utter,  aught  ensue 

Untoward  or  unfit ; 

She,  in  benign  affections  pure, 

In  self-forgetfulness  secure,  160 

Sheds  round  the  transient  harm  or  vague  mischance 

A  light  unknown  to  tutored  elegance  : 

Hers  is  not  a  cheek  shame-stricken, 

But  her  blushes  are  joy-flushes  ; 

And  the  fault  (if  fault  it  be) 

Only  ministers  to  quicken 

Laughter-loving  gaiety, 

And  kindle  sportive  wit — 

Leaving  this  Daughter  of  the  mountains  free, 

As  if  she  knew  that  Oberon  king  of  Faery  170 

Had  crossed  her  purpose  with  some  quaint  vagary, 

And  heard  his  viewless  bands 

Over  their  mirthful  triumph  clapping  hands. 


376  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

1  Last  of  the  Three,  though  eldest  born, 
Reveal  thyself,  like  pensive  Morn 
Touched  by  the  skylark's  earliest  note, 
Ere  humbler  gladness  be  afloat. 
But  whether  in  the  semblance  drest 
Of  Dawn — or  Eve,  fair  vision  of  the  west, 
Come  with  each  anxious  hope  subdued  180 

By  woman's  gentle  fortitude, 
Each  grief,  through  meekness,  settling  into  rest. 
—  Or  I  would  hail  thee  when  some  high-wrought  page 
Of  a  closed  volume  lingering  in  thy  hand 
Has  raised  thy  spirit  to  a  peaceful  stand 
Among  the  glories  of  a  happier  age.' 

Her  brow  hath  opened  on  me — see  it  there, 
Brightening  the  umbrage  of  her  hair  ; 
So  gleams  the  crescent  moon,  that  loves 
To  be  descried  through  shady  groves.  190 

Tenderest  bloom  is  on  her  cheek ; 
Wish  not  for  a  richer  streak  ; 
Nor  dread  the  depth  of  meditative  eye  ; 
But  let  thy  love,  upon  that  azure  field 
Of  thoughtfulness  and  beauty,  yield 
Its  homage  offered  up  in  purity. 
What  wouldst  thou  more  ?     In  sunny  glade, 
Or  under  leaves  of  thickest  shade, 
Was  such  a  stillness  e'er  diffused 
Since  earth  grew  calm  while  angels  mused  ?  200 

Softly  she  treads,  as  if  her  foot  were  loth 
To  crush  the  mountain  dew-drops — soon  to  melt 
On  the  flower's  breast;  as  if  she  felt 
That  flowers  themselves,  whate'er  their  hue, 
With  all  their  fragrance,  all  their  glistening, 
Call  to  the  heart  for  inward  listening—- 
And though  for  bridal  wreaths  and  tokens  true 
Welcomed  wisely  ;  though  a  growth 
Which  the  careless  shepherd  sleeps  on, 
As  fitly  spring  from  turf  the  mourner  weeps  on —  210 
And  without  wrong  are  cropped  the  marble  tomb 

strew. 

The  Charm  is  over ;  the  mute  Phantoms  gone, 
Nor  will  return — but  droop  not,  favoured  Youth  ; 
The  apparition  that  before  thee  shone 
Obeyed  a  summons  covetous  of  truth. 
From  these  wild  rocks  thy  footsteps  I  will  guide 
To  bowers  in  which  thy  fortune  may  be  tried, 
And  one  of  the  bright  Three  become  thy  happy  Bride. 

1828 


THE  WISHING-GATE  877 

XLI 
THE  WISHING-GATE 

IN  the  vale  of  Grasmere,  by  the  side  of  the  old  highway  leading  to  Amble- 
side,  is  a  gate,  which,  time  out  of  mind,  has  been  called  the  Wishing-gate, 
from  a  belief  that  wishes  formed  or  indulged  there  have  a  favourable  issue. 

HOPE  rules  a  land  for  ever  green  : 
All  powers  that  serve  the  bright-eyed  Queen 
Are  confident  and  gay  ; 
Clouds  at  her  bidding  disappear ; 
Points  she  to  aught  ? — the  bliss  draws  near, 
And  Fancy  smooths  the  way. 

Not  such  the  land  of  Wishes — there 
Dwell  fruitless  day-dreams,  lawless  prayer, 

And  thoughts  with  things  at  strife  ; 
Yet  how  forlorn,  should  ye  depart,  10 

Ye  superstitions  of  the  heart, 

How  poor,  were  human  life  ! 

When  magic  lore  abjured  its  might, 
Ye  did  not  forfeit  one  dear  right, 

One  tender  claim  abate ; 
Witness  this  symbol  of  your  sway, 
Surviving  near  the  public  way, 

The  rustic  Wishing-gate  ! 

Inquire  not  if  the  faery  race 

Shed  kindly  influence  on  the  place,  20 

Ere  northward  they  retired  ; 
If  here  a  warrior  left  a  spell, 
Panting  for  glory  as  he  fell ; 

Or  here  a  saint  expired. 

Enough  that  all  around  is  fair, 
Composed  with  Nature's  finest  care, 

And  in  her  fondest  love — 
Peace  to  embosom  and  content — 
To  overawe  the  turbulent, 

The  selfish  to  reprove.  30 

Yea  !  even  the  Stranger  from  afar, 
Reclining  on  this  moss-grown  bar, 

Unknowing,  and  unknown, 
The  infection  of  the  ground  partakes, 
Longing  for  his  Belov'd — who  makes 

All  happiness  her  own. 


378  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Then  why  should  conscious  Spirits  fear 
The  mystic  stirrings  that  are  here, 

The  ancient  faith  disclaim  ? 

The  local  Genius  ne'er  befriends  40 

Desires  whose  course  in  folly  ends, 

Whose  just  reward  is  shame. 

Smile  if  thou  wilt,  but  not  in  scorn, 
If  some,  by  ceaseless  pains  outworn, 

Here  crave  an  easier  lot ; 
If  some  have  thirsted  to  renew 
A  broken  vow,  or  bind  a  true, 

With  firmer,  holier  knot. 


And  not  in  vain,  when  thoughts  are  cast 

Upon  the  irrevocable  past,  50 

Some  Penitent  sincere 
May  for  a  worthier  future  sigh, 
While  trickles  from  his  downcast  eye 

No  unavailing  tear. 

The  Worldling,  pining  to  be  freed 
From  turmoil,  who  would  turn  or  speed 

The  current  of  his  fate, 
Might  stop  before  this  favoured  scene, 
At  Nature's  call,  nor  blush  to  lean 

Upon  the  Wishing-gate.  60 

The  Sage,  who  feels  how  blind,  how  weak 
Is  man,  though  loth  such  help  to  seek, 

Yet,  passing,  here  might  pause, 
And  thirst  for  insight  to  allay 
Misgiving,  while  the  crimson  day 

In  quietness  withdraws ; 

Or  when  the  church-clock's  knell  profound 
To  Time's  first  step  across  the  bound 

Of  midnight  makes  reply  ; 

Time  pressing  on  with  starry  crest  70 

To  filial  sleep  upon  the  breast 

Of  dread  eternity. 

1828 


THE  WISHING-GATE  DESTROYED      379 

XLII 
THE  WISHING-GATE  DESTROYED 

>r  \  ^IS  gone — with  old  belief  and  dream 

That  round  it  clung,  and  tempting  scheme 

Released  from  fear  and  doubt ; 
And  the  bright  landscape  too  must  lie, 
By  this  blank  wall,  from  every  eye, 

Relentlessly  shut  out. 

Bear  witness  ye  who  seldom  passed 
That  opening — but  a  look  ye  cast 

Upon  the  lake  below, 

What  spirit-stirring  power  it  gained  10 

From  faith  which  here  was  entertained, 

Though  reason  might  say  no. 

Blest  is  that  ground,  where,  o'er  the  springs 
Of  history,  Glory  claps  her  wings, 

Fame  sheds  the  exulting  tear  ; 
Yet  earth  is  wide,  and  many  a  nook 
Unheard  of  is,  like  this,  a  book 

For  modest  meanings  dear. 

It  was  in  sooth  a  happy  thought 

That  grafted,  on  so  fair  a  spot,  20 

So  confident  a  token 
Of  coming  good  ; — the  charm  is  fled ; 
Indulgent  centuries  spun  a  thread, 

Which  one  harsh  day  has  broken. 

Alas  !  for  him  who  gave  the  word ; 
Could  he  no  sympathy  afford, 

Derived  from  earth  or  heaven, 
To  hearts  so  oft  by  hope  betrayed, 
Their  very  wishes  wanted  aid 

Which  here  was  freely  given  ?  30 

Where,  for  the  love-lorn  maiden's  wound, 
Will  now  so  readily  be  found 

A  balm  of  expectation  ? 
Anxious  for  far-off  children,  where 
Shall  mothers  breathe  a  like  sweet  air 

Of  home-felt  consolation  ? 

And  not  unfelt  will  prove  the  loss 
'Mid  trivial  care  and  petty  cross 


380  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

And  each  day's  shallow  grief; 
Though  the  most  easily  beguiled  40 

Were  oft  among  the  first  that  smiled 

At  their  own  fond  belief. 

If  still  the  reckless  change  we  mourn, 
A  reconciling  thought  may  turn 

To  harm  that  might  lurk  here, 
Ere  judgment  prompted  from  within 
Fit  aims,  with  courage  to  begin, 

And  strength  to  persevere. 

Not  Fortune's  slave  is  Man  :  our  state 

Enjoins,  while  firm  resolves  await  50 

On  wishes  just  and  wise, 
That  strenuous  action  follow  both, 
And  life  be  one  perpetual  growth 

Of  heaven-ward  enterprise. 

So  taught,  so  trained,  we  boldly  face 
All  accidents  of  time  and  place ; 

Whatever  props  may  fail, 
Trust  in  that  sovereign  law  can  spread 
New  glory  o'er  the  mountain's  head, 

Fresh  beauty  through  the  vale.  60 

That  truth  informing  mind  and  heart, 
The  simplest  cottager  may  part, 

Ungrieved,  with  charm  and  spell ; 
And  yet,  lost  Wishing-gate,  to  thee 
The  voice  of  grateful  memory 

Shall  bid  a  kind  farewell ! 

Published  184« 

XLIII 
THE  PRIMROSE  OF  THE  ROCK 

A    ROCK  there  is  whose  homely  front 
_/-\_  The  passing  traveller  slights  ; 
Yet  there  the  glow-worms  hang  their  lamps, 

Like  stars,  at  various  heights ; 
And  one  coy  Primrose  to  that  Rock 

The  vernal  breeze  invites. 

What  hideous  warfare  hath  been  waged, 

What  kingdoms  overthrown, 
Since  first  I  spied  that  Primrose-tuft 

And  marked  it  for  my  own  ;  10 

A  lasting  link  in  Nature's  chain 

From  highest  heaven  let  down  ! 


381 

The  flowers,  still  faithful  to  the  stems, 

Their  fellowship  renew ; 
The  stems  are  faithful  to  the  root, 

That  worketh  out  of  view  ; 
And  to  the  rock  the  root  adheres 

In  every  fibre  true. 

Close  clings  to  earth  the  living  rock, 

Though  threatening  still  to  fall ;  20 

The  earth  is  constant  to  her  sphere  ; 
And  God  upholds  them  all : 

So  blooms  this  lonely  Plant,  nor  dreads 
Her  annual  funeral. 

•  *  •  •  • 

Here  closed  the  meditative  strain ; 

But  air  breathed  soft  that  day, 
The  hoary  mountain-heights  were  cheered, 

The  sunny  vale  looked  gay  ; 
And  to  the  Primrose  of  the  Rock 

I  gave  this  after-lay.  30 

I  sang — Let  myriads  of  bright  flowers, 

Like  Thee,  in  field  and  grove 
Revive  unenvied; — mightier  far, 

Than  tremblings  that  reprove 
Our  vernal  tendencies  to  hope, 

Is  God's  redeeming  love ; 

That  love  which  changed — for  wan  disease, 

For  sorrow  that  had  bent 
O'er  hopeless  dust,  for  withered  age — 

Their  moral  element,  40 

And  turned  the  thistles  of  a  curse 

To  types  beneficent. 

Sin-blighted  though  we  are,  we  too, 

The  reasoning  Sons  of  Men, 
From  one  oblivious  winter  called 

Shall  rise,  and  breathe  again ; 
And  in  eternal  summer  lose 

Our  threescore  years  and  ten. 

To  humbleness  of  heart  descends 

This  prescience  from  on  high,  50 

The  faith  that  elevates  the  just, 

Before  and  when  they  die  ; 
And  makes  each  soul  a  separate  heaven, 

A  court  for  Deity. 

1831 


382  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

XLIV 
PRESENTIMENTS 

T)RESENTIMENTS!  they  judge  not  right 
Who  deem  that  ye  from  open  light 

Retire  in  fear  of  shame ; 
All  heaven-born  Instincts  shun  the  touch 
Of  vulgar  sense, — and,  being  such, 

Such  privilege  ye  claim. 

The  tear  whose  source  I  could  not  guess, 
The  deep  sigh  that  seemed  fatherless, 

Were  mine  in  early  days; 

And  now,  unforced  by  time  to  part  10 

With  fancy,  I  obey  my  heart, 

And  venture  on  your  praise. 

What  though  some  busy  foes  to  good, 
Too  potent  over  nerve  and  blood, 

Lurk  near  you — and  combine 
To  taint  the  health  which  ye  infuse ; 
This  hides  not  from  the  moral  Muse 

Your  origin  divine. 

How  oft  from  you,  derided  Powers  ! 

Comes  Faith  that  in  auspicious  hours  20 

Builds  castles,  not  of  air : 
Bodings  unsanctioned  by  the  will 
Flow  from  your  visionary  skill, 

And  teach  us  to  beware. 

The  bosom-weight,  your  stubborn  gift, 
That  no  philosophy  can  lift, 

Shall  vanish,  if  ye  please, 
Like  morning  mist :  and,  where  it  lay, 
The  spirits  at  your  bidding  play 

In  gaiety  and  ease.  30 

Star  guided  contemplations  move 

Through  space,  though  calm,  not  raised  above 

Prognostics  that  ye  rule ; 
The  naked  Indian  of  the  wild, 
And  haply  too  the  cradled  Child, 

Are  pupils  of  your  school. 

But  who  can  fathom  your  intents, 
Number  their  signs  or  instruments  ? 


PRESENTIMENTS  383 

A  rainbow,  a  sunbeam, 

A  subtle  smell  that  Spring  unbinds,  40 

Dead  pause  abrupt  of  midnight  winds, 

An  echo,  or  a  dream. 

The  laughter  of  the  Christmas  hearth 
With  sighs  of  self-exhausted  mirth 

Ye  feelingly  reprove ; 
And  daily,  in  the  conscious  breast, 
Your  visitations  are  a  test 

And  exercise  of  love. 

When  some  great  change  gives  boundless  scope 
To  an  exulting  Nation's  hope,  50 

Oft,  startled  and  made  wise 
By  your  low-breathed  interpretings, 
The  simply-meek  foretaste  the  springs 

Of  bitter  contraries. 

Ye  daunt  the  proud  array  of  war, 
Pervade  the  lonely  ocean  far 

As  sail  hath  been  unfurled; 
For  dancers  in  the  festive  hall 
What  ghastly  partners  hath  your  call 

Fetched  from  the  shadowy  world.  60 

'Tis  said  that  warnings  ye  dispense, 
Emboldened  by  a  keener  sense; 

That  men  have  lived  for  whom, 
With  dread  precision,  ye  made  clear 
The  hour  that  in  a  distant  year 

Should  knell  them  to  the  tomb. 

Unwelcome  insight !     Yet  there  are 
Blest  times  when  mystery  is  laid  bare, 

Truth  shows  a  glorious  face, 

While  on  that  isthmus  which  commands  70 

The  councils  of  both  worlds  she  stands, 

Sage  Spirits  !  by  your  grace. 

God,  who  instructs  the  brutes  to  scent 
All  changes  of  the  element, 

Whose  wisdom  fixed  the  scale 
Of  natures,  for  our  wants  provides 
By  higher,  sometimes  humbler,  guides. 

When  lights  of  reason  fail. 

1830 


384  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

XLV 
VERNAL  ODE 

'  Berum  Natura  tota  est  nusquam  magis  quam  in  minimis.' 

PLIN.  Nat.  Hist.  xi.  i.  2,  4. 
I 

T)  ENEATH  the  concave  of  an  April  sky, 
[)    When  all  the  fields  with  freshest  green  were 

dight, 

Appeared,  in  presence  of  the  spiritual  eye 
That  aids  or  supersedes  our  grosser  sight, 
The  form  and  rich  habiliments  of  One 
Whose  countenance  bore  resemblance  to  the  sun, 
When  it  reveals,  in  evening  majesty, 
Features  half  lost  amid  their  own  pure  light. 
Poised  like  a  weary  cloud,  in  middle  air 
He  hung, — then  floated  with  angelic  ease  10 

(Softening  that  bright  effulgence  by  degrees) 
Till  he  had  reached  a  summit  sharp  and  bare, 
Where  oft  the  venturous  heifer  drinks  the  noontide 

breeze. 

Upon  the  apex  of  that  lofty  cone 
Alighted,  there  the  Stranger  stood  alone ; 
Fair  as  a  gorgeous  Fabric  of  the  east 
Suddenly  raised  by  some  enchanter's  power, 
Where  nothing  was ;  and  firm  as  some  old  Tower 
Of  Britain's  realm,  whose  leafy  crest 
Waves  high,  embellished  by  a  gleaming  shower !      20 


Beneath  the  shadow  of  his  purple  wings 
Rested  a  golden  harp ; — he  touched  the  strings; 
And,  after  prelude  of  unearthly  sound 
Poured  through  the  echoing  hills  around, 
He  sang — 

'  No  wintry  desolations, 
Scorching  blight  or  noxious  dew. 
Affect  my  native  habitations  ; 
Buried  in  glory,  far  beyond  the  scope 
Of  man's  inquiring  gaze,  but  to  his  hope 
Imaged,  though  faintly,  in  the  hue  30 

Profound  of  night's  ethereal  blue ; 
And  in  the  aspect  of  each  radiant  orb  ; — 
Some  fixed,  some  wandering  with  no  timid  curb ; 
But  wandering  star  and  fixed,  to  mortal  eye, 
Blended  in  absolute  serenity, 


VERNAL  ODE  385 

And  free  from  semblance  of  decline ; — 
Fresh  as  if  Evening  brought  their  natal  hour, 
Her  darkness  splendour  gave,  her  silence  power, 
To  testify  of  Love  and  Grace  divine. 

in 

'  What  if  those  bright  fires  40 

Shine  subject  to  decay, 
Sons  haply  of  extinguished  sires, 
Themselves  to  lose  their  light,  or  pass  away 
Like  clouds  before  the  wind, 

Be  thanks  poured  out  to  Him  whose  hand  bestows, 
Nightly,  on  human  kind 
That  vision  of  endurance  and  repose. 
— And  though  to  every  draught  of  vital  breath, 
Renewed  throughout  the  bounds  of  earth  or  ocean, 
The  melancholy  gates  of  Death  50 

Respond  with  sympathetic  motion ; 
Though  all  that  feeds  on  nether  air, 
Howe'er  magnificent  or  fair, 
Grows  but  to  perish,  and  entrust 
Its  ruins  to  their  kindred  dust ; 
Yet,  by  the  Almighty's  ever-during  care, 
Her  procreant  vigils  Nature  keeps 
Amid  the  unfathomable  deeps  ; 
And  saves  the  peopled  fields  of  earth 
From  dread  of  emptiness  or  dearth.  60 

Thus,  in  their  stations,  lifting  tow'rd  the  sky 
The  foliaged  head  in  cloud-like  majesty, 
The  shadow-casting  race  of  trees  survive  : 
Thus,  in  the  train  of  Spring,  arrive 
Sweet  flowers  ; — what  living  eye  hath  viewed 
Their  myriads  ? — endlessly  renewed, 
Wherever  strikes  the  sun's  glad  ray ; 
Where'er  the  subtle  waters  stray ; 
Wherever  sportive  breezes  bend 

Their  course,  or  genial  showers  descend  !  70 

Mortals,  rejoice  !  the  very  Angels  quit 
Their  mansions  unsusceptible  of  change, 
Amid  your  pleasant  bowers  to  sit, 
And  through  your  sweet  vicissitudes  to  range  ! 

IV 

O,  nursed  at  happy  distance  from  the  cares 
Of  a  too-anxious  world,  mild  pastoral  Muse  ! 
That  to  the  sparkling  crown  Urania  wears, 
And  to  her  sister  Clio's  laurel  wreath, 
Prefer' st  a  garland  culled  from  purple  heath, 
l— BB 


386  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Or  blooming  thicket  moist  with  morning  dews  ;        80 

Was  such  bright  Spectacle  vouchsafed  to  me  ? 

And  was  it  granted  to  the  simple  ear 

Of  thy  contented  Votary 

Such  melody  to  hear  ! 

Him  rather  suits  it,  side  by  side  with  thee, 

Wrapped  in  a  fit  of  pleasing  indolence, 

While  thy  tired  lute  hangs  on  the  hawthorn-tree, 

To  lie  and  listen — till  o'er-drowsed  sense 

Sinks,  hardly  conscious  of  the  influence — 

To  the  soft  murmur  of  the  vagrant  Bee.  9° 

— A  slender  sound  !  yet  hoary  Time 

Doth  to  the  Soul  exalt  it  with  the  chime 

Of  all  his  years ; — a  company 

Of  ages  coming,  ages  gone  ; 

(Nations  from  before  them  sweeping, 

Regions  in  destruction  steeping,) 

But  every  awful  note  in  unison 

With  that  faint  utterance,  which  tells 

Of  treasure  sucked  from  buds  and  bells, 

For  the  pure  keeping  of  those  waxen  cells  ;  too 

Where  She — a  statist  prudent  to  confer 

Upon  the  common  weal ;  a  warrior  bold, 

Radiant  all  over  with  unburnished  gold, 

And  armed  with  living  spear  for  mortal  fight ; 

A  cunning  forager 

That  spreads  no  waste ;  a  social  builder ;  one 
In  whom  all  busy  offices  unite 
With  all  fine  functions  that  afford  delight — 
Safe  through  the  winter  storm  in  quiet  dwells  ! 


And  is  She  brought  within  the  power 

Of  vision  ? — o'er  this  tempting  flower 

Hovering  until  the  petals  stay 

Her  flight,  and  take  its  voice  away ! — 

Observe  each  wing  ! — a  tiny  van ! 

The  structure  of  her  laden  thigh, 

How  fragile  !  yet  of  ancestry 

Mysteriously  remote  and  high  ; 

High  as  the  imperial  front  of  man ; 

The  roseate  bloom  on  woman's  cheek; 

The  soaring  eagle's  curved  beak  ; 

The  white  plumes  of  the  floating  swan ; 

Old  as  the  tiger's  paw,  the  lion's  mane 

Ere  shaken  by  that  mood  of  stern  disdain 


DEVOTIONAL  INCITEMENTS  387 

At  which  the  desert  trembles. — Humming  Bee  ! 
Thy  sting  was  needless  then,  perchance  unknown, 
The  seeds  of  malice  were  not  sown ; 
All  creatures  met  in  peace,  from  fierceness  free, 
And  no  pride  blended  with  their  dignity. 
— Tears  had  not  broken  from  their  source ; 
Nor  Anguish  strayed  from  her  Tartarean  den  ;         130 
The  golden  years  maintained  a  course 
Not  undiversified  though  smooth  and  even ; 
We  were  not  mocked  with  glimpse  and  shadow  then, 
Bright  Seraphs  mixed  familiarly  with  men ; 
And  earth  and  stars  composed  a  universal  heaven ! 

1817 


XLVI 
DEVOTIONAL  INCITEMENTS 

'  Not  to  the  earth  confined, 
Ascend  to  heaven.' 

WHERE  will  they  stop,  those  breathing 
Powers, 

The  Spirits  of  the  new-born  flowers  ? 
They  wander  with  the  breeze,  they  wind 
Where'er  the  streams  a  passage  find ; 
Up  from  their  native  ground  they  rise 
In  mute  aerial  harmonies  ; 
From  humble  violet — modest  thyme — 
Exhaled,  the  essential  odours  climb, 
As  if  no  space  below  the  sky 
Their  subtle  flight  could  satisfy : 
Heaven  will  not  tax  our  thoughts  with  pride 
If  like  ambition  be  their  guide. 

Roused  by  this  kindliest  of  May-showers, 
The  spirit-quickener  of  the  flowers, 
That  with  moist  virtue  softly  cleaves 
The  buds,  and  freshens  the  young  leaves, 
The  birds  pour  forth  their  souls  in  notes 
Of  rapture  from  a  thousand  throats — 
Here  checked  by  too  impetuous  haste, 
While  there  the  music  runs  to  waste, 
With  bounty  more  and  more  enlarged, 
Till  the  whole  air  is  overcharged  ; 
Give  ear,  O  Man  !  to  their  appeal, 
And  thirst  for  no  inferior  zeal, 
Thou,  who  canst  think,  as  well  as  feel. 


388  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Mount  from  the  earth ;  aspire  !  aspire  ! 
So  pleads  the  town's  cathedral  quire, 
In  strains  that  from  their  solemn  height 
Sink,  to  attain  a  loftier  flight ; 
While  incense  from  the  altar  breathes  30 

Rich  fragrance  in  embodied  wreaths ; 
Or,  flung  from  swinging  censer,  shrouds 
The  taper-lights,  and  curls  in  clouds 
Around  angelic  Forms,  the  still 
Creation  of  the  painter's  skill, 
That  on  the  service  wait  concealed 
One  moment,  and  the  next  revealed. 
— Cast  off  your  bonds,  awake,  arise, 
And  for  no  transient  ecstasies  ! 
What  else  can  mean  the  visual  plea  40 

Of  still  or  moving  imagery — 
The  iterated  summons  loud, 
Not  wasted  on  the  attendant  crowd, 
Nor  wholly  lost  upon  the  throng 
Hurrying  the  busy  streets  along  ? 

Alas  !  the  sanctities  combined 
By  art  to  unsensualise  the  mind 
Decay  and  languish  ;  or,  as  creeds 
And  humours  change,  are  spurned  like  weeds  : 
The  priests  are  from  their  altars  thrust ;  50 

Temples  are  levelled  with  the  dust ; 
And  solemn  rites  and  awful  forms 
Founder  amid  fanatic  storms. 
Yet  evermore,  through  years  renewed 
In  undisturbed  vicissitude 
Of  seasons  balancing  their  flight 
On  the  swift  wings  of  day  and  night, 
Kind  Nature  keeps  a  heavenly  door 
Wide  open  for  the  scattered  Poor. 
Where  flower-breathed  incense  to  the  skies  60 

Is  wafted  in  mute  harmonies ; 
And  ground  fresh-cloven  by  the  plough 
Is  fragrant  with  a  humbler  vow  ; 
Where  birds  and  brooks  from  leafy  dells 
Chime  forth  unwearied  canticles, 
And  vapours  magnify  and  spread 
The  glory  of  the  sun's  bright  head — 
Still  constant  in  her  worship,  still 
Conforming  to  the  eternal  Will, 
Whether  men  sow  or  reap  the  fields,  70 

Divine  monition  Nature  yields, 


THE  CUCKOO-CLOCK  389 

That  not  by  bread  alone  we  live, 
Or  what  a  hand  of  flesh  can  give  ; 
That  every  day  should  leave  some  part 
Free  for  a  sabbath  of  the  heart : 
So  shall  the  seventh  be  truly  blest, 
From  morn  to  eve,  with  hallowed  rest. 

1832 

XLVII 
THE  CUCKOO-CLOCK 

WOULDST  thou  be   taught,  when   sleep   has 
taken  flight, 

By  a  sure  voice  that  can  most  sweetly  tell, 
How  far-off  yet  a  glimpse  of  morning  light, 
And  if  to  lure  the  truant  back  be  well, 
Forbear  to  covet  a  Repeater's  stroke, 
That,  answering  to  thy  touch,  will  sound  the  hour ; 
Better  provide  thee  with  a  Cuckoo-clock 
For  service  hung  behind  thy  chamber-door  ; 
And  in  due  time  the  soft  spontaneous  shock, 
The  double  note,  as  if  with  living  power,  10 

Will  to  composure  lead — or  make  thee  blithe  as  bird 
in  bower. 

List,  Cuckoo — Cuckoo  ! — oft  tho'  tempests  howl, 
Or  nipping  frost  remind  thee  trees  are  bare, 
How  cattle  pine,  and  droop  the  shivering  fowl, 
Thy  spirits  will  seem  to  feed  on  balmy  air  : 
I  speak  with  knowledge, — by  that  Voice  beguiled, 
Thou  wilt  salute  old  memories  as  they  throng 
Into  thy  heart ;  and  fancies,  running  wild 
Through  fresh  green  fields,  and  budding  groves  among, 
Will  make  thee  happy,  happy  as  a  child  ;  20 

Of  sunshine  wilt  thou  think,  and  flowers,  and  song, 
And  breathe  as  in  a  world  where  nothing   can   go 
wrong. 

And  know — that,  even  for  him  who  shuns  the  day 

And  nightly  tosses  on  a  bed  of  pain  ; 

Whose  joys,  from  all  but  memory  swept  away, 

Must  come  unhoped  for,  if  they  come  again  ; 

Know — that,  for'him  whose  waking  thoughts,  severe 

As  his  distress  is  sharp,  would  scorn  my  theme, 

The  mimic  notes,  striking  upon  his  ear 

In  sleep,  and  intermingling  with  his  dream,  30 

Could  from  sad  regions  send  him  to  a  dear 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Delightful  land  of  verdure,  shower  and  gleam, 
To  mock  the  wandering  Voice   beside   some  haunted 
stream. 

O  bounty  without  measure  !  while  the  grace 
Of  Heaven  doth  in  such  wise,  from  humblest  springs, 
Pour  pleasure  forth,  and  solaces  that  trace 
A  mazy  course  along  familiar  things, 
Well  may  our  hearts  have  faith  that  blessings  come, 
Streaming  from  founts  above  the  starry  sky, 
With  angels  when  their  own  untroubled  home          40 
They  leave,  and  speed  on  nightly  embassy 
To  visit  earthly  chambers, — and  for  whom  ? 
Yea,  both  for  souls  who  God's  forbearance  try, 
And  those  that  seek  his  help,  and  for  his  mercy  sigh. 

Published  1842 

XLVIII 
TO  THE  CLOUDS 

A~I,MY  of  Clouds !  ye  winged  Host  in  troops 
Ascending  from  behind  the  motionless  brow 
Of  that  tall  rock,  as  from  a  hidden  world, 
O  whither  with  such  eagerness  of  speed  ? 
What  seek  ye,  or  what  shun  ye  ?  of  the  gale 
Companions,  fear  ye  to  be  left  behind, 
Or  racing  o'er  your  blue  ethereal  field 
Contend  ye  with  each  other  ?  of  the  sea 
Children,  thus  post  ye  over  vale  and  height 
To  sink  upon  your  mother's  lap — and  rest  ?  10 

Or  were  ye  rightlier  hailed,  when  first  mine  eyes 
Beheld  in  your  impetuous  march  the  likeness 
Of  a  wide  army  pressing  on  to  meet 
Or  overtake  some  unknown  enemy  ? — 
But  your  smooth  motions  suit  a  peaceful  aim ; 
And  Fancy,  not  less  aptly  pleased,  compares 
Your  squadrons  to  an  endless  flight  of  birds 
Aerial,  upon  due  migration  bound 
To  milder  climes  ;  or  rather  do  ye  urge 
In  caravan  your  hasty  pilgrimage  20 

To  pause  at  last  on  more  aspiring  heights 
Than  these,  and  utter  your  devotion  there 
With  thunderous  voice  ?     Or  are  ye  jubilant, 
And  would  ye,  tracking  your  proud  lord  the  Sun, 
Be  present  at  his  setting  ;  or  the  pomp 
Of  Persian  mornings  would  ye  fill,  and  stand 
Poising  your  splendours  high  above  the  heads 


TO  THE  CLOUDS  391 

Of  worshippers  kneeling  to  their  up-risen  God  ? 

Whence,  whence,  ye  Clouds !  this  eagerness  of  speed  ? 

Speak,  silent  creatures. — They  are  gone,  are  fled,     30 

Buried  together  in  yon  gloomy  mass 

That  loads  the  middle  heaven ;  and  clear  and  bright 

And  vacant  doth  the  region  which  they  thronged 

Appear  ;  a  calm  descent  of  sky  conducting 

Down  to  the  unapproachable  abyss, 

Down  to  that  hidden  gulf  from  which  they  rose 

To  vanish — fleet  as  days  and  months  and  years, 

Fleet  as  the  generations  of  mankind, 

Power,  glory,  empire,  as  the  world  itself, 

The  lingering  world,  when  time  hath  ceased  to  be.  40 

But  the  winds  roar,  shaking  the  rooted  trees, 

And  see !  a  bright  precursor  to  a  train 

Perchance  as  numerous,  overpeers  the  rock 

That  sullenly  refuses  to  partake 

Of  the  wild  impulse.     From  a  fount  of  life 

Invisible,  the  long  procession  moves 

Luminous  or  gloomy,  welcome  to  the  vale 

Which  they  are  entering,  welcome  to  mine  eye 

That  sees  them,  to  my  soul  that  owns  in  them, 

And  in  the  bosom  of  the  firmament  50 

O'er  which  they  move,  wherein  they  are  contained, 

A  type  of  her  capacious  self  and  all 

Her  restless  progeny. 

A  humble  walk 

Here  is  my  body  doomed  to  tread,  this  path, 
A  little  hoary  line  and  faintly  traced, 
Work,  shall  we  call  it,  of  the  shepherd's  foot 
Or  of  his  flock  ? — joint  vestige  of  them  both. 
I  pace  it  unrepining,  for  my  thoughts 
Admit  no  bondage  and  my  words  have  wings. 
Where  is  the  Orphean  lyre,  or  Druid  harp,  60 

To  accompany  the  verse  ?     The  mountain  blast 
Shall  be  our  hand  of  music  ;  he  shall  sweep 
The  rocks,  and  quivering  trees,  and  billowy  lake, 
And  search  the  fibres  of  the  caves,  and  they 
Shall  answer,  for  our  song  is  of  the  Clouds, 
And  the  wind  loves  them  ;  and  the  gentle  gales — 
Which  by  their  aid  re-clothe  the  naked  lawn 
With  annual  verdure,  and  revive  the  woods, 
And  moisten  the  parched  lips  of  thirsty  flowers — 
Love  them  ;  and  every  idle  breeze  of  air  70 

Bends  to  the  favourite  burthen.     Moon  and  stars 
Keep  their  most  solemn  vigils  when  the  Clouds 
Watch  also,  shifting  peaceably  their  place 


Like  bands  of  ministering  Spirits,  or  when  they  lie, 

As  if  some  Protean  art  the  change  had  wrought, 

In  listless  quiet  o'er  the  ethereal  deep 

Scattered,  a  Cyclades  of  various  shapes 

And  all  degrees  of  beauty.     O  ye  Lightnings  ! 

Ye  are  their  perilous  offspring;  and  the  Sun — 

Source  inexhaustible  of  life  and  joy,  80 

And  type  of  man's  far-darting  reason,  therefore 

In  old  time  worshipped  as  the  god  of  verse, 

A  blazing  intellectual  deity — 

Loves  his  own  glory  in  their  looks,  and  showers 

Upon  that  unsubstantial  brotherhood 

Visions  with  all  but  beatific  light 

Enriched — too  transient,  were  they  not  renewed 

From  age  to  age,  and  did  not,  while  we  gaze 

In  silent  rapture,  credulous  desire 

Nourish  the  hope  that  memory  lacks  not  power       90 

To  keep  the  treasure  unimpaired.     Vain  thought  ! 

Yet  why  repine,  created  as  we  are 

For  joy  and  rest,  albeit  to  find  them  only 

Lodged  in  the  bosom  of  eternal  things  ? 

Published  1842 

XLIX 

SUGGESTED  BY  A  PICTURE  OF  THE  BIRD 
OF    PARADISE 

r  I  "'HE  gentlest  Poet,  with  free  thoughts  endowed, 

And  a  true  master  of  the  glowing  strain, 
Might  scan  the  narrow  province  with  disdain 
That  to  the  Painter's  skill  is  here  allowed. 
This,  this  the  Bird  of  Paradise  !  disclaim 
The  daring  thought,  forget  the  name ; 
This  the  Sun's  Bird,  whom  Glendoveers  might  own 
As  no  unworthy  Partner  in  their  flight 
Through  seas  of  ether,  where  the  ruffling  sway 
Of  nether  air's  rude  billows  is  unknown  ;  10 

Whom  Sylphs,  if  e'er  for  casual  pastime  they 
Through  India's  spicy  regions  wing  their  way, 
Might  bow  to  as  their  Lord.     What  character, 
O  sovereign  Nature  !  I  appeal  to  thee, 
Of  all  thy  feathered  progeny 
Is  so  unearthly,  and  what  shape  so  fair? 
So  richly  decked  in  variegated  down, 
Green,  sable,  shining  yellow,  shadowy  brown, 
Tints  softly  with  each  other  blended, 
Hues  doubtfully  begun  and  ended ;  20 


A  JEWISH  FAMILY  393 

Or  intershooting,  and  to  sight 

Lost  and  recovered,  as  the  rays  of  light 

Glance  on  the  conscious  plumes  touched  here   and 

there  ? 

Full  surely,  when  with  such  proud  gifts  of  life 
Began  the  pencil's  strife, 
O'erweening  Art  was  caught  as  in  a  snare. 

A  sense  of  seemingly  presumptuous  wrong 
Gave  the  first  impulse  to  the  Poet's  song ; 
But,  of  his  scorn  repenting  soon,  he  drew 
A  juster  judgment  from  a  calmer  view  ;  30 

And,  with  a  spirit  freed  from  discontent, 
Thankfully  took  an  effort  that  was  meant 
Not  with  God's  bounty,  Nature's  love,  to  vie, 
Or  made  with  hope  to  please  that  inward  eye 
Which  ever  strives  in  vain  itself  to  satisfy, 
But  to  recall  the  truth  by  some  faint  trace 
Of  power  ethereal  and  celestial  grace, 
That  in  the  living  Creature  find  on  earth  a  place. 

Published  1842 


A  JEWISH  FAMILY 

(IN  A  SMALL  VALLEY  OPPOSITE  ST.  GOAR,  UPON  THE  RHINE) 

ENIUS  of  Raphael !  if  thy  wings 

Might  bear  thee  to  this  glen, 
With  faithful  memory  left  of  things 

To  pencil  dear  and  pen, 
Thou  wouldst  forego  the  neighbouring  Rhine, 

And  all  his  majesty — 
A  studious  forehead  to  incline 
O'er  this  poor  family. 

The  Mother — her  thou  must  have  seen, 

In  spirit,  ere  she  came 
To  dwell  these  rifted  rocks  between, 

Or  found  on  earth  a  name  ; 
An  image,  too,  of  that  sweet  Boy, 

Thy  inspirations  give — 
Of  playfulness,  and  love,  and  joy, 

Predestined  here  to  live. 

Downcast,  or  shooting  glances  far, 

How  beautiful  his  eyes, 
That  blend  the  nature  of  the  star 

With  that  of  summer  skies  ! 


394  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

I  speak  as  if  of  sense  beguiled  ; 

Uncounted  months  are  gone, 
Yet  am  I  with  the  Jewish  Child, 

That  exquisite  Saint  John. 

I  see  the  dark-brown  curls,  the  brow, 

The  smooth  transparent  skin, 
Refined,  as  with  intent  to  show 

The  holiness  within; 
The  grace  of  parting  Infancy 

By  blushes  yet  untamed  ;  30 

Age  faithful  to  the  mother's  knee, 

Nor  of  her  arms  ashamed. 

Two  lovely  Sisters,  still  and  sweet 

As  flowers,  stand  side  by  side  ; 
Their  soul-subduing  looks  might  cheat 

The  Christian  of  his  pride  : 
Such  beauty  hath  the  Eternal  poured 

Upon  them  not  forlorn, 
Though  of  a  lineage  once  abhorred, 

Nor  yet  redeemed  from  scorn.  40 

Mysterious  safeguard,  that,  in  spite 

Of  poverty  and  wrong, 
Doth  here  preserve  a  living  light, 

From  Hebrew  fountains  sprung; 
That  gives  this  ragged  group  to  cast 

Around  the  dell  a  gleam 
Of  Palestine,  of  glory  past, 

And  proud  Jerusalem ! 

1828 

LI 
ON  THE  POWER  OF  SOUND 

ARGUMENT 

THE  Ear  addressed,  as  occupied  by  a  spiritual  functionary,  in  communion 
with  sounds,  individual,  or  combined  in  studied  harmony. — Sources  and 
effects  of  those  sounds  (to  the  close  of  6th  Stanza). — The  power  of  music, 
whence  proceeding,  exemplified  in  the  idiot. — Origin  of  music,  and  its  effect 
in  early  ages — how  produced  (to  the  middle  of  10th  Stanza). — The  mind  re- 
called to  sounds  acting  casually  and  severally. — Wish  uttered  (llth  Stanza) 
that  these  could  be  united  into  a  scheme  or  system  for  moral  interests  and 
intellectual  contemplation. —  (Stanza  12th)  the  Pythagorean  theor}'  of 
numbers  and  music,  with  their  supposed  power  over  the  motions  of  the  uni- 
verse—imaginations consonant  with  such  a  theory.— Wish  expressed  (in  llth 
Stanza)  realised,  in  some  degree,  by  the  representation  of  all  sounds  under 
the  form  of  thanksgiving  to  the  Creator. — (Last  Stanza)  the  destruction  of 
earth  and  the  planetary  system  —  the  survival  of  audible  harmony,  and  its 
support  in  the  Divine  Nature,  as  revealed  in  Holy  Writ 


ON  THE  POWER  OF  SOUND  395 


r~¥~"*HY  functions  are  ethereal, 

As  if  within  thee  dwelt  a  glancing  mind, 
Organ  of  vision  !    And  a  Spirit  aerial 
Informs  the  cell  of  Hearing,  dark  and  blind ; 
Intricate  labyrinth,  more  dread  for  thought 
To  enter  than  oracular  cave  ; 
Strict  passage,  through  which  sighs  are  brought, 
And  whispers  for  the  heart,  their  slave ; 
And  shrieks,  that  revel  in  abuse 
Of  shivering  flesh  ;  and  warbled  air, 
Whose  piercing  sweetness  can  unloose 
The  chains  of  frenzy,  or  entice  a  smile 
Into  the  ambush  of  despair  ; 
Hosannas  pealing  down  the  long-drawn  aisle, 
And  requiems  answered  by  the  pulse  that  beats 
Devoutly,  in  life's  last  retreats  ! 


The  headlong  streams  and  fountains 

Serve  Thee,  invisible  Spirit,  with  untired  powers ; 

Cheering  the  wakeful  tent  on  Syrian  mountains, 

They  lull  perchance  ten  thousand  thousand  flowers.     20 

That  roar,  the  prowling  lion's  Here  I  am, 

How  fearful  to  the  desert  wide  ! 

That  bleat,  how  tender  !  of  the  dam 

Calling  a  straggler  to  her  side. 

Shout,  cuckoo  ! — let  the  vernal  soul 

Go  with  thee  to  the  frozen  zone ; 

Toll  from  thy  loftiest  perch,  lone  bell-bird,  toll 

At  the  still  hour  to  Mercy  dear, 

Mercy  from  her  twilight  throne 

Listening  to  nun's  faint  throb  of  holy  fear,  30 

To  sailor's  prayer  breathed  from  a  darkening  sea, 

Or  widow's  cottage-lullaby. 

in 

Ye  Voices,  and  ye  Shadows 

And  Images  of  voice — to  hound  and  horn 

From  rocky  steep  and  rock-bestudded  meadows 

Flung  back,  and,  in  the  sky's  blue  caves,  reborn — 

On  with  your  pastime !  till  the  church-tower  bells 

A  greeting  give  of  measured  glee  ; 

And  milder  echoes  from  their  cells 

Repeat  the  bridal  symphony.  40 


396  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Then,  or  far  earlier,  let  us  rove 
Where  mists  are  breaking  up  or  gone, 
And  from  aloft  look  down  into  a  cove 
Besprinkled  with  a  careless  quire, 
Happy  milk-maids,  one  by  one 
Scattering  a  ditty  each  to  her  desire, 
A  liquid  concert  matchless  by  nice  Art, 
A  stream  as  if  from  one  full  heart. 


iv 

Blest  be  the  song  that  brightens 

The  blind  man's  gloom,  exalts  the  veteran's  mirth  ;      50 

Unscorned  the  peasant's  whistling  breath,  that  lightens 

His  duteous  toil  of  furrowing  the  green  earth. 

For  the  tired  slave,  Song  lifts  the  languid  oar, 

And  bids  it  aptly  fall,  with  chime 

That  beautifies  the  fairest  shore, 

And  mitigates  the  harshest  clime. 

Yon  pilgrims  see — in  lagging  file 

They  move ;  but  soon  the  appointed  way 

A  choral  Ave  Marie  shall  beguile, 

And  to  their  hope  the  distant  shrine  60 

Glisten  with  a  livelier  ray  : 

Nor  friendless  he,  the  prisoner  of  the  mine, 

Who  from  the  well-spring  of  his  own  clear  breast 

Can  draw,  and  sing  his  griefs  to  rest. 


When  civic  renovation 

Dawns  on  a  kingdom,  and  for  needful  haste 

Best  eloquence  avails  not,  Inspiration 

Mounts  with  a  tune,  that  travels  like  a  blast 

Piping  through  cave  and  battlemented  tower ; 

Then  starts  the  sluggard,  pleased  to  meet  70 

That  voice  of  Freedom,  in  its  power 

Of  promises,  shrill,  wild,  and  sweet ! 

Who,  from  a  martial  pageant,  spreads 

Incitements  of  a  battle-day, 

Thrilling  the  unweaponed  crowd  with  plumeless 

heads  ? — 

Even  She  whose  Lydian  airs  inspire 
Peaceful  striving,  gentle  play 
Of  timid  hope  and  innocent  desire 
Shot  from  the  dancing  Graces,  as  they  move 
Fanned  by  the  plausive  wings  of  Love.  80 


ON  THE  POWER  OF  SOUND  397 


How  oft  along  thy  mazes, 

Regent  of  sound,  have  dangerous  Passions  trod  ! 

O  Thou,  through  whom  the  temple  rings  with  praises, 

And  blackening  clouds  in  thunder  speak  of  God, 

Betray  not  by  the  cozenage  of  sense 

Thy  votaries,  wooingly  resigned 

To  a  voluptuous  influence 

That  taints  the  purer,  better,  mind  ; 

But  lead  sick  Fancy  to  a  harp 

That  hath  in  noble  tasks  been  tried  ;  90 

And,  if  the  virtuous  feel  a  pang  too  sharp, 

Soothe  it  into  patience, — stay 

The  uplifted  arm  of  Suicide  ; 

And  let  some  mood  of  thine  in  firm  array 

Knit  every  thought  the  impending  issue  needs, 

Ere  martyr  burns,  or  patriot  bleeds  ! 

VII 

As  Conscience,  to  the  centre 

Of  being,  smites  with  irresistible  pain, 

So  shall  a  solemn  cadence,  if  it  enter 

The  mouldy  vaults  of  the  dull  idiot's  brain,  100 

Transmute  him  to  a  wretch  from  quiet  hurled — 

Convulsed  as  by  a  jarring  din  ; 

And  then  aghast,  as  at  the  world 

Of  reason  partially  let  in 

By  concords  winding  with  a  sway 

Terrible  for  sense  and  soul ! 

Or  awed  he  weeps,  struggling  to  quell  dismay. 

Point  not  these  mysteries  to  an  Art 

Lodged  above  the  starry  pole ; 

Pure  modulations  flowing  from  the  heart  no 

Of  divine  Love,  where  Wisdom,  Beauty,  Truth 

With  Order  dwell,  in  endless  youth  ? 


Oblivion  may  not  cover 

All  treasures  hoarded  by  the  miser,  Time. 

Orphean  Insight !  truth's  undaunted  lover, 

To  the  first  leagues  of  tutored  passion  climb, 

When  Music  deigned  within  this  grosser  sphere 

Her  subtle  essence  to  enfold, 

And  voice  and  shell  drew  forth  a  tear 

Softer  than  Nature's  self  could  mould. 


398  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Yet  strenuous  was  the  infant  Age  : 
Art,  daring  because  souls  could  feel, 
Stirred  nowhere  but  an  urgent  equipage 
Of  rapt  imagination  sped  her  march 
Through  the  realms  of  woe  and  weal : 
Hell  to  the  lyre  bowed  low ;  the  upper  arch 
Rejoiced  that  clamorous  spell  and  magic  verse 
Her  wan  disasters  could  disperse. 


ix 

The  GIFT  to  king  Amphion 

That  walled  a  city  with  its  melody  130 

Was  for  belief  no  dream  : — thy  skill,  Arion  ! 

Could  humanise  the  creatures  of  the  sea, 

Where  men  were  monsters.     A  last  grace  he  craves, 

Leave  for  one  chant ; — the  dulcet  sound 

Steals  from  the  deck  o'er  willing  waves, 

And  listening  dolphins  gather  round. 

Self-cast,  as  with  a  desperate  course, 

'Mid  that  strange  audience,  he  bestrides 

A  proud  One  docile  as  a  managed  horse ; 

And  singing,  while  the  accordant  hand  140 

Sweeps  his  harp,  the  Master  rides  ; 

So  shall  he  touch  at  length  a  friendly  strand, 

And  he,  with  his  preserver,  shine  star-bright 

In  memory,  through  silent  night. 


The  pipe  of  Pan,  to  shepherds 

Couched  in  the  shadow  of  Maenalian  pines, 

Was  passing  sweet ;  the  eyeballs  of  the  leopards, 

That  in  high  triumph  drew  the  Lord  of  vines, 

How  did  they  sparkle  to  the  cymbal's  clang  ! 

While  Fauns  and  Satyrs  beat  the  ground  15° 

In  cadence, — and  Silenus  swang 

This  way  and  that,  with  wild-flowers  crowned. 

To  life,  to  life  give  back  thine  ear  : 

Ye  who  are  longing  to  be  rid 

Of  fable,  though  to  truth  subservient,  hear 

The  little  sprinkling  of  cold  earth  that  fell 

Echoed  from  the  coffin-lid  ; 

The  convict's  summons  in  the  steeple's  knell ; 

'The  vain  distress-gun,'  from  a  leeward  shore, 

Repeated — heard,  and  heard  no  more !  *6o 


ON  THE  POWER  OF  SOUND  399 


XI 

For  terror,  joy,  or  pity, 

Vast  is  the  compass  and  the  swell  of  notes : 

From  the  babe's  first  cry  to  voice  of  regal  city, 

Rolling  a  solemn  sea-like  bass,  that  floats 

Far  as  the  woodlands — with  the  trill  to  blend 

Of  that  shy  songstress,  whose  love-tale 

Might  tempt  an  angel  to  descend, 

While  hovering  o'er  the  moonlight  vale. 

Ye  wandering  Utterances,  has  earth  no  scheme, 

No  scale  of  moral  music — to  unite  170 

Powers  that  survive  but  in  the  faintest  dream 

Of  memory  ? — O  that  ye  might  stoop  to  bear 

Chains,  such  precious  chains  of  sight 

As  laboured  minstrelsies  through  ages  wear  ! 

O  for  a  balance  fit  the  truth  to  tell 

Of  the  Unsubstantial,  pondered  well ! 

XII 

By  one  pervading  spirit 

Of  tones  and  numbers  all  things  are  controlled, 

As  sages  taught,  where  faith  was  found  to  merit 

Initiation  in  that  mystery  old.  180 

The  heavens,  whose  aspect  makes  our  minds  as  still 

As  they  themselves  appear  to  be, 

Innumerable  voices  fill 

With  everlasting  harmony ; 

The  towering  headlands,  crowned  with  mist, 

Their  feet  among  the  billows,  know 

That  Ocean  is  a  mighty  harmonist ; 

Thy  pinions,  universal  Air, 

Ever  waving  to  and  fro, 

Are  delegates  of  harmony,  and  bear  190 

Strains  that  support  the  Seasons  in  their  round ; 

Stern  Winter  loves  a  dirge-like  sound. 

XIII 

Break  forth  into  thanksgiving, 

Ye  banded  instruments  of  wind  and  chords ; 

Unite,  to  magnify  the  Ever-living, 

Your  inarticulate  notes  with  the  voice  of  words  ! 

Nor  hushed  be  service  from  the  lowing  mead, 

Nor  mute  the  forest  hum  of  noon ; 

Thou  too  be  heard,  lone  eagle  !  freed 

From  snowy  peak  and  cloud,  attune  *» 


400  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Thy  hungry  barkings  to  the  hymn 

Of  joy,  that  from  her  utmost  walls 

The  six-days'  Work  by  flaming  Seraphim 

Transmits  to  Heaven !     As  Deep  to  Deep 

Shouting  through  one  valley  calls, 

All  worlds,  all  natures,  mood  and  measure  keep 

For  praise  and  ceaseless  gratulation,  poured 

Into  the  ear  of  God,  their  Lord ! 

XIV 

A  Voice  to  Light  gave  Being ; 

To  Time,  and  Man  his  earth-born  chronicler ;  21 

A  Voice  shall  finish  doubt  and  dim  foreseeing, 

And  sweep  away  life's  visionary  stir ; 

The  trumpet  (we,  intoxicate  with  pride, 

Arm  at  its  blast  for  deadly  wars) 

To  archangelic  lips  applied, 

The  grave  shall  open,  quench  the  stars. 

O  Silence  !  are  Man's  noisy  years 

No  more  than  moments  of  thy  life  ? 

Is  Harmony,  blest  queen  of  smiles  and  tears, 

With  her  smooth  tones  and  discords  just,  22 

Tempered  into  rapturous  strife, 

Thy  destined  bond-slave  ?     No  !  though  earth  be  dust 

And  vanish,  though  the  heavens  dissolve,  her  stay 

Is  in  the  WORD,  that  shall  not  pass  away. 

1828-9 


PETER  BELL  401 


PETER  BELL 

A  TALE 

'What 'sin  a  Namet 

***** 

Brutus  will  start  a  Spirit  as  soon  as  Caesar  ! ' 

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

MY  DEAR  FKIEND, — 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  produc- 
tion 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  con- 
trast 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  MOUWT,  April  7,  1819 


T 


PROLOGUE 

'HERE  'S  something  in  a  flying  horse, 
_      There's  something  in  a  huge  balloon; 
But  through  the  clouds  I  '11  never  float 
Until  I  have  a  little  Boat, 
Shaped  like  the  crescent-moon, 
l-cc 


402  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

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  your  ears, 
And  ye  have  all  a  thousand  fears 
Both  for  my  little  Boat  and  me  ! 

Meanwhile  untroubled  I  admire 

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 !  so 

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  we  dive, 
Each  is  contented  with  the  other. 

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  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 ! 

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  ; — 

The  Pleiads,  that  appear  to  kiss 

Each  other  in  the  vast  abyss. 

With  joy  I  sail  among  them. 


PETER  BELL  403 

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  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. 

See  !  there  she  is,  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 ! 

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 ! 

'  Shame  on  you ! '  cried  my  little  Boat, 

'  Was  ever  such  a  homesick  Loon, 

Within  a  living  Boat  to  sit, 

And  make  no  better  use  of  it ; 

A  Boat  twin-sister  of  the  crescent-moon  !  80 

1  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. 


404  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

'  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  '11  sport  amid  the  boreal  morning ; 
Will  mingle  with  her  lustres  gliding 
Among  the  stars,  the  stars  now  hiding, 
And  now  the  stars  adorning. 

'  I  know  the  secrets  of  a  land 

Where  human  foot  did  never  stray ; 

Fair  is  that  land  as  evening  skies, 

And  cool,  though  in  the  depth  it  lies 

Of  burning  Africa.  100 

'  Or  we  '11  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  ! 

'  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  ! '  no 

'  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  ! 

'  Temptation  lurks  among  your  words  ; 

But,  while  these  pleasures  you  're  pursuing 

Without  impediment  or  let, 

No  wonder  if  you  quite  forget 

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. 


PETER  BELL  405 

'  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, 

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. 

'  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  ? 

'  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 ! 

'  To  the  stone-table  in  my  garden, 

Loved  haunt  of  many  a  summer  hour, 

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  1  have  been  so  far ; — 
I  see  them  there,  in  number  nine, 
Beneath  the  spreading  Weymouth-pine  ! 
I  see  them — there  they  are  ! 


406  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

'  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  ! 
And  I,  as  well  as  I  was  able, 
On  two  poor  legs,  toward  my  stone-table 
Limped  on  with  sore  vexation. 

1 0,  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  shall  be  paid 
The  well-remembered  debt.' 

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.  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. 

'  Hold  ! '  cried  the  Squire,  'against  the  rules 

Of  common  sense  you  're  surely  sinning ; 

This  leap  is  for  us  all  too  bold  ; 

Who  Peter  was,  let  that  be  told, 

And  start  from  the  beginning.'  200 

'  A  Potter,1  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. 

1  In  the  dialect  of  the  North,  a  hawker  of  earthenware  is  thus  designated. 


PETER  BELL  407 

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 ! 

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 : 

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 ! 

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. 


408  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

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. 

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  ! 

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 ; 
He  was  a  Carl  as  wild  and  rude 
As  ever  hue-and-cry  pursued, 
As  ever  ran  a  felon's  race. 

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. 


PETER  BELL  409 

Though  Nature  could  not  touch  his  heart 

By  lovely  forms,  and  silent  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. 

To  all  the  unshaped  half-human  thoughts 

Which  solitai-y  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. 

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  "  rvhens  "  and  "  hows  "  ; 
And  half,  by  knitting  of  his  brows 
Beneath  the  glaring  sun. 

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, 


410  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

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. 

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  his  course  he  weaves, 
And  whistling  loud  may  yet  be  heard, 
Though  often  buried,  like  a  bird 
Darkling,  among  the  boughs  and  leaves. 

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 — 
And  there  the  pathway  ends. 

He  paused — for  shadows  of  strange  shape, 

Massy  and  black,  before  him  lay  ; 

But  through  the  dark,  and  through  the  cold, 

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  as  sweet  a  scene 
As  ever  human  eye  did  view. 


PETER  BELL  411 

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  ! 

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  deep  and  quiet  spot 
Is  Peter  driving  through  the  grass — 
And  now  has  reached  the  skirting  trees ; 
When,  turning  round  his  head,  he  sees 
A  solitary  Ass. 

'  A  prize  ! '  cries  Peter — but  he  first 

Must  spy  about  him  far  and  near  : 

There  's  not  a  single  house  in  sight, 

No  woodman's  hut,  nor  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. 

His  head  is  with  a  halter  bound ; 

The  halter  seizing,  Peter  leapt 

Upon  the  Creature's  back,  and  plied 

With  ready  heels  his  shaggy  side ; 

But  still  the  Ass  his  station  kept.  400 

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 ! 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

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. 

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 
He  dealt  a  sturdy  blow. 

The  poor  Ass  staggered  with  the  shock ; 

And  then,  as  if  to  take  his  ease, 

In  quiet  uncomplaining  mood, 

Upon  the  spot  where  he  had  stood, 

Dropped  gently  down  upon  his  knees ;  430 

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

'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  deep  and  clear.  440 

Upon  the  Beast  the  sapling  rings ; 

His  lank  sides  heaved,  his  limbs  they  stirred ; 

He  gave  a  groan,  and  then  another, 

Of  that  which  went  before  the  brother, 

And  then  he  gave  a  third. 


PETER  BELL  413 

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  !  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. 

The  meagre  beast  lay  still  as  death ; 

And  Peter's  lips  with  fury  quiver  ; 

Quoth  he,  '  You  little  mulish  dog, 

I  '11  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 
To  all  the  echoes,  south  and  north, 
And  east  and  west,  the  Ass  sent  forth 
A  long  and  clamorous  bray ! 

This  outcry,  on  the  heart  of  Peter, 

Seems  like  a  note  of  joy  to  strike, — 

Joy  at  the  heart  of  Peter  knocks  ; 

But  in  the  echo  of  the  rocks 

Was  something  Peter  did  not  like.  470 

WThether  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. 

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  !          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 — 


414  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

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  '11  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. 

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.  500 

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

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 

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  ? 

Never  did  pulse  so  quickly  throb, 

And  never  heart  so  loudly  panted  ; 

He  looks,  he  cannot  choose  but  look ; 

Like  some  one  reading  in  a  book — 

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 ! 


PETER  BELL  415 

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,  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. 

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 !  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 ! 

His  head  upon  his  elbow  propped, 

Becoming  less  and  less  perplexed, 

Sky-ward  he  looks — to  rock  and  wood — 

And  then — upon  the  glassy  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. 

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. 


416  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

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.  $7° 

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. 

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 !  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  ! ' 

The  meagre  shadow  that  looks  on — 

What  would  he  now  ?  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  : 
Thought  Peter  then,  come  weal  or  woe, 
I  '11  do  what  he  would  have  me  do, 
In  pity  to  this  poor  drowned  man. 

With  that  resolve  he  boldly  mounts 

Upon  the  pleased  and  thankful  Ass ; 

And  then,  without  a  moment's  stay, 

That  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 : 


PETER  BELL  417 

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  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  ! 

'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. 

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  ! 

Grasping  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  :         640 

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

l— DD 


418  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

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; 
Wild  as  it  is,  he  there  can  read 
Some  intermingled  notes  that  plead 
With  touches  irresistible. 

But  Peter — when  he  saw  the  Ass 

Not  only  stop  but  turn,  and  change 

The  cherished  tenor  of  his  pace 

That  lamentable  cry  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  befell. 

Meanwhile  the  Ass  to  reach  his  home 

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  true 
Descending  slowly,  till  the  two 
The  open  moonlight  reach. 

And  there,  along  the  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  ! 


PETER  BELL  419 

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 ! 

The  strenuous  Animal  hath  clomb 

With  the  green  path  ;  and  now  he  wends 

Where,  shining  like  the  smoothest  sea, 

In  undisturbed  immensity 

A  level  plain  extends.  700 

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

When  Peter  spied  the  moving  thing, 

It  only  doubled  his  distress  ; 

'  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. 

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  ? 

He  knows  not  how  the  blood  comes  there — 

And  Peter  is  a  wicked  man. 


420  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

At  length  he  spies  a  bleeding  wound, 

Where  he  had  struck  the  Ass's  head; 

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. 

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, 
When  sudden  blackness  overspread 
The  snow-white  page  on  which  he  read, 
And  made  the  good  man  round  him  look. 

The  chamber  walls  were  dark  all  round, — 

And  to  his  book  he  turned  again; 

— The  light  had  left  the  lonely  taper, 

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. 

The  ghostly  word,  thus  plainly  seen, 

Did  never  from  his  lips  depart ; 

But  he  hath  said,  poor  gentle  Avight ! 

It  brought  full  many  a  sin  to  light 

Out  of  the  bottom  of  his  heart.  760 

Dread  Spirits  !  to  confound  the  meek 
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. 


PETER  BELL  421 

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 — 

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. 

Your  presence  often  have  I  felt 

In  darkness  and  the  stormy  night ; 

And  with  like  force,  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  ! 

— 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,  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  ! 

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  for  that  crimson  stain, 
His  evil  spirit  up  again 
Does  like  an  empty  bucket  mount. 


422  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

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  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 ! ' 

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. 

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  his  spiteful  mirth, 
A  murmur,  pent  within  the  earth, 
In  the  dead  earth  beneath  the  road, 

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  under  ground.  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. 


PETER  BELL  423 

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 ! —  8.50 

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

Dying  insensibly  away 

From  human  thoughts  and  purposes, 

It  seemed — wall,  window,  roof  and  tower — 

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 
I  married  my  sixth  wife  ! 

The  unheeding  Ass  moves  slowly  on, 

And  now  is  passing  by  an  inn 

Brim-full  of  a  carousing  crew, 

That  make,  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 
Over  that  dull  and  dreary  sound. 

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,  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. 


424  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

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, 
A  cottage  in  a  heathy  dell ; 
And  she  put  on  her  gown  of  green, 
And  left  her  mother  at  sixteen, 
And  followed  Peter  Bell. 

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. 

A  mother's  hope  is  hers ; — but  soon 

She  drooped  and  pined  like  one  forlorn ; 

From  Scripture  she  a  name  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. 

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.  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: 


PETER  BELL  425 

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 ! 

Calm  is  the  well-deserving  brute, 

His  peace  hath  no  offence  betrayed ; 

But  now,  while  down  that  slope  he  wends, 

A  voice  to  Peter's  ear  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 ! 

Within,  a  fervent  Methodist 

Is  preaching  to  no  heedless  flock ! 

'  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  ! ' 

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  ! 


426  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

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, 

He  not  unmoved  did  notice  now 
The  cross  upon  thy  shoulder  scored, 
For  lasting  impress,  by  the  Lord 
To  whom  all  human-kind  shall  bow  ; 

Memorial  of  his  touch — that  day 

When  Jesus  humbly  deigned  to  ride, 

Entering  the  proud  Jerusalem, 

By  an  immeasurable  stream 

Of  shouting  people  deified  !  980 

\ 

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

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. 

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  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  ! ' 


PETER  BELL  427 

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  the  Ass's  feet  she  fell ; 
At  the  same  moment  Peter  Bell 
Dismounts  in  most  unhappy  plight. 

As  he  beheld  the  Woman  lie 

Breathless  and  motionless,  the  mind 

Of  Peter  sadly  was  confused  ; 

But,  though  to  such  demands  unused, 

And  helpless  almost  as  the  blind,  ioao 

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. 

'  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. 

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  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- 


428  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

'  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 
Has  never  felt  before. 

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.' 

Away  goes  Rachel  weeping  loud  ; — 

An  Infant,  waked  by  her  distress, 

Makes  in  the  house  a  piteous  cry ; 

And  Peter  hears  the  Mother  sigh, 

1  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. 

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  she  hies, 
And  on  the  pillow  lays  her  burning  head. 


PETER  BELL  429 

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  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  ; 

He  lifts  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  ! '  noo 

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 — 

He  comes,  escaped  from  fields  and  floods  ; — 

With  weary  pace  is  drawing  nigh  ; 

He  sees  the  Ass — and  nothing  living 

Had  ever  such  a  fit  of  joy 

As  hath  this  little  orphan  Boy, 

For  he  has  no  misgiving  !  mo 

Forth  to  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  ! 

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. 


430  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

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  his  folly, 
And,  after  ten  months'  melancholy, 
Became  a  good  and  honest  man. 

1798 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS  431 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS 
DEDICATION 


HAPPY  the  feeling  from  the  bosom  thrown 

In  perfect  shape  (whose  beauty  Time  shall  spare 

Though  a  breath  made  it)  like  a  bubble  blown 

For  summer  pastime  into  wanton  air ; 

Happy  the  thought  best  likened  to  a  stone 

Of  the  sea-beach,  when,  polished  with  nice  care, 

Veins  it  discovers  exquisite  and  rare, 

Which  for  the  loss  of  that  moist  gleam  atone 

That  tempted  first  to  gather  it.     That  here, 

O  chief  of  Friends  !  such  feelings  I  present, 

To  thy  regard,  with  thoughts  so  fortunate, 

"Were  a  vain  notion ;  but  the  hope  is  dear, 

That  thou,  if  not  with  partial  joy  elate, 

Wilt  smile  upon  this  gift  with  more  than  mild  content ! 

Published  1827 


PART  I 


NUNS  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow  room ; 
And  hermits  are  contented  with  their  cells  ; 
And  students  with  their  pensive  citadels ; 
Maids  at  the  wheel,  the  weaver  at  his  loom, 
Sit  blithe  and  happy  ;  bees  that  soar  for  bloom, 
High  as  the  highest  Peak  of  Furness-fells, 
Will  murmur  by  the  hour  in  foxglove  bells: 
In  truth  the  prison,  unto  which  we  doom 
Ourselves,  no  prison  is :  and  hence  for  me, 
In  sundry  moods,  'twas  pastime  to  be  bound  i 

Within  the  Sonnet's  scanty  plot  of  ground  ; 
Pleased  if  some  Souls  (for  such  there  needs  must  be) 
WTho  have  felt  the  weight  of  too  much  liberty, 
Should  find  brief  solace  there,  as  I  have  found. 

Published  1807 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


II 


ADMONITION 

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

WELL  may'st  thou  halt — and  gaze  with  brighten- 
ing eye ! 

The  lovely  Cottage  in  the  guardian  nook 
Hath  stirred  thee  deeply ;  with  its  own  dear  brook, 
Its  own  small  pasture,  almost  its  own  sky  ! 
But  covet  not  the  Abode ; — forbear  to  sigh, 
As  many  do,  repining  while  they  look ; 
Intruders — who  would  tear  from  Nature's  book 
This  precious  leaf,  with  harsh  impiety. 
Think  what  the  Home  must  be  if  it  were  thine, 
Even   thine,  though   few  thy  wants  ! — Roof,  window, 
door,  10 

The  very  flowers  are  sacred  to  the  Poor, 
The  roses  to  the  porch  which  they  entwine : 
Yea,  all,  that  now  enchants  thee,  from  the  day 
On  which  it  should  be  touched,  would  melt  away. 

Published  1807 


III 


'  T3  ELOVED  Vale ! '  I  said,  « when  I  shall  con 
LJ     Those  many  records  of  my  childish  years, 
Remembrance  of  myself  and  of  my  peers 
Will  press  me  down  :  to  think  of  what  is  gone 
Will  be  an  awful  thought,  if  life  have  one.' 
But,  when  into  the  Vale  I  came,  no  fears 
Distressed  me ;  from  mine  eyes  escaped  no  tears  ; 
Deep  thought,  or  dread  remembrance,  had  I  none. 
By  doubts  and  thousand  petty  fancies  crost 
I  stood,  of  simple  shame  the  blushing  Thrall  ; 
So  narrow  seemed  the  brooks,  the  fields  so  small ! 
A  Juggler's  balls  old  Time  about  him  tossed ; 
I  looked,  I  stared,  I  smiled,  I  laughed ;  and  all 
The  weight  of  sadness  was  in  wonder  lost. 

Published  1807 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS  433 

IV 

AT  APPLETHWA1TE,  NEAR  KESWICK 

T)  EAUMONT !  it  was  thy  wish  that  I  should  rear 
Q)     A  seemly  Cottage  in  this  sunny  Dell, 
On  favoured  ground,  thy  gift,  where  I  might  dwell 
In  neighbourhood  with  One  to  me  most  dear, 
That  undivided  we  from  year  to  year 
Might  work  in  our  high  Calling — a  bright  hope 
To  which  our  fancies,  mingling,  gave  free  scope 
Till  checked  by  some  necessities  severe. 
And  should  these  slacken,  honoured  BEAUMONT  !  still 
Even  then  we  may  perhaps  in  vain  implore  10 

Leave  of  our  fate  thy  wishes  to  fulfil. 
Whether  this  boon  be  granted  us  or  not, 
Old  Skiddaw  will  look  down  upon  the  Spot 
With  pride,  the  Muses  love  it  evermore. 

1804 


PELION  and  Ossa  flourish  side  by  side, 
Together  in  immortal  books  enrolled  : 
His  ancient  dower  Olympus  hath  not  sold ; 
And  that  inspiring  Hill,  which  '  did  divide 
Into  two  ample  horns  his  forehead  wide/ 
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, 
Mount  Skiddaw  ?     In  his  natural  sovereignty 
Our  British  Hill  is  nobler  far ;  he  shrouds 
His  double  front  among  Atlantic  clouds, 
And  pours  forth  streams  more  sweet  than  Castaly. 

1801 

VI 

THERE  is  a  little  unpretending  Rill 
Of  limpid  water,  humbler  far  than  aught 
That  ever  among  Men  or  Naiads  sought 
Notice  or  name  ! — It  quivers  down  the  hill, 
Furrowing  its  shallow  way  with  dubious  will ; 
Yet  to  my  mind  this  scanty  Stream  is  brought 
Oftener  than  Ganges  or  the  Nile ;  a  thought 
Of  private  recollection  sweet  and  still ! 

1— EE 


434  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Months  perish  with  their  moons ;  year  treads  on 

year; 

But,  faithful  Emma  !  thou  with  me  canst  say 
That,  while  ten  thousand  pleasures  disappear, 
And  flies  their  memory  fast  almost  as  they  ; 
The  immortal  Spirit  of  one  happy  day 
Lingers  beside  that  Rill,  in  vision  clear. 

Published  1820 


VII 

T  T  ER  only  pilot  the  soft  breeze,  the  boat 
Lingers,  but  Fancy  is  well  satisfied ; 
With  keen-eyed  Hope,  with  Memory,  at  her  side, 
And  the  glad  Muse  at  liberty  to  note 
All  that  to  each  is  precious,  as  we  float 
Gently  along  ;  regardless  who  shall  chide 
If  the  heavens  smile,  and  leave  us  free  to  glide, 
Happy  Associates  breathing  air  remote 
From  trivial  cares.     But,  Fancy  and  the  Muse, 
Why  have  I  crowded  this  small  bark  with  you 
And  others  of  your  kind,  ideal  crew  ! 
While  here  sits  One  whose  brightness  owes  its  hues 
To  flesh  and  blood ;  no  Goddess  from  above, 
No  fleeting  Spirit,  but  my  own  true  Love  ? 

Published  1827 


VIII 

^  I  ^HE  fairest,  brightest,  hues  of  ether  fade  ; 

The  sweetest  notes  must  terminate  and  die ; 
O  Friend  !  thy  flute  has  breathed  a  harmony 
Softly  resounded  through  this  rocky  glade ; 
Such  strains  of  rapture  as l  the  Genius  played 
In  his  still  haunt  on  Bagdad's  summit  high  ; 
He  who  stood  visible  to  Mirza's  eye, 
Never  before  to  human  sight  betrayed. 
Lo,  in  the  vale,  the  mists  of  evening  spread  ! 
The  visionary  Arches  are  not  there, 
Nor  the  green  Islands,  nor  the  shining  Seas ; 
Yet  sacred  is  to  me  this  Mountain's  head, 
Whence  I  have  risen,  uplifted  on  the  breeze 
Of  harmony,  above  all  earthly  care. 

Published  1815 

1  See  the  '  Vision  of  Mirza '  in  the  Spectator. 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS  435 

IX 

UPON  THE  SIGHT  OK  A  BEAUTIFUL  PICTURE, 
Painted  by  Sir  G.  H.  Beaumont,  Bart. 

PRAISED  be  the  Art  whose  subtle  power  could  stay 
Yon  cloud,  and  fix  it  in  that  glorious  shape  ; 
Nor  would  permit  the  thin  smoke  to  escape, 
Nor  those  bright  sunbeams  to  forsake  the  day  ; 
Which  stopped  that  band  of  travellers  on  their  way, 
Ere  they  were  lost  within  the  shady  wood  ; 
And  showed  the  Bark  upon  the  glassy  flood 
For  ever  anchored  in  her  sheltering  bay. 
Soul-soothing  Art !  whom  Morning,  Noon-tide,  Even, 
Do  serve  with  all  their  changeful  pageantry ;  10 

Thou,  with  ambition  modest  yet  sublime, 
Here,  for  the  sight  of  mortal  man,  hast  given 
To  one  brief  moment  caught  from  fleeting  time 
The  appropriate  calm  of  blest  eternity. 

August  1811 


'  T  T  7  HY,  Minstrel,  these  untuneful  murmurings — 

\ \       Dull,  flagging  notes  that  with  each  other  jar  ? ' 
'  Think,  gentle  Lady,  of  a  Harp  so  far 
From  its  own  country,  and  forgive  the  strings.' 
A  simple  answer !  but  even  so  forth  springs, 
From  the  Castalian  fountain  of  the  heart, 
The  Poetry  of  Life,  and  all  that  Art 
Divine  of  words  quickening  insensate  things. 
From  the  submissive  necks  of  guiltless  men 
Stretched  on  the  block  the  glittering  axe  recoils ;         10 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  all  struggle  in  the  toils 
Of  mortal  sympathy ;  what  wonder  then 
That  the  poor  Harp  distempered  music  yields 
To  its  sad  Lord,  far  from  his  native  fields  ? 

Published  1827 

XI 

AERIAL  Rock — whose  solitary  brow 
From  this  low  threshold  daily  meets  my  sight ; 
When  I  step  forth  to  hail  the  morning  light ; 
Or  quit  the  stars  with  a  lingering  farewell — how 
Shall  Fancy  pay  to  thee  a  grateful  vow  ? 
How,  with  the  Muse's  aid,  her  love  attest  ? 
— By  planting  on  thy  naked  head  the  crest 
Of  an  imperial  Castle,  which  the  plough 


436  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Of  ruin  shall  not  touch.     Innocent  scheme  ! 
That  doth  presume  no  more  than  to  supply 
A  grace  the  sinuous  vale  and  roaring  stream 
Want,  through  neglect  of  hoar  Antiquity. 
Rise,  then,  ye  votive  Towers !  and  catch  a  gleam 
Of  golden  sunset,  ere  it  fade  and  die. 

Published  1819 


XII 

TO  SLEEP 

O  GENTLE  Sleep  !  do  they  belong  to  thee, 
These  twinklings  of  oblivion  ?  Thou  dost  love 
To  sit  in  meekness,  like  the  brooding  Dove, 
A  captive  never  wishing  to  be  free. 
This  tiresome  night,  O  Sleep  !  thou  art  to  me 
A  Fly,  that  up  and  down  himself  doth  shove 
Upon  a  fretful  rivulet,  now  above, 
Now  on  the  water  vexed  with  mockery. 
I  have  no  pain  that  calls  for  patience,  no  ; 
Hence  am  I  cross  and  peevish  as  a  child  :  10 

Am  pleased  by  fits  to  have  thee  for  my  foe, 
Yet  ever  willing  to  be  reconciled : 
O  gentle  Creature !  do  not  use  me  so, 
But  once  and  deeply  let  me  be  beguiled. 

Published  1807 

XIII 

TO  SLEEP 

T~^OND  words  have  oft  been  spoken  to  thee,  Sleep  ! 
And   thou   hast   had   thy  store   of  tenderest 

names; 

The  very  sweetest,  Fancy  culls  or  frames, 
When  thankfulness  of  heart  is  strong  and  deep ! 
Dear  Bosom-child  we  call  thee,  that  dost  steep 
In  rich  reward  all  suffering ;  Balm  that  tames 
All  anguish  ;  Saint  that  evil  thoughts  and  aims 
Takest  away,  and  into  souls  dost  creep, 
Like  to  a  breeze  from  heaven.     Shall  I  alone, 
I  surely  not  a  man  ungently  made,  10 

Call  thee  worst  Tyrant  by  which  Flesh  is  crost  ? 
Perverse,  self-willed  to  own  and  to  disown, 
Mere  slave  of  them  who  never  for  thee  prayed, 
Still  last  to  come  where  thou  art  wanted  most ! 

Published  1807 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS  437 

XIV 

TO  SLEEP 

A    FLOCK  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by, 
^\_    One  after  one  ;  the  sound  of  rain,  and  bees 
Murmuring  ;  the  fall  of  rivers,  winds  and  seas, 
Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  water,  and  pure  sky  ; 
I  have  thought  of  all  by  turns,  and  yet  do  lie 
Sleepless  !  and  soon  the  small  birds'  melodies 
Must  hear,  first  uttered  from  my  orchard  trees ; 
And  the  first  cuckoo's  melancholy  cry. 
Even  thus  last  night,  and  two  nights  more,  I  lay, 
And  could  not  win  thee,  Sleep  !  by  any  stealth  :  10 

So  do  not  let  me  wear  to-night  away  : 
Without  Thee  what  is  all  the  morning's  wealth  ? 
Come,  blessed  barrier  between  day  and  day, 
Dear  mother  of  fresh  thoughts  and  joyous  health  ! 

Published  1807 

XV 

THE    WILD    DUCK'S    NEST 

THE  imperial  Consort  of  the  Fairy-king 
Owns  not  a  sylvan  bower ;  or  gorgeous  cell 
With  emerald  floored,  and  with  purpureal  shell 
Ceilinged  and  roofed ;  that  is  so  fair  a  thing 
As  this  low  structure,  for  the  tasks  of  Spring 
Prepared  by  one  who  loves  the  buoyant  swell 
Of  the  brisk  waves,  yet  here  consents  to  dwell  ; 
And  spreads  in  steadfast  peace  her  brooding  wing. 
Words  cannot  paint  the   o'ershadowing  yew-tree 

bough, 

And  dimly-gleaming  Nest, — a  hollow  crown  10 

Of  golden  leaves  inlaid  with  silver  down, 
Fine  as  the  mother's  softest  plumes  allow  : 
I  gazed — and,  self-accused  while  gazing,  sighed 
For  human-kind,  weak  slaves  of  cumbrous  pride  ! 

Published  1819 

XVI 
WRITTEN  UPON  A  BLANK  LEAF  IN  '  THE  COMPLETE  ANGLER  ' 

WHILE  flowing  rivers  yield  a  blameless  sport, 
Shall  live  the  name  of  Walton  :  Sage  benign  ! 
Whose  pen,  the  mysteries  of  the  rod  and  line 
Unfolding,  did  not  fruitlessly  exhort 


438  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

To  reverend  watching  of  each  still  report 

That  Nature  utters  from  her  rural  shrine. 

Meek,  nobly  versed  in  simple  discipline, 

He  found  the  longest  summer  day  too  short, 

To  his  loved  pastime  given  by  sedgy  Lee, 

Or  down  the  tempting  maze  of  Shawford  brook  ; —      10 

Fairer  than  life  itself,  in  this  sweet  Book, 

The  cowslip-bank  and  shady  willow-tree, 

And  the  fresh  meads — where  flowed,  from  every 

nook 
Of  his  full  bosom,  gladsome  Piety  ! 

Published  1819 

XVII 

TO    THE    POET,    JOHN    DYER 

BARD  of  the  Fleece,  whose  skilful  genius  made 
That  work  a  living  landscape  fair  and  bright ; 
Nor  hallowed  less  with  musical  delight 
Than  those  soft  scenes  through  which  thy  childhood 

strayed, 

Those  southern  tracts  of  Cambria,  '  deep  embayed, 
With  green  hills  fenced,  with  ocean's  murmur  lulled ' ; 
Though  hasty  Fame  hath  many  a  chaplet  culled 
For  worthless  brows,  while  in  the  pensive  shade 
Of  cold  neglect  she  leaves  thy  head  ungraced, 
Yet  pure  and  powerful  minds,  hearts  meek  and  still,    10 
A  grateful  few,  shall  love  thy  modest  Lay, 
Long  as  the  shepherd's  bleating  flock  shall  stray 
O'er  naked  Snowdon's  wide  aerial  waste  ; 
Long  as  the  thrush  shall  pipe  on  Grongar  Hill ! 

1811 

XVIII 

ON  THE  DETRACTION  WHICH  FOLLOWED  THE  PUBLICATION 
OF  A  CERTAIN  POEM 

See  Milton's  Sonnet,  beginning,  '  A  Book  was  writ  of  late  called 
"Tetrachordon."' 

A  BOOK  came  forth  of  late,  called  PETER  BELL  ; 
Not  negligent  the  style  ; — the  matter  ? — good 
As  aught  that  song  records  of  Robin  Hood ; 
Or  Roy,  renowned  through  many  a  Scottish  dell ; 
But  some  (who  brook  those  hackneyed  themes  full  well, 
Nor  heat,  at  Tarn  o'  Shanter's  name,  their  blood) 
Waxed  wroth,  and  with  foul  claws,  a  harpy  brood, 
On  Bard  and  Hero  clamorously  fell. 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS  439 

Heed  not,  wild  Rover  once  through  heath  and  glen, 
Who  mad'st  at  length  the  better  life  thy  choice,  10 

Heed  not  such  onset !  nay,  if  praise  of  men 
To  thee  appear  not  an  unmeaning  voice, 
Lift  up  that  grey-haired  forehead,  and  rejoice 
In  the  just  tribute  of  thy  Poet's  pen  ! 

1820 


XIX 

RIEF,  thou  hast  lost  an  ever-ready  friend 

Now  that  the  cottage  Spinning-wheel  is  mute  ; 
And  Care — a  comforter  that  best  could  suit 
Her  froward  mood,  and  softliest  reprehend ; 
And  Love — a  charmer's  voice,  that  used  to  lend, 
More  efficaciously  than  aught  that  flows 
From  harp  or  lute,  kind  influence  to  compose 
The  throbbing  pulse — else  troubled  without  end  : 
Even  Joy  could  tell,  Joy  craving  truce  and  rest 
From  her  own  overflow,  what  power  sedate  10 

On  those  revolving  motions  did  await 
Assiduously — to  soothe  her  aching  breast ; 
And,  to  a  point  of  just  relief,  abate 
The  mantling  triumphs  of  a  day  too  blest. 

Published  1819 


XX 

TO  S.  H. 

XCUSE  is  needless  when  with  love  sincere 

Of  occupation,  not  by  fashion  led, 
lou  turn'st  the  Wheel  that  slept  with  dust  o'erspread  ; 
My  nerves  from  no  such  murmur  shrink, — tho'  near, 
Soft  as  the  Dorhawk's  to  a  distant  ear, 
When  twilight  shades  darken  the  mountain's  head. 
Even  She  who  toils  to  spin  our  vital  thread 
Might  smile  on  work,  O  Lady,  once  so  dear 
To  household  virtues.     Venerable  Art, 
Torn  from  the  Poor !  yet  shall  kind  Heaven  protect    10 
Its  own  ;  though  Rulers,  with  undue  respect, 
Trusting  to  crowded  factory  and  mart 
And  proud  discoveries  of  the  intellect, 
Heed  not  the  pillage  of  man's  ancient  heart. 

Published  1827 


440  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

XXI 

COMPOSED  IN  ONE  OF  THE  VALLEYS  OF  WESTMORELAND, 
ON  EASTER  SUNDAY 

WITH  each  recurrence  of  this  glorious  morn 
That  saw  the  Saviour  in  his  human  frame 
Rise  from  the  dead,  erewhile  the  Cottage-dame 
Put  on  fresh  raiment — till  that  hour  unworn : 
Domestic  hands  the  home-bred  wool  had  shorn, 
And  she  who  span  it  culled  the  daintiest  fleece, 
In  thoughtful  reverence  to  the  Prince  of  Peace, 
Whose  temples  bled  beneath  the  platted  thorn. 
A  blest  estate  when  piety  sublime  9 

These  humble  props  disdained  not !     O  green  dales  ! 
Sad  may  /  be  who  heard  your  Sabbath  chime 
When  Art's  abused  inventions  were  unknown ; 
Kind  Nature's  various  wealth  was  all  your  own ; 
And  benefits  were  weighed  in  Reason's  scales ! 

Published  1819 

XXII 

DECAY  OF  PIETY 

OFT  have  I  seen,  ere  Time  had  ploughed  my 
cheek, 

Matrons  and  Sires — who,  punctual  to  the  call 
Of  their  loved  Church,  on  fast  or  festival 
Through  the  long  year  the  House  of  Prayer  would 

seek  : 

By  Christmas  snows,  by  visitation  bleak 
Of  Easter  winds,  unscared,  from  hut  or  hall 
They  came  to  lowly  bench  or  sculptured  stall, 
But  with  one  fervour  of  devotion  meek. 
I  see  the  places  where  they  once  were  known, 
And  ask,  surrounded  even  by  kneeling  crowds,         10 
Is  ancient  Piety  for  ever  flown  ? 
Alas  !  even  then  they  seemed  like  fleecy  clouds 
That,  struggling  through  the  western  sky,  have  won 
Their  pensive  light  from  a  departed  sun  ! 

Published  1827 

XXIII 

COMPOSED  ON  THE  EVE  OF  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  A  FRIEND 
IN  THE  VALE  OF  GRASMERE,  1812 

WHAT  need  of  clamorous  bells,  or  ribands  gay, 
These  humble  nuptials  to  proclaim  or  grace  ? 
Angels  of  love,  look  down  upon  the  place  ; 
Shed  on  the  chosen  vale  a  sun-bright  day ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS  441 

Yet  no  proud  gladness  would  the  Bride  display 
Even  for  such  promise  : — serious  is  her  face, 
Modest  her  mien  ;  and  she,  whose  thoughts  keep 

pace 

With  gentleness,  in  that  becoming  way 
Will  thank  you.     Faultless  does  the  Maid  appear  ; 
No  disproportion  in  her  soul,  no  strife  :  10 

But,  when  the  closer  view  of  wedded  life 
Hath  shown  that  nothing  human  can  be  clear 
From  frailty,  for  that  insight  may  the  Wife 
To  her  indulgent  Lord  become  more  dear. 

Oct.  31,  1812 

XXIV 

FROM  THE  ITALIAN  OF  MICHAEL  ANGELO 


YES  !  hope  may  with  my  strong  desire  keep  pace, 
And  I  be  undeluded,  unbetrayed; 
For  if  of  our  affections  none  finds  grace 
In  sight  of  Heaven,  then,  wherefore  hath  God  made 
The  world  which  we  inhabit  ?     Better  plea 
Love  cannot  have  than  that  in  loving  thee 
Glory  to  that  eternal  Peace  is  paid, 
Who  such  divinity  to  thee  imparts 
As  hallows  and  makes  pure  all  gentle  hearts. 
His  hope  is  treacherous  only  whose  love  dies  10 

With  beauty,  which  is  varying  every  hour ; 
But  in  chaste  hearts,  uninfluenced  by  the  power 
Of  outward  change,  there  blooms  a  deathless  flower, 
That  breathes  on  earth  the  air  of  paradise. 

1805 

XXV 

FROM  THE  SAME 
II 

NO  mortal  object  did  these  eyes  behold 
When  first  they  met  the  placid  light  of  thine, 
And  my  Soul  felt  her  destiny  divine, 
And  hope  of  endless  peace  in  me  grew  bold  : 
Heaven-born,  the  Soul  a  heavenward  course  must 

hold; 

Beyond  the  visible  world  she  soars  to  seek 
(For  what  delights  the  sense  is  false  and  weak) 
Ideal  Form,  the  universal  mould. 


442  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

The  wise  man,  I  affirm,  can  find  no  rest 
In  that  which  perishes :  nor  will  he  lend 
His  heart  to  aught  which  doth  on  time  depend. 
'Tis  sense,  unbridled  will,  and  not  true  love, 
That  kills  the  soul :  love  betters  what  is  best, 
Even  here  below,  but  more  in  heaven  above. 

Probably  1805 


XXVI 
FROM  THE  SAME.       TO  THE  SUPREME  BEING 


THE  prayers  I  make  will  then  be  sweet  indeed 
If  Thou  the  spirit  give  by  which  I  pray : 
My  unassisted  heart  is  barren  clay, 
That  of  its  native  self  can  nothing  feed  : 
Of  good  and  pious  works  Thou  art  the  seed, 
That  quickens  only  where  Thou  say'st  it  may  : 
Unless  Thou  show  to  us  thine  own  true  way 
No  man  can  find  it :  Father  !  Thou  must  lead. 
Do  Thou,  then,  breathe  those  thoughts  into  my  mind 
By  which  such  virtue  may  in  me  be  bred  10 

That  in  thy  holy  footsteps  I  may  tread  ; 
The  fetters  of  my  tongue  do  Thou  unbind, 
That  I  may  have  the  power  to  sing  of  Thee, 
And  sound  thy  praises  everlastingly. 

1805 


C*  URPRISED  by  joy— impatient  as  the  Wind 
^^     I  turned   to   share    the   transport — Oh  !    with 

whom 

But  Thee,  deep  buried  in  the  silent  tomb, 
That  spot  which  no  vicissitude  can  find  ? 
Love,  faithful  love,  recalled  thee  to  my  mind — 
But  how  could  I  forget  thee  ?    Through  what  power, 
Even  for  the  least  division  of  an  hour, 
Have  I  been  so  beguiled  as  to  be  blind 
To  my  most  grievous  loss  ! — That  thought's  return 
Was  the  worst  pang  that  sorrow  ever  bore,  10 

Save  one,  one  only,  when  I  stood  forlorn, 
Knowing  my  heart's  best  treasure  was  no  more  ; 
That  neither  present  time,  nor  years  unborn 
Could  to  my  sight  that  heavenly  face  restore. 

Published  1815 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS  443 

XXVIII 


METHOUGHT  I  saw  the  footsteps  of  a  throne 
Which  mists  and  vapours  from  mine  eyes  did 

shroud — 

Nor  view  of  who  might  sit  thereon  allowed ; 
But  all  the  steps  and  ground  about  were  strown 
With  sights  the  ruefullest  that  flesh  and  bone 
Ever  put  on  ;  a  miserable  crowd, 
Sick,  hale,  old,  young,  who  cried  before  that  cloud, 
'  Thou  art  our  king,  O  Death  !  to  thee  we  groan.' 
Those  steps  I  clomb  ;  the  mists  before  me  gave 
Smooth  way ;  and  I  beheld  the  face  of  one  i< 

Sleeping  alone  within  a  mossy  cave, 
With  her  face  up  to  heaven ;  that  seemed  to  have 
Pleasing  remembrance  of  a  thought  foregone  ; 
A  lovely  Beauty  in  a  summer  grave  ! 

Published  180? 

XXIX 

NOVEMBER,  1836 


EVEN  so  for  me  a  Vision  sanctified 
The  sway  of  Death;  long  ere  mine  eyes  had 

seen 

Thy  countenance — the  still  rapture  of  thy  mien — 
When  thou,  dear  Sister  !  wert  become  Death's  Bride  : 
No  trace  of  pain  or  languor  could  abide 
That  change : — age  on  thy  brow  was  smoothed — thy 

cold 

Wan  cheek  at  once  was  privileged  to  unfold 
A  loveliness  to  living  youth  denied. 
Oh !  if  within  me  hope  should  e'er  decline, 
The  lamp  of  faith,  lost  Friend !  too  faintly  burn ;        10 
Then  may  that  heaven-revealing  smile  of  thine, 
The  bright  assurance,  visibly  return  : 
And  let  my  spirit  in  that  power  divine 
Rejoice,  as,  through  that  power,  it  ceased  to  mourn. 

XXX 

IT  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free, 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun 
Breathless  with  adoration ;  the  broad  sun 
Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity ; 


444  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  broods  o'er  the  Sea  : 

Listen  !  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, 

If  thou  appear  untouched  by  solemn  thought,  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. 

1802 

XXXI 

WHERE  lies  the  Land  to  which  yon  Ship  must 
go? 

Fresh  as  a  lark  mounting  at  break  of  day, 
Festively  she  puts  forth  in  trim  array ; 
Is  she  for  tropic  suns,  or  polar  snow  ? 
What  boots  the  inquiry  ? — Neither  friend  nor  foe 
She  cares  for;  let  her  travel  where  she  may, 
She  finds  familiar  names,  a  beaten  way 
Ever  before  her,  and  a  wind  to  blow. 
Yet  still  I  ask,  what  haven  is  her  mark  ? 
And,  almost  as  it  was  when  ships  were  rare,  10 

(From  time  to  time,  like  Pilgrims,  here  and  there 
Crossing  the  waters)  doubt,  and  something  dark, 
Of  the  old  Sea  some  reverential  fear, 
Is  with  me  at  thy  farewell,  joyous  Bark  ! 

Published  1807 

XXXII 

WITH  Ships  the  sea  was  sprinkled  far  and  nigh, 
Like  stars  in  heaven,  and  joyously  it  showed  ; 
Some  lying  fast  at  anchor  in  the  road, 
Some  veering  up  and  down,  one  knew  not  why. 
A  goodly  Vessel  did  I  then  espy 
Come  like  a  giant  from  a  haven  broad  ; 
And  lustily  along  the  bay  she  strode, 
Her  tackling  rich,  and  of  apparel  high. 
This  Ship  was  nought  to  me,  nor  I  to  her, 
Yet  I  pursued  her  with  a  Lover's  look ;  10 

This  Ship  to  all  the  rest  did  I  prefer : 
When  will  she  turn,  and  whither  ?  She  will  brook 
No  tarrying ;  where  She  comes  the  winds  must  stir : 
On  went  She,  and  due  north  her  journey  took. 

Published  1807 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS  445 

XXXIII 

*"  I  ^HE  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon, 

Getting    and    spending,    we    lay    waste  our 

powers  : 

Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon  ! 
This  Sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon ; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers ; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune ; 
It  moves  us  not. — Great  God  !  I  'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn ;  10 

So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn  ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea ; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

Published  1807 

XXXIV 

A  VOLANT  Tribe  of  Bards  on  earth  are  found, 
Who,  while  the  flattering  Zephyrs  round  them 

Play> 

On  '  coignes  of  vantage'  hang  their  nests  of  clay  ; 

How  quickly  from  that  aery  hold  unbound, 

Dust  for  oblivion  !     To  the  solid  ground 

Of  nature  trusts  the  Mind  that  builds  for  aye  ; 

Convinced  that  there,  there  only,  she  can  lay 

Secure  foundations.     As  the  year  runs  round, 

Apart  she  toils  within  the  chosen  ring ; 

While  the  stars  shine,  or  while  day's  purple  eye  10 

Is  gently  closing  with  the  flowers  of  spring ; 

Where  even  the  motion  of  an  Angel's  wing 

Would  interrupt  the  intense  tranquillity 

Of  silent  hills,  and  more  than  silent  sky. 

Published  1823 

XXXV 

'  "\  T  7EAK  is  the  will  of  Man,  his  judgment  blind  ; 

\  V       Remembrance  persecutes,  and  Hope  betrays  ; 
Heavy  is  woe  ; — and  joy,  for  human-kind, 
A  mournful  thing,  so  transient  is  the  blaze  ! ' 
Thus  might  he  paint  our  lot  of  mortal  days 
Who  wants  the  glorious  faculty  assigned 
To  elevate  the  more-than-reasoning  Mind, 
And  colour  life's  dark  cloud  with  orient  rays. 


446  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Imagination  is  that  sacred  power, 

Imagination  lofty  and  refined  : 

'Tis  hers  to  pluck  the  amaranthine  flower 

Of  Faith,  and  round  the  sufferer's  temples  bind 

Wreaths  that  endure  affliction's  heaviest  shower, 

And  do  not  shrink  from  sorrow's  keenest  wind. 

Published  1815 

XXXVI 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  RAISLEY  CALVERT 

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

Published  1807 


PART  II 
I 

SCORN  not  the  Sonnet ;  Critic,  you  have  frowned, 
Mindless  of  its  just  honours  ;  with  this  key 
Shakespeare  unlocked  his  heart ;  the  melody 
Of  this  small  lute  gave  ease  to  Petrarch's  wound; 
A  thousand  times  this  pipe  did  Tasso  sound ; 
With  it  Camoens  soothed  an  exile's  grief; 
The  Sonnet  glittered  a  gay  myrtle  leaf 
Amid  the  cypress  with  which  Dante  crowned 
His  visionary  brow  :  a  glow-worm  lamp, 
It  cheered  mild  Spenser,  called  from  Faery-land      10 
To  struggle  through  dark  ways;  and,  when  a  damp 
Fell  round  the  path  of  Milton,  in  his  hand 
The  Thing  became  a  trumpet ;  whence  he  blew 
Soul-animating  strains — alas,  too  few  ! 

Published  1827 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS  44-7 

II 

TT  OW  sweet  it  is,  when  mother  Fancy  rocks 

The  wayward  brain,  to  saunter  through  a  wood  ! 
An  old  place,  full  of  many  a  lovely  brood, 
Tall  trees,  green  arbours,  and  ground-flowers  in  flocks  ; 
And  wild  rose  tip- toe  upon  hawthorn  stocks, 
Like  a  bold  Girl,  who  plays  her  agile  pranks 
At  Wakes  and  Fairs  with  wandering  Mountebanks, — 
When  she  stands  cresting  the  Clown's  head,  and  mocks 
The  crowd  beneath  her.     Verily  I  think, 
Such  place  to  me  is  sometimes  like  a  dream  10 

Or  map  of  the  whole  world  :  thoughts,  link  by  link, 
Enter  through  ears  and  eyesight,  with  such  gleam 
Of  all  things,  that  at  last  in  fear  I  shrink, 
And  leap  at  once  from  the  delicious  stream. 

Dec.  180G 

III 

TO  B.  R.  HAYDON 

IGH  is  our  calling,  Friend  ! — Creative  Art 

(Whether  the  instrument  of  words  she  use, 
)r  pencil  pregnant  with  ethereal  hues,) 
Demands  the  service  of  a  mind  and  heart, 
Though  sensitive,  yet,  in  their  weakest  part, 
Heroically  fashioned — to  infuse 
Faith  in  the  whispers  of  the  lonely  Muse, 
While  the  whole  world  seems  adverse  to  desert. 
And,  oh  !  when  Nature  sinks,  as  oft  she  may, 
Through  long-lived  pressure  of  obscure  distress,  10 

Still  to  be  strenuous  for  the  bright  reward, 
And  in  the  soul  admit  of  no  decay, 
Brook  no  continuance  of  weak-mindedness — 
Great  is  the  glory,  for  the  strife  is  hard  ! 

Dec.  1815 

IV 

FROM  the  dark  chambers  of  dejection  freed, 
Spurning  the  unprofitable  yoke  of  care, 
Rise,  GILLIES,  rise :  the  gales  of  youth  shall  bear 
Thy  genius  forward  like  a  winged  steed. 
Though  bold  Bellerophon  (so  Jove  decreed 
In  wrath)  fell  headlong  from  the  fields  of  air, 
Yet  a  rich  guerdon  waits  on  minds  that  dare, 
If  aught  be  in  them  of  immortal  seed, 


448  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

And  reason  govern  that  audacious  flight 

Which  heavenward  they  direct. — Then  droop  not 

thou, 

Erroneously  renewing  a  sad  vow 
In  the  low  dell  'mid  Roslin's  faded  grove : 
A  cheerful  life  is  what  the  Muses  love, 
A  soaring  spirit  is  their  prime  delight. 

1814 


FAIR  Prime  of  life  !  were  it  enough  to  gild 
With  ready  sunbeams  every  straggling  shower ; 
And,  if  an  unexpected  cloud  should  lower, 
Swiftly  thereon  a  rainbow  arch  to  build 
For  Fancy's  errands, — then,  from  fields  half-tilled 
Gathering  green  weeds  to  mix  with  poppy  flower, 
Thee  might  thy  Minions  crown,  and  chant  thy  power, 
Unpitied  by  the  wise,  all  censure  stilled. 
Ah  !  show  that  worthier  honours  are  thy  due ; 
Fair  Prime  of  life  !  arouse  the  deeper  heart ;  10 

Confirm  the  Spirit  glorying  to  pursue 
Some  path  of  steep  ascent  and  lofty  aim  ; 
And,  if  there  be  a  joy  that  slights  the  claim 
Of  grateful  memory,  bid  that  joy  depart. 

Published  1827 

VI 

I  WATCH,  and  long  have  watched,  with  calm  regret 
Yon  slowly-sinking  star — immortal  Sire 
3  might  he  seem)  of  all  the  glittering  quire ! 
Blue  ether  still  surrounds  him — yet — and  yet ; 
But  now  the  horizon's  rocky  parapet 
Is  reached,  where,  forfeiting  his  bright  attire, 
He  burns — transmuted  to  a  dusky  fire  — 
Then  pays  submissively  the  appointed  debt 
To  the  flying  moments,  and  is  seen  no  more. 
Angels  and  gods  !     We  struggle  with  our  fate,  10 

While  health,  power,  glory,  from  their  height  decline, 
Depressed  ;  and  then  extinguished  :  and  our  state, 
In  this,  how  different,  lost  Star,  from  thine, 
That  no  to-morrow  shall  our  beams  restore ! 

Published  1819 

VII 

I   HEARD  (alas  !  'twas  only  in  a  dream) 
Strains — which,  as  sage  Antiquity  believed, 
By  waking  ears  have  sometimes  been  received 
Wafted  adown  the  wind  from  lake  or  stream  : 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS  449 

A  most  melodious  requiem,  a  supreme 
And  perfect  harmony  of  notes,  achieved 
By  a  fair  Swan  on  drowsy  billows  heaved, 
O'er  which  her  pinions  shed  a  silver  gleam. 
For  is  she  not  the  votary  of  Apollo  ? 
And  knows  she  not,  singing  as  he  inspires,  10 

That  bliss  awaits  her  which  the  ungenial  Hollow  x 
Of  the  dull  earth  partakes  not,  nor  desires  ? 
Mount,  tuneful  Bird,  and  join  the  immortal  quires ! 
She  soared — and  I  awoke,  struggling  in  vain  to  follow. 

Published  1819 

VIII 

RETIREMENT 

T  F  the  whole  weight  of  what  we  think  and  feel, 

Save  only  far  as  thought  and  feeling  blend 
With  action,  were  as  nothing,  patriot  Friend  ! 
From  thy  remonstrance  would  be  no  appeal ; 
But  to  promote  and  fortify  the  weal 
Of  her  own  Being  is  her  paramount  end ; 
A  truth  which  they  alone  shall  comprehend 
Who  shun  the  mischief  which  they  cannot  heal. 
Peace  in  these  feverish  times  is  sovereign  bliss  :        9 
Here,  with  no  thirst  but  what  the  stream  can  slake, 
And  startled  only  by  the  rustling  brake, 
Cool  air  I  breathe ;  while  the  unincumbered  Mind, 
By  some  weak  aims  at  services  assigned 
To  gentle  Natures,  thanks  not  Heaven  amiss. 

Published  1827 

IX 

NOT  Love,  not  War,  nor  the  tumultuous  swell 
Of  civil  conflict,  nor  the  wrecks  of  change, 
Nor  Duty  struggling  with  afflictions  strange — 
Not  these  alone  inspire  the  tuneful  shell ; 
But  where  untroubled  peace  and  concord  dwell, 
There  also  is  the  Muse  not  loth  to  range, 
Watching  the  twilight  smoke  of  cot  or  grange, 
Skyward  ascending  from  a  woody  dell. 
Meek  aspirations  please  her,  lone  endeavour, 
And  sage  content,  and  placid  melancholy  ;  10 

She  loves  to  gaze  upon  a  crystal  river — 
Diaphanous  because  it  travels  slowly ; 
Soft  is  the  music  that  would  charm  for  ever ; 
The  flower  of  sweetest  smell  is  shy  and  lowly. 

Published  1823 

1  See  the  Phcedon  of  Plato,  by  which  this  Sonnet  was  suggested. 
1— FF 


450  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


MARK  the  concentred  hazels  that  enclose 
Yon  old  grey  Stone,  protected  from  the  ray 
antide  suns : — and  even  the  beams  that  play 
And  glance,  while  wantonly  the  rough  wind  blows, 
Are  seldom  free  to  touch  the  moss  that  grows 
Upon  that  roof,  amid  embowering  gloom, 
The  very  image  framing  of  a  Tomb, 
In  which  some  ancient  Chieftain,  finds  repose 
Among  the  lonely  mountains. — Live,  ye  trees ! 
And  thou,  grey  Stone,  the  pensive  likeness  keep          10 
Of  a  dark  chamber  where  the  Mighty  sleep : 
For  more  than  Fancy  to  the  influence  bends 
When  solitary  Nature  condescends 
To  mimic  Time's  forlorn  humanities. 

Published  1815 

XI 

COMPOSED  AFTER  A  JOURNEY  ACROSS  THE  HAMBLETON  HILLS, 
YORKSHIRE 

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 
Of  prospect,  whereof  many  thousands  tell. 
Yet  did  the  glowing  west  with  marvellous  power 
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 
We  should  forget  them ;  they  are  of  the  sky, 
And  from  our  earthly  memory  fade  away. 

Oct.  4, 1802 


XII 

-'they  are  of  the  sky, 
And  from  our  earthly  memory  fade  away.' 

r  I  "^HOSE  words  were  uttered  as  in  pensive  mood 
We  turned,  departing  from  that  solemn  sight 
A  contrast  and  reproach  to  gross  delight, 
And  life's  unspiritual  pleasures  daily  wooed  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS  451 

But  now  upon  this  thought  I  cannot  brood ; 

It  is  unstable  as  a  dream  of  night ; 

Nor  will  I  praise  a  cloud,  however  bright, 

Disparaging  Man's  gifts,  and  proper  food. 

Grove,  isle,  with  every  shape  of  sky-built  dome, 

Though  clad  in  colours  beautiful  and  pure,  10 

Find  in  the  heart  of  man  no  natural  home  : 

The  immortal  Mind  craves  objects  that  endure : 

These  cleave  to  it ;  from  these  it  cannot  roam, 

Nor  they  from  it :  their  fellowship  is  secure. 

Published  1807 

XIII 

SEPTEMBER,  1815 

WHILE  not  a  leaf  seems  faded  ;  while  the  fields, 
With  ripening  harvest  prodigally  fair, 
In  brightest  sunshine  bask ;  this  nipping  air, 
Sent  from  some  distant  clime  where  Winter  wields 
His  icy  scimitar,  a  foretaste  yields 
Of  bitter  change,  and  bids  the  flowers  beware  ; 
And  whispers  to  the  silent  birds,  '  Prepare 
Against  the  threatening  foe  your  trustiest  shields.' 
For  me,  who  under  kindlier  laws  belong 
To  Nature's  tuneful  quire,  this  rustling  dry  10 

Through  leaves  yet  green,  and  yon  crystalline  sky, 
Announce  a  season  potent  to  renew, 
'Mid  frost  and  snow,  the  instinctive  joys  of  song, 
And  nobler  cares  than  listless  summer  knew. 

Dec.  1815 

XIV 

NOVEMBER  1 

OW  clear,  how  keen,  how  marvellously  bright 

The  effluence  from  yon  distant  mountain's  head, 
/hich,  strewn  with  snow  smooth  as  the  sky  can  shed, 
Shines  like  another  sun — on  mortal  sight 
Uprisen,  as  if  to  check  approaching  Night, 
And  all  her  twinkling  stars.     Who  now  would  tread, 
If  so  he  might,  yon  mountain's  glittering  head — 
Terrestrial,  but  a  surface  by  the  flight 
Of  sad  mortality's  earth-sullying  wing 
Unswept,  unstained  ?     Nor  shall  the  aerial  Powers       10 
Dissolve  that  beauty,  destined  to  endure, 
White,  radiant,  spotless,  exquisitely  pure, 
Through  all  vicissitudes,  till  genial  Spring 
Has  filled  the  laughing  vales  with  welcome  flowers. 

Dec.  1815 


452  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

XV 

COMPOSED    DURING    A    STORM 

2NE  who  was  suffering  tumult  in  his  soul 
Yet  failed  to  seek  the  sure  relief  of  prayer, 
_    t  forth — his  course  surrendering  to  the  care 
Of  the  fierce  wind,  while  mid-day  lightnings  prowl 
Insidiously,  untimely  thunders  growl ; 
While  trees,  dim-seen,  in  frenzied  numbers,  tear 
The  lingering  remnant  of  their  yellow  hair, 
And  shivering  wolves,  surprised  with  darkness,  howl 
As  if  the  sun  were  not.     He  raised  his  eye 
Soul-smitten  ;  for,  that  instant,  did  appear  10 

Large  space  ('mid  dreadful  clouds)  of  purest  sky, 
An  azure  disc — shield  of  Tranquillity ; 
Invisible,  unlooked-for,  minister 
Of  providential  goodness  ever  nigh  ! 

1819 

XVI 

TO  A  SNOWDROP 

1ONE  Flower,  hemmed  in  with  snows,  and  white  as 
_>       they, 

But  hardier  far,  once  more  I  see  thee  bend 
Thy  forehead,  as  if  fearful  to  offend, 
Like  an  unbidden  guest.     Though  day  by  day 
Storms,  sallying  from  the  mountain-tops,  way-lay 
The  rising  sun,  and  on  the  plains  descend ; 
Yet  art  thou  welcome,  welcome  as  a  friend 
Whose  zeal  outruns  his  promise  !  Blue-eyed  May 
Shall  soon  behold  this  border  thickly  set 
With  bright  jonquils,  their  odours  lavishing  10 

On  the  soft  west-wind  and  his  frolic  peers  ; 
Nor  will  I  then  thy  modest  grace  forget, 
Chaste  Snowdrop,  venturous  harbinger  of  Spring, 
And  pensive  monitor  of  fleeting  years ! 

Published  1819 

XVII 

TO  THE  LADY  MARY  LOWTHER 

WITH  a  selection  from  the  Poems  of  Anne,  Countess  of  Winchilsea ;  and 
extracts  of  similar  character  from  other  Writers ;  transcribed  by  a  female 
friend. 

T   ADY  !  I  rifled  a  Parnassian  Cave 

j     (But  seldom  trod)  of  mildly-gleaming  ore ; 

And  culled,  from  sundry  beds,  a  lucid  store 
Of  genuine  crystals,  pure  as  those  that  pave 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS  453 

The  azure  brooks,  where  Dian  joys  to  lave 

Her  spotless  limbs  ;  and  ventured  to  explore 

Dim  shades — for  reliques,  upon  Lethe's  shore, 

Cast  up  at  random  by  the  sullen  wave. 

To  female  hands  the  treasures  were  resigned ; 

And  lo  this  Work  ! — a  grotto  bright  and  clear  10 

From  stain  or  taint ;  in  which  thy  blameless  mind 

May  feed  on  thoughts  though  pensive  not  austere ; 

Or,  if  thy  deeper  spirit  be  inclined 

To  holy  musing,  it  may  enter  here. 

1819 

XVIII 

TO  LADY  BEAUMONT 

LVDY  !  the  songs  of  Spring  were  in  the  grove 
While  I  was  shaping  beds  for  winter  flowers ; 
While  I  was  planting  green  unfading  bowers, 
And  shrubs — to  hang  upon  the  warm  alcove 
And  sheltering  wall ;  and  still,  as  Fancy  wove 
The  dream,  to  time  and  nature's  blended  powers 
I  gave  this  paradise  for  winter  hours, 
A  labyrinth,  Lady  !  which  your  feet  shall  rove. 
Yes  !  when  the  sun  of  life  more  feebly  shines, 
Becoming  thoughts,  I  trust,  of  solemn  gloom  10 

Or  of  high  gladness  you  shall  hither  bring ; 
And  these  perennial  bowers  and  murmuring  pines 
Be  gracious  as  the  music  and  the  bloom 
And  all  the  mighty  ravishment  of  spring. 

1807 

XIX 

THERE  is  a  pleasure  in  poetic  pains 

Which  only  Poets  know  ; — 'twas  rightly  said  ; 

Whom  could  the  Muses  else  allure  to  tread 

Their  smoothest  paths,  to  wear  their  lightest  chains? 

When  happiest  Fancy  has  inspired  the  strains, 

How  oft  the  malice  of  one  luckless  word 

Pursues  the  Enthusiast  to  the  social  board, 

Haunts  him  belated  on  the  silent  plains  ! 

Yet  he  repines  not,  if  his  thought  stand  clear, 

At  last,  of  hindrance  and  obscurity,  10 

Fresh  as  the  star  that  crowns  the  brow  of  morn ; 

Bright,  speckless,  as  a  softly-moulded  tear 

The  moment  it  has  left  the  virgin's  eye, 

Or  rain-drop  lingering  on  the  pointed  thorn. 

Published  1827 


454  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


XX 

THE  Shepherd,  looking  eastward,  softly  said, 
'  Bright  is  thy  veil,  O  Moon,  as  thou  art  bright ! ' 
Forthwith  that  little  cloud,  in  ether  spread 
And  penetrated  all  with  tender  light, 
She  cast  away,  and  showed  her  fulgent  head 
Uncovered ;  dazzling  the  Beholder's  sight 
As  if  to  vindicate  her  beauty's  right, 
Her  beauty  thoughtlessly  disparaged. 
Meanwhile  that  veil,  removed  or  thrown  aside, 
Went  floating  from  her,  darkening  as  it  went ;  10 

And  a  huge  mass,  to  bury  or  to  hide, 
ypproached  this  glory  of  the  firmament ; 
Who  meekly  yields,  and  is  obscured — content 
With  one  calm  triumph  of  a  modest  pride. 

Published  1815 


XXI 

WHEN  haughty  expectations  prostrate  lie, 
And  grandeur  crouches  like  a  guilty  thing, 
Oft  shall  the  lowly  weak,  till  nature  bring 
Mature  release,  in  fair  society 
Survive,  and  Fortune's  utmost  anger  try; 
Like  these  frail  snowdrops  that  together  cling, 
And  nod  their  helmets,  smitten  by  the  wing 
Of  many  a  furious  whirl-blast  sweeping  by. 
Observe  the  faithful  flowers  !  if  small  to  great 
May  lead  the  thoughts,  thus  struggling  used  to  stand  10 
The  Emathian  phalanx,  nobly  obstinate ; 
And  so  the  bright  immortal  Theban  band, 
Whom  onset,  fiercely  urged  at  Jove's  command, 
Might  overwhelm,  but  could  not  separate  ! 

Published  1820 


XXII 

HAIL,  Twilight,  sovereign  of  one  peaceful  hour  ! 
Not  dull  art  Thou  as  undiscerning  Night ; 
But  studious  only  to  remove  from  sight 
Day's  mutable  distinctions. — Ancient  Power  ! 
Thus  did  the  waters  gleam,  the  mountains  lower, 
To  the  rude  Briton,  when,  in  wolf-skin  vest 
Here  roving  wild,  he  laid  him  down  to  rest 
On  the  bare  rock,  or  through  a  leafy  bower 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS  455 

Looked  ere  his  eyes  were  closed.     By  him  was  seen 
The  self-same  Vision  which  we  now  behold,  10 

At  thy  meek  bidding,  shadowy  Power !  brought  forth  ; 
These  mighty  barriers,  and  the  gulf  between ; 
The  flood,  the  stars, — a  spectacle  as  old 
As  the  beginning  of  the  heavens  and  earth  ! 

Published  1815 

XXIII 
'  T  T  7ITH  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  climb' st  the 

VV       sky. 

How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face  ! ' 

Where  art  thou  ?     Thou  so  often  seen  on  high 

Running  among  the  clouds  a  Wood-nymph's  race  ! 

Unhappy  Nuns,  whose  common  breath  's  a  sigh 

Which  they  would  stifle,  move  at  such  a  pace ! 

The  northern  Wind,  to  call  thee  to  the  chase, 

Must  blow  to-night  his  bugle  horn.     Had  I 

The  power  of  Merlin,  Goddess  !  this  should  be : 

And  all  the  stars,  fast  as  the  clouds  were  riven,  10 

Should  sally  forth,  to  keep  thee  company, 

Hurrying  and  sparkling  through  the  clear  blue  heaven  ; 

But,  Cynthia !  should  to  thee  the  palm  be  given, 

Queen  both  for  beauty  and  for  majesty. 

Perhaps  1802 

XXIV 

EVEN  as  a  dragon's  eye  that  feels  the  stress 
Of  a  bedimming  sleep,  or  as  a  lamp 
Sullenly  glaring  through  sepulchral  damp, 
So  burns  yon  Taper  'mid  a  black  recess 
Of  mountains,  silent,  dreary,  motionless  : 
The  lake  below  reflects  it  not ;  the  sky 
Muffled  in  clouds,  affords  no  company 
To  mitigate  and  cheer  its  loneliness. 
Yet,  round  the  body  of  that  joyless  Thing 
Which  sends  so  far  its  melancholy  light,  10 

Perhaps  are  seated  in  domestic  ring 
A  gay  society  with  faces  bright, 
Conversing,  reading,  laughing ; — or  they  sing, 
While  hearts  and  voices  in  the  song  unite. 

Published  1815 

XXV 

THE  stars  are  mansions  built  by  Nature's  hand, 
And,  haply,  there  the  spirits  of  the  blest 
Dwell,  clothed  in  radiance,  their  immortal  vest ; 
Huge  Ocean  shows,  within  his  yellow  strand, 


456  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

A  habitation  marvellously  planned, 

For  life  to  occupy  in  love  and  rest ; 

All  that  we  see — is  dome,  or  vault,  or  nest, 

Or  fortress,  reared  at  Nature's  sage  command. 

Glad  thought  for  every  season  !  but  the  Spring 

Gave  it  while  cares  were  weighing  on  my  heart,  i 

'Mid  song  of  birds,  and  insects  murmuring ; 

And  while  the  youthful  year's  prolific  art — 

Of  bud,  leaf,  blade,  and  flower — was  fashioning 

Abodes  where  self-disturbance  hath  no  part. 

Published  1820 

XXVI 

"TAESPONDING  Father !  mark  this  altered  bough, 
[_^/     So  beautiful  of  late,  with  sunshine  warmed, 
Or  moist  with  dews ;  what  more  unsightly  now, 
Its  blossoms  shrivelled,  and  its  fruit,  if  formed, 
Invisible  ?  yet  Spring  her  genial  brow 
Knits  not  o'er  that  discolouring  and  decay 
As  false  to  expectation.     Nor  fret  thou 
At  like  unlovely  process  in  the  May 
Of  human  life  :  a  Stripling's  graces  blow, 
Fade  and  are  shed,  that  from  their  timely  fall  i 

(Misdeem  it  not  a  cankerous  change)  may  grow 
Rich  mellow  bearings,  that  for  thanks  shall  call : 
In  all  men,  sinful  is  it  to  be  slow 
To  hope — in  Parents,  sinful  above  all. 

Published  1835 

XXVII 

CAPTIVITY. MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS 

the  cold  aspect  of  a  sunless  way 
Strikes  through  the  Traveller's  frame  with 

deadlier  chill, 

Oft  as  appears  a  grove,  or  obvious  hill, 
Glistening  with  unparticipated  ray, 
Or  shining  slope  where  he  must  never  stray ; 
So  joys,  remembered  without  wish  or  will, 
Sharpen  the  keenest  edge  of  present  ill, — 
On  the  crushed  heart  a  heavier  burthen  lay. 
Just  Heaven,  contract  the  compass  of  my  mind 
To  fit  proportion  with  my  altered  state  !  i 

Quench  those  felicities  whose  light  I  find 
Reflected  in  my  bosom  all  too  late  ! — 
O  be  my  spirit,  like  my  thraldom,  strait ; 
And,  like  mine  eyes  that  stream  with  sorrow,  blind  ! ' 

Published  1819 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS  457 

XXVIII 

ST.  CATHERINE  OF  LEDBURY 

WHEN  human  touch  (as  monkish  books  attest) 
Nor  was  applied  nor  could  be,  Ledbury  bells 
Broke  forth  in  concert  flung  adown  the  dells, 
And  upward,  high  as  Malvern's  cloudy  crest; 
Sweet  tones,  and  caught  by  a  noble  Lady  blest 
To  rapture  !  Mabel  listened  at  the  side 
Of  her  loved  mistress :  soon  the  music  died, 
And  Catherine  said,  J^W  $  SCt  tip  tttg  tWt 
Warned  in  a  dream,  the  Wanderer  long  had  sought 
A  home  that  by  such  miracle  of  sound  10 

Must  be  revealed  : — she  heard  it  now,  or  felt 
The  deep,  deep  joy  of  a  confiding  thought ; 
And  there,  a  saintly  Anchoress,  she  dwelt 
Till  she  exchanged  for  heaven  that  happy  ground. 

Published  1835 

XXIX 

'gives  to  airy  nothing 

A  local  habitation  and  a  name.' 

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

Published  1807 

XXX 

FOUR  fiery  steeds  impatient  of  the  rein 
Whirled  us  o'er  sunless  ground  beneath  a  sky 
As  void  of  sunshine,  when,  from  that  wide  plain, 
Clear  tops  of  far-off  mountains  we  descry, 


458  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Like  a  Sierra  of  cerulean  Spain, 

All  light  and  lustre.       Did  no  heart  reply  ? 

Yes,  there  was  One ; — for  One,  asunder  fly 

The  thousand  links  of  that  ethereal  chain  ; 

And  green  vales  open  out,  with  grove  and  field, 

And  the  fair  front  of  many  a  happy  Home  ;  i 

Such  tempting  spots  as  into  vision  come 

While  Soldiers,  weary  of  the  arms  they  wield, 

And  sick  at  heart  of  strifeful  Christendom, 

Gaze  on  the  moon  by  parting  clouds  revealed. 

1835 

XXXI 

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

Published  1815 

XXXII 

COMPOSED  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  A  ROCKY  STREAM 

DOGMATIC  Teachers,  of  the  snow-white  fur! 
Ye  wrangling  Schoolmen,  of  the  scarlet  hood  ! 
j  with  a  keenness  not  to  be  withstood, 
Press  the  point  home,  or  falter  and  demur, 
Checked  in  your  course  by  many  a  teasing  burr ; 
These  natural  council-seats  your  acrid  blood 
Might  cool ; — and,  as  the  Genius  of  the  flood 
Stoops  willingly  to  animate  and  spur 
Each  lighter  function  slumbering  in  the  brain, 
Yon  eddying  balls  of  foam,  these  arrowy  gleams  x 

That  o'er  the  pavement  of  the  surging  streams 
Welter  and  flash,  a  synod  might  detain 
With  subtle  speculations,  haply  vain, 
But  surely  less  so  than  your  far-fetched  themes ! 

Published  1820 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS  459 

XXXIII 

THIS  AND  THE  TWO  FOLLOWING  WERE  SUGGESTED  BY  MR.  W. 
WESTALL'S  VIEWS  OF  THE  CAVES,  ETC.,  IN  YORKSHIRE 

PURE  element  of  waters !  wheresoe'er 
Thou  dost  forsake  thy  subterranean  haunts, 
Green  herbs,  bright  flowers,  and  berry-bearing  plants, 
Rise  into  life  and  in  thy  train  appear  : 
And,  through  the  sunny  portion  of  the  year, 
Swift  insects  shine,  thy  hovering  pursuivants  : 
And,  if  thy  bounty  fail,  the  forest  pants ; 
And  hart  and  hind  and  hunter  with  his  spear 
Languish  and  droop  together.     Nor  unfelt 
In  man's  perturbed  soul  thy  sway  benign ;  10 

And,  haply,  far  within  the  marble  belt 
Of  central  earth,  where  tortured  Spirits  pine 
For  grace  and  goodness  lost,  thy  murmurs  melt 
Their  anguish, — and  they  blend  sweet  songs  with  thine.1 

1818 

XXXIV 

MALHAM  COVE 

WAS  the  aim  frustrated  by  force  or  guile, 
When  giants  scooped  from  out  the  rocky  ground, 
Tier  under  tier,  this  semicirque  profound  ? 
(Giants — the  same  who  built  in  Erin's  isle 
That  Causeway  with  incomparable  toil !) — 
Oh,  had  this  vast  theatric  structure  wound 
With  finished  sweep  into  a  perfect  round, 
No  mightier  work  had  gained  the  plausive  smile 
Of  all-beholding  Phoebus  !     But,  alas, 
Vain  earth  !  false  world !     Foundations  must  be  laid    10 
In  Heaven  ;  for,  'mid  the  wreck  of  is  and  WAS, 
Things  incomplete  and  purposes  betrayed 
Make  sadder  transits  o'er  thought's  optic  glass 
Than  noblest  objects  utterly  decayed. 

1818 

XXXV 

GORDALE 

T  early  dawn,  or  rather  when  the  air 


__     Glimmers  with  fading  light,  and  shadowy  Eve 
Is  busiest  to  confer  and  to  bereave ; 
Then,  pensive  Votary  !  let  thy  feet  repair 

1  "Waters  (as  Mr.  Westall  informs  us  in  the  letterpress  prefixed  to  his 
admirable  views)  are  invariably  found  to  flow  through  these  caverns. 


460  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

To  Gordale-chasm,  terrific  as  the  lair 

Where  the  young  lions  couch ;  for  so,  by  leave 

Of  the  propitious  hour,  thou  may'st  perceive 

The  local  Deity,  with  oozy  hair 

And  mineral  crown,  beside  his  jagged  urn, 

Recumbent :  Him  thou  may'st  behold,  who  hides 

His  lineaments  by  day,  yet  there  presides, 

Teaching  the  docile  waters  how  to  turn, 

Or  (if  need  be)  impediment  to  spurn, 

And  force  their  passage  to  the  salt-sea  tides  ! 

1818 

XXXVI 

COMPOSED  UPON  WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE,  SEPTEMBER  3,  1802 

EARTH  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair: 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  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, 
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 ; 
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 ! 

XXXVII 
CONCLUSION 

TO  

IF  these  brief  Records,  by  the  Muses'  art 
Produced  as  lonely  Nature  or  the  strife 
That  animates  the  scenes  of  public  life l 
Inspired,  may  in  thy  leisure  claim  a  part ; 
And  if  these  Transcripts  of  the  private  heart 
Have  gained  a  sanction  from  thy  falling  tears; 
Then  I  repent  not.     But  my  soul  hath  fears 
Breathed  from  eternity ;  for,  as  a  dart 
Cleaves  the  blank  air,  Life  flies :  now  every  day 
Is  but  a  glimmering  spoke  in  the  swift  wheel 

1  This  line  alludes  to  Sonnets  which  will  be  found  in  another  Class. 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS  461 

Of  the  revolving  week.     Away,  away, 

All  fitful  cares,  all  transitory  zeal ! 

So  timely  Grace  the  immortal  wing  may  heal, 

And  honour  rest  upon  the  senseless  clay. 

Published  1827 


PART  III 


THOUGH  the  bold  wings  of  Poesy  affect 
The  clouds,  and  wheel  around  the  mountain  tops 
Rejoicing,  from  her  loftiest  height  she  drops 
Well  pleased  to  skim  the  plain  with  wild  flowers  deckt, 
Or  muse  in  solemn  grove  whose  shades  protect 
The  lingering  dew — there  steals  along,  or  stops 
Watching  the  least  small  bird  that  round  her  hops, 
Or  creeping  worm,  with  sensitive  respect. 
Her  functions  are  they  therefore  less  divine, 
Her  thoughts  less  deep,  or  void  of  grave  intent  10 

Her  simplest  fancies  ?     Should  that  fear  be  thine, 
Aspiring  Votary,  ere  thy  hand  present 
One  offering,  kneel  before  her  modest  shrine, 
With  brow  in  penitential  sorrow  bent ! 

Published  1842 


II 
OXFORD,  MAY  30,  1820 

YE  sacred  Nurseries  of  blooming  Youth  ! 
In  whose  collegiate  shelter  England's  Flowers 
Expand,  enjoying  through  their  vernal  hours 
The  air  of  liberty,  the  light  of  truth  ; 
Much  have  ye  suffered  from  Time's  gnawing  tooth  : 
Yet,  O  ye  spires  of  Oxford  !  domes  and  towers ! 
Gardens  and  groves  !  your  presence  overpowers 
The  soberness  of  reason  ;  till,  in  sooth, 
Transformed,  and  rushing  on  a  bold  exchange 
I  slight  my  own  beloved  Cam,  to  range 
Where  silver  Isis  leads  my  stripling  feet ; 
Pace  the  long  avenue,  or  glide  adown 
The  stream-like  windings  of  that  glorious  street — 
An  eager  Novice  robed  in  fluttering  gown  ! 


462  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

III 

OXFORD,  MAY  30,  1820 

SHAME  on  this  faithless  heart  !  that  could  allow 
Such  transport,  though  but  for  a  moment's  space  ; 
Not  while  —  to  aid  the  spirit  of  the  place  — 
The  crescent  moon  clove  with  its  glittering  prow 
The  clouds,  or  night-bird  sang  from  shady  bough  ; 
But  in  plain  daylight  :  -  She,  too,  at  my  side, 
Who,  with  her  heart's  experience  satisfied, 
Maintains  inviolate  its  slightest  vow  ! 
Sweet  Fancy  !  other  gifts  must  I  receive  ; 
Proofs  of  a  higher  sovereignty  I  claim  ;  10 

Take  from  her  brow  the  withering  flowers  of  eve, 
And  to  that  brow  life's  morning  wreath  restore  ; 
Let  her  be  comprehended  in  the  frame 
Of  these  illusions,  or  they  please  no  more. 

IV 

RECOLLECTION  OF  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH, 
TRINITY  LODGE    CAMBRIDGE 


imperial  Stature,  the  colossal  stride, 
Are  yet  before  me  ;  yet  do  I  behold 
The  broad  full  visage,  chest  of  amplest  mould, 
The  vestments  'broidered  with  barbaric  pride  : 
And  lo  !  a  poniard,  at  the  Monarch's  side, 
Hangs  ready  to  be  grasped  in  sympathy 
With  the  keen  threatenings  of  that  fulgent  eye, 
Below  the  white-rimmed  bonnet,  far-descried. 
Who  trembles  now  at  thy  capricious  mood  ? 
'Mid  those  surrounding  Worthies,  haughty  King, 
We  rather  think,  with  grateful  mind  sedate, 
How  Providence  educeth,  from  the  spring 
Of  lawless  will,  unlooked-for  streams  of  good, 
Which  neither  force  shall  check  nor  time  abate  ! 

Published  1827 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF    HIS    MAJESTY    (GEORGE   THE    THIRD) 

WARD  of  the  Law  ! — dread  Shadow  of  a  King! 
Whose  realm  had  dwindled  to  one  stately  room ; 
Whose  universe  was  gloom  immersed  in  gloom, 
Darkness  as  thick  as  life  o'er  life  could  fling, 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS  463 

Save  haply  for  some  feeble  glimmering 

Of  Faith  and  Hope — if  thou,  by  nature's  doom. 

Gently  hast  sunk  into  the  quiet  tomb. 

Why  should  we  bend  in  grief,  to  sorrow  cling, 

When  thankfulness  were  best  ? — Fresh-flowing  tears, 

Or,  where  teal's  flow  not,  sigh  succeeding  sigh,  10 

Yield  to  such  after-thought  the  sole  reply 

Which  justly  it  can  claim.     The  Nation  hears 

In  this  deep  knell,  silent  for  threescore  years, 

An  unexampled  voice  of  awful  memory  ! 

1820 


VI 

JUNE,  1820 

FAME  tells  of  groves — from  England  far  away — 
Groves l  that  inspire  the  Nightingale  to  trill 
And  modulate,  with  subtle  reach  of  skill 
Elsewhere  unmatched,  her  ever-varying  lay ; 
Such  bold  report  I  venture  to  gainsay  : 
For  I  have  heard  the  quire  of  Richmond  hill 
Chanting,  with  indefatigable  bill, 
Strains  that  recalled  to  mind  a  distant  day  ; 
When,  haply  under  shade  of  that  same  wood, 
And  scarcely  conscious  of  the  dashing  oars 
Plied  steadily  between  those  \villowy  shores, 
The  sweet-souled  Poet  of  the  Seasons  stood — 
Listening,  and  listening  long,  in  rapturous  mood, 
Ye  heavenly  Birds !  to  your  Progenitors. 


VII 

A    PARSONAGE    IN    OXFORDSHIRE 

WHERE  holy  ground  begins,  unhallowed  ends, 
Is  marked  by  no  distinguishable  line ; 
The  turf  unites,  the  pathways  intertwine ; 
And,  wheresoe'er  the  stealing  footstep  tends, 
Garden,  and  that  Domain  where  kindred,  friends, 
And  neighbours  rest  together,  here  confound 
Their  several  features,  mingled  like  the  sound 
Of  many  waters,  or  as  evening  blends 

1  Wallachia  is  the  country  alluded  to. 


464  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

With  shady  night.     Soft  airs,  from  shrub  and  flower, 

Waft  fragrant  greetings  to  each  silent  grave  ;  ic 

And  while  those  lofty  poplars  gently  wave 

Their  tops,  between  them  comes  and  goes  a  sky 

Bright  as  the  glimpses  of  eternity, 

To  saints  accorded  in  their  mortal  hour. 

1820 

VIII 

COMPOSED  AMONG  THE  RUINS  OF  A  CASTLE  IN  NORTH  WALES 

THROUGH  shattered  galleries,  'mid  roofless  halls, 
Wandering  with  timid  footsteps  oft  betrayed, 
The  Stranger  sighs,  nor  scruples  to  upbraid 
Old  Time,  though  he,  gentlest  among  the  Thralls 
Of  Destiny,  upon  these  wounds  hath  laid 
His  lenient  touches,  soft  as  light  that  falls, 
From  the  wan  Moon,  upon  the  towers  and  walls, 
Light  deepening  the  profoundest  sleep  of  shade. 
Relic  of  Kings  !  Wreck  of  forgotten  wars, 
To  winds  abandoned  and  the  prying  stars,  i< 

Time  laves  Thee !  at  his  call  the  Seasons  twine 
Luxuriant  wreaths  around  thy  forehead  hoar ; 
And,  though  past  pomp  no  changes  can  restore, 
A  soothing  recompense,  his  gift,  is  thine ! 

Probably  1824 

IX 

TO  THE  LADY  E.  B.  AND  THE  HON.   MISS  P. 
Composed  in  the  Grounds  of  Plass  Newidd,  near  Llangollen,  1824 

A   STREAM,  to  mingle  with  your  favourite  Dee, 
j£\_     Along  the  VALE  OF  MEDITATION  *  flows  ; 
So  styled  by  those  fierce  Britons,  pleased  to  see 
In  Nature's  face  the  expression  of  repose; 
Or  haply  there  some  pious  hermit  chose 
To  live  and  die,  the  peace  of  heaven  his  aim  ; 
To  whom  the  wild  sequestered  region  owes, 
At  this  late  day,  its  sanctifying  name. 
GLYN  CAFAILLGAROCH,  in  the  Cambrian  tongue, 
In  ours,  the  VALE  OF  FRIENDSHIP,  let  this  spot  K 

Be  named ;  where,  faithful  to  a  low-roofed  Cot, 
On  Deva's  banks,  ye  have  abode  so  long ; 
Sisters  in  love,  a  love  allowed  to  climb, 
Even  on  this  earth,  above  the  reach  of  Time  ! 

1  Glyn  Myrvr. 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS  465 

X 

TO  THE  TORRENT  AT  THE  DEVII/S  BRIDGE,  NORTH  WALES,  1824 

HOW  art  thou  named  ?     In  search  of  what  strange 
land, 

From  what  huge  height,  descending  ?     Can  such  force 
Of  waters  issue  from  a  British  source, 
Or  hath  not  Pindus  fed  thee,  where  the  band 
Of  Patriots  scoop  their  freedom  out,  with  hand 
Desperate  as  thine  ?     Or  come  the  incessant  shocks 
From  that  young  Stream,  that  smites  the  throbbing 

rocks, 

Of  Viamala  ?     There  I  seem  to  stand, 
As  in  life's  morn ;  permitted  to  behold, 
From  the  dread  chasm,  woods  climbing  above  woods,  10 
In  pomp  that  fades  not ;  everlasting  snows  ; 
And  skies  that  ne'er  relinquish  their  repose  ; 
Such  power  possess  the  family  of  floods 
Over  the  minds  of  Poets,  young  or  old  ! 

XI 

•    IN  THE  WOODS  OF  RYDAL 

WILD  Redbreast !  hadst  thou  at  Jemima's  lip 
Pecked,  as  at  mine,  thus  boldly,  Love  might 

say, 

A  half-blown  rose  had  tempted  thee  to  sip 
Its  glistening  dews ;  but  hallowed  is  the  clay 
Which  the  Muse  warms  ;  and  I,  whose  head  is  grey, 
Am  not  unworthy  of  thy  fellowship  ; 
Nor  could  I  let  one  thought — one  motion — slip 
That  might  thy  sylvan  confidence  betray. 
For  are  we  not  all  His  without  whose  care 
Vouchsafed  no  sparrow  falleth  to  the  ground  ?  10 

Who  gives  his  Angels  wings  to  speed  through  air, 
And  rolls  the  planets  through  the  blue  profound ; 
Then  peck  or  perch,  fond  Flutterer !  nor  forbear 
To  trust  a  Poet  in  still  musings  bound. 

Published  182? 

XII 

WHEN  Philoctetes  in  the  Lemnian  isle 
Like  a  Form  sculptured  on  a  monument 
Lay  couched ;  on  him  or  his  dread  bow  unbent 
Some  wild  Bird  oft  might  settle  and  beguile 

l-GG 


466  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

The  rigid  features  of  a  transient  smile, 
Disperse  the  tear,  or  to  the  sigh  give  vent, 
Slackening  the  pains  of  ruthless  banishment 
From  his  lov'd  home,  and  from  heroic  toil. 
And  trust  that  spiritual  Creatures  round  us  move, 
Griefs  to  allay  which  Reason  cannot  heal ; 
Yea,  veriest  reptiles  have  sufficed  to  prove 
To  fettered  wretchedness  that  no  Bastille 
Is  deep  enough  to  exclude  the  light  of  love, 
Though  man  for  brother  man  has  ceased  to  feel. 

Published  1827 


XIII 

WHILE  Anna's  peers  and  early  playmates  tread, 
In  freedom,  mountain-turf  and  river's  marge  ; 
Or  float  with  music  in  the  festal  barge ; 
Rein  the  proud  steed,  or  through  the  dance  are  led ; 
Her  doom  it  is  to  press  a  weary  bed — 
Till  oft  her  guardian  Angel,  to  some  charge 
More  urgent  called,  will  stretch  his  wings  at  large, 
And  friends  too  rarely  prop  the  languid  head. 
Yet,  helped  by  Genius — untired  comforter, 
The  presence  even  of  a  stuffed  Owl  for  her  * 

Can  cheat  the  time ;  sending  her  fancy  out 
To  ivied  castles  and  to  moonlight  skies, 
Though  he  can  neither  stir  a  plume,  nor  shout ; 
Nor  veil,  with  restless  film,  his  staring  eyes. 

Published  1827 


XIV 

TO  THE  CUCKOO 

NOT  the  whole  warbling  grove  in  concert  heard 
When  sunshine  follows  shower,  the  breast  can 

thrill 

Like  the  first  summons,  Cuckoo  !  of  thy  bill, 
With  its  twin  notes  inseparably  paired. 
The  captive  'mid  damp  vaults  unsunned,  unaired, 
Measuring  the  periods  of  his  lonely  doom, 
That  cry  can  reach  ;  and  to  the  sick  man's  room 
Sends  gladness,  by  no  languid  smile  declared. 
The  lordly  eagle-race  through  hostile  search 
May  perish ;  time  may  come  when  never  more  i 

The  wilderness  shall  hear  the  lion  roar  ; 
But,  long  as  cock  shall  crow  from  household  perch 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS  467 

To  rouse  the  dawn,  soft  gales  shall  speed  thy  wing, 
And  thy  erratic  voice  be  faithful  to  the  Spring  ! 

Published  1827 


XV 

TO  


'  Miss  not  the  occasion  :  by  the  forelock  take 
That  subtle  Power,  the  never-halting  Time, 
Lest  a  mere  moment's  putting-off  should  make 
Mischance  almost  as  heavy  as  a  crime. ' 

T  T  7  AIT,  prithee,  wait ! '  this  answer  Lesbia  threw 
V  V     Forth  to  her  Dove,  and  took  no  further  heed. 
Her  eye  was  busy,  while  her  fingers  flew 
Across  the  harp,  with  soul-engrossing  speed  ; 
But  from  that  bondage  when  her  thoughts  were  freed 
She  rose,  and  toward  the  close-shut  casement  drew, 
Whence  the  poor  unregarded  Favourite,  true 
To  old  affections,  had  been  heard  to  plead 
With  flapping  wing  for  entrance.     What  a  shriek 
Forced  from  that  voice  so  lately  tuned  to  a  strain         K 
Of  harmony  ! — a  shriek  of  terror,  pain, 
And  self-reproach  !  for,  from  aloft,  a  Kite 
Pounced, — and  the  Dove,  which  from  its  ruthless  beak 
She  could  not  rescue,  perished  in  her  sight  ! 

Published  1835 


XVI 

THE  INFANT  M 


T  TNQUIET  Childhood  here  by  special  grace 
^^_J    Forgets  her  nature,  opening  like  a  flower 
That  neither  feeds  nor  wastes  its  vital  power 
In  painful  struggles.     Months  each  other  chase, 
And  nought  untunes  that  Infant's  voice  ;  no  trace 
Of  fretful  temper  sullies  her  pure  cheek ; 
Prompt,  lively,  self-sufficing,  yet  so  meek 
That  one  enrapt  with  gazing  on  her  face 
(Which  even  the  placid  innocence  of  death  i 

Could  scarcely  make  more  placid,  heaven  more  bright) 
Might  learn  to  picture,  for  the  eye  of  faith, 
The  Virgin,  as  she  shone  with  kindred  light ; 
A  nursling  couched  upon  her  mother's  knee, 
Beneath  some  shady  palm  of  Galilee. 

Published  1827 


468  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

XVII 

TO  ,  IN  HER  SEVENTIETH  YEAR 

SUCH  age  how  beautiful !     O  Lady  bright, 
Whose  mortal  lineaments  seem  all  refined 
By  favouring  Nature  and  a  saintly  Mind 
To  something  purer  and  more  exquisite 
Than  flesh  and  blood ;  whene'er  thou  meet'st  my  sight, 
When  I  behold  thy  blanched  umvithered  cheek, 
Thy  temples  fringed  with  locks  of  gleaming  white, 
And  head  that  droops  fcecause  the  soul  is  meek, 
Thee  with  the  welcome  Snowdrop  I  compare ; 
That  child  of  winter,  prompting  thoughts  that  climb  10 
From  desolation  toward  the  genial  prime  ; 
Or  with  the  Moon  conquering  earth's  misty  air, 
And  filling  more  and  more  with  crystal  light 
As  pensive  Evening  deepens  into  night. 

1824 

XVIII 

TO  ROTHA  Q 


ROTH  A,  my  Spiritual  Child  !  this  head  was  grey 
When  at  the  sacred  font  for  thee  I  stood  ; 
Pledged  till  thou  reach  the  verge  of  womanhood, 
And  shalt  become  thy  own  sufficient  stay : 
Too  late,  I  feel,  sweet  Orphan  !  was  the  day 
For  steadfast  hope  the  contract  to  fulfil ; 
Yet  shall  my  blessing  hover  o'er  thee  still, 
Embodied  in  the  music  of  this  Lay, 
Breathed  forth  beside  the  peaceful  mountain  Stream  ] 
Whose  murmur  soothed  thy  languid  Mother's  ear         10 
After  her  throes,  this  Stream  of  name  more  dear 
Since  thou  dost  bear  it, — a  memorial  theme 
For  others ;  for  thy  future  self,  a  spell 
To  summon  fancies  out  of  Time's  dark  cell. 

Published  1827 

XIX 

A  GRAVESTONE  UPON  THE  FLOOR  IN  THE  CLOISTERS  OF 
WORCESTER  CATHEDRAL 

'  MiSERRIMUS  ! '  and  neither  name  nor  date, 
Prayer,  text,  or  symbol,  graven  upon  the  stone ; 
Nought  but  that  word  assigned  to  the  unknown, 
That  solitary  word — to  separate 

1  The  river  Rotha,  that  flows  into  Windermere  from  the  Lakes  of  Gras- 
mere  and  Rydal. 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS  469 

From  all,  and  cast  a  cloud  around  the  fate 

Of  him  who  lies  beneath.     Most  wretched  one, 

Who  chose  his  epitaph? — Himself  alone 

Could  thus  have  dared  the  grave  to  agitate, 

And  claim,  among  the  dead,  this  awful  crown  ; 

Nor  doubt  that  He  marked  also  for  his  own  10 

Close  to  these  cloistral  steps  a  burial-place, 

That  every  foot  might  fall  with  heavier  tread, 

Trampling  upon  his  vileness.     Stranger,  pass 

Softly ! — To  save  the  contrite,  Jesus  bled. 

Published  1829 

XX 

ROMAN  ANTIQUITIES  DISCOVERED  AT  BISHOPSTONE, 
HEREFORDSHIRE 

WHILE  poring  Antiquarians  search  the  ground 
Upturned  with  curious  pains,  the  Bard,  a  Seer, 
Takes  fire : — The  men  that  have  been  reappear; 
Romans  for  travel  girt,  for  business  gowned  ; 
And  some  recline  on  couches,  myrtle-crowned, 
In  festal  glee  :  why  not  ?     For  fresh  and  clear, 
As  if  its  hues  were  of  the  passing  year, 
Dawns  this  time-buried  pavement.     From  that  mound 
Hoards  may  come  forth  of  Trajans,  Maxim  ins, 
Shrunk  into  coins  with  all  their  warlike  toil :  10 

Or  a  fierce  impress  issues  with  its  foil 
Of  tenderness — the  Wolf,  whose  suckling  Twins 
The  unlettered  ploughboy  pities  when  he  wins 
The  casual  treasure  from  the  furrowed  soil. 

Published  1835 

XXI 

1830 

^HATSWORTH!  thy  stately  mansion,  and  the 
\_s         pride 

Of  thy  domain,  strange  contrast  do  present 
To  house  and  home  in  many  a  craggy  rent 
Of  the  wild  Peak  ;  where  new-born  waters  glide 
Through  fields  whose  thrifty  occupants  abide 
As  in  a  dear  and  chosen  banishment, 
With  every  semblance  of  entire  content ; 
So  kind  is  simple  Nature,  fairly  tried  ! 
Yet  He  whose  heart  in  childhood  gave  her  troth 
To  pastoral  dales,  thin-set  with  modest  farms,  10 

May  learn,  if  judgment  strengthen  with  his  growth, 
That,  not  for  Fancy  only,  pomp  hath  charms ; 
And,  strenuous  to  protect  from  lawless  harms 
The  extremes  of  favoured  life,  may  honour  both. 


470  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

XXII 

A  TRADITION  OF  OKER  HILL  IN  DARLEY  DALE,  DERBYSHIRE 

'/nn%IS  said  that  to  the  brow  of  yon  fair  hill 

Two  Brothers  clomb,  and,  turning  face  from  face, 
Nor  one  look  more  exchanging,  grief  to  still 
Or  feed,  each  planted  on  that  lofty  place 
A  chosen  Tree ;  then,  eager  to  fulfil 
Their  courses,  like  two  new-born  rivers,  they 
In  opposite  directions  urged  their  way 
Down  from  the  far-seen  mount.     No  blast  might  kill 
Or  blight  that  fond  memorial ; — the  trees  grew, 
And  now  entwine  their  arms  ;  but  ne'er  again  10 

Embraced  those  Brothers  upon  earth's  wide  plain ; 
Nor  aught  of  mutual  joy  or  sorrow  knew 
Until  their  spirits  mingled  in  the  sea 
That  to  itself  takes  all,  Eternity. 

Published  1829 

XXIII 

FILIAL  PIETY 

(On  the  Wayside  between  Preston  and  Liverpool) 
T  T  NTOUCHED  through  all  severity  of  cold ; 
\^J      Inviolate,  whate'er  the  cottage  hearth 
Might  need  for  comfort,  or  for  festal  mirth  ; 
That  Pile  of  Turf  is  half  a  century  old  : 
Yes,  Traveller !  fifty  winters  have  been  told 
Since  suddenly  the  dart  of  death  went  forth 
'Gainst  him  who  raised  it, — his  last  work  on  earth : 
Thence  has  it,  with  the  Son,  so  strong  a  hold 
Upon  his  Father's  memory,  that  his  hands, 
Through  reverence,  touch  it  only  to  repair  10 

Its  waste. — Though  crumbling  with  each  breath  of  air, 
In  annual  renovation  thus  it  stands — 
Rude  Mausoleum !  but  wrens  nestle  there, 
And  red-breasts  warble  when  sweet  sounds  are  rare. 

1828 

XXIV 

TO  THE  AUTHOR'S  PORTRAIT 

Tainted  at  Rydal  Mount,  by  W.  Pickersgill,  Esq.,  for  St.  John's  College, 
Cambridge.] 

GO,  faithful  Portrait !  and  where  long  hath  knelt 
Margaret,  the  saintly  Foundress,  take  thy  place  ; 
And,  if  Time  spare  the  colours  for  the  grace 
Which  to  the  work  surpassing  skill  hath  dealt, 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS  471 

Thou,  on  thy  rock  reclined,  though  kingdoms  melt 

And  states  be  torn  up  by  the  roots,  wilt  seem 

To  breathe  in  rural  peace,  to  hear  the  stream, 

And  think  and  feel  as  once  the  Poet  felt. 

Whate'er  thy  fate,  those  features  have  not  grown 

Unrecognised  through  many  a  household  tear  10 

More  prompt,  more  glad,  to  fall  than  drops  of  dew 

By  morning  shed  around  a  flower  half-blown  ; 

Tears  of  delight,  that  testified  how  true 

To  life  thou  art,  and,  in  thy  truth,  how  dear ! 

Probably  1832 

XXV 

WHY  art  thou  silent !     Is  thy  love  a  plant 
Of  such  weak  fibre  that  the  treacherous  air 
Of  absence  withers  what  was  once  so  fair  ? 
Is  there  no  debt  to  pay,  no  boon  to  grant  ? 
Yet  have  my  thoughts  for  thee  been  vigilant — 
Bound  to  thy  service  with  unceasing  care, 
The  mind's  least  generous  wish  a  mendicant 
For  nought  but  what  thy  happiness  could  spare. 
Speak — though  this  soft  warm  heart,  once  free  to  hold 
A  thousand  tender  pleasures,  thine  and  mine,  10 

Be  left  more  desolate,  more  dreary  cold 
Than  a  forsaken  bird's-nest  filled  with  snow 
'Mid  its  own  bush  of  leafless  eglantine — 
Speak,  that  my  torturing  doubts  their  end  may  know  ! 

Published  1835 

XXVI 

TO  B.  R.  HAYDON,  ON  SEEING  HIS  PICTURE  OF  NAPOLEON 
BUONAPARTE  ON  THE  ISLAND  OF  ST.  HELENA 

HAYDON  !  let  worthier  judges  praise  the  skill 
Here  by  thy  pencil  shown  in  truth  of  lines 
And  charm  of  colours  ;  /  applaud  those  signs 
Of  thought,  that  give  the  true  poetic  thrill  ; 
That  unencumbered  whole  of  blank  and  still, 
Sky  without  cloud — ocean  without  a  wave  ; 
And  the  one  Man  that  laboured  to  enslave 
The  World,  sole-standing  high  on  the  bare  hill — 
Back  turned,  arms  folded,  the  unapparent  face 
Tinged,  we  may  fancy,  in  this  dreary  place  10 

With  light  reflected  from  the  invisible  sun 
Set,  like  his  fortunes  ;  but  not  set  for  aye 
Like  them.     The  unguilty  Power  pursues  his  way, 
And  before  him  doth  dawn  perpetual  run. 

June  11,  1831 


472  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

XXVII 

A  POET  ! — He  hath  put  his  heart  to  school, 

Nor  dares  to  move  unpropped  upon  the  staff 

Which  Art  hath  lodged  within  his  hand — must  laugh 

By  precept  only,  and  shed  tears  by  rule. 

Thy  Art  be  Nature  ;  the  live  current  quaff, 

And  let  the  groveller  sip  his  stagnant  pool, 

In  fear  that  else,  when  Critics  grave  and  cool 

Have  killed  him,  Scorn  should  write  his  epitaph. 

How  does  the  Meadow-flower  its  bloom  unfold  ? 

Because  the  lovely  little  flower  is  free  10 

Down  to  its  root,  and,  in  that  freedom,  bold ; 

And  so  the  grandeur  of  the  Forest-tree 

Comes  not  by  casting  in  a  formal  mould, 

But  from  its  own  divine  vitality. 

Published  1842 

XXVIII 

THE  most  alluring  clouds  that  mount  the  sky 
Owe  to  a  troubled  element  their  forms, 
Their  hues  to  sunset.     If  with  raptured  eye 
We  watch  their  splendour,  shall  we  covet  storms, 
And  wish  the  Lord  of  day  his  slow  decline 
Would  hasten,  that  such  pomp  may  float  on  high  ? 
Behold,  already  they  forget  to  shine, 
Dissolve — and  leave  to  him  who  gazed  a  sigh. 
Not  loth  to  thank  each  moment  for  its  boon 
Of  pure  delight,  come  whensoe'er  it  may,  10 

Peace  let  us  seek, — to  steadfast  things  attune 
Calm  expectations,  leaving  to  the  gay 
And  volatile  their  love  of  transient  bowers, 
The  house  that  cannot  pass  away  be  ours. 

Published  1842 

XXIX 

ON  A  PORTRAIT  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON  UPON 
THE  FIELD  OF  WATERLOO,  BY  HAYDON 

Y  Art's  bold  privilege  Warrior  and  War-horse  stand 
On  ground  yet  strewn  with  their  last  battle's  wreck; 

the  Steed  glory  while  his  Master's  hand 
Lies  fixed  for  ages  on  his  conscious  neck ; 
But  by  the  Chieftain's  look,  though  at  his  side 
Hangs  that  day's  treasured  sword,  how  firm  a  check 
Is  given  to  triumph  and  all  human  pride  ! 
Yon  trophied  Mound  shrinks  to  a  shadowy  speck 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS  473 

In  his  calm  presence !  Him  the  mighty  deed 
Elates  not,  brought  far  nearer  the  grave's  rest,  10 

As  shows  that  time-worn  face,  for  he  such  seed 
Has  sown  as  yields,  we  trust,  the  fruit  of  fame 
In  Heaven ;  hence  no  one  blushes  for  thy  name, 
Conqueror,  'mid  some  sad  thoughts,  divinely  blest ! 

Aug.  31,  1840 


XXX 

COMPOSED  ON  A  MAY  MORNING,  1838 

T  IFE  with  yon  Lambs,  like  day,  is  just  begun, 

_^  Yet  Nature  seems  to  them  a  heavenly  guide. 
Does  joy  approach  ?  they  meet  the  coming  tide  ; 
And  sullenness  avoid,  as  now  they  shun 
Pale  twilight's  lingering  glooms, — and  in  the  sun 
Couch  near  their  dams,  with  quiet  satisfied ; 
Or  gambol— each  with  his  shadow  at  his  side, 
Varying  its  shape  wherever  he  may  run. 
As  they  from  turf  yet  hoar  with  sleepy  dew 
All  turn,  and  court  the  shining  and  the  green, 
Where  herbs  look  up,  and  opening  flowers  are  seen 
Why  to  God's  goodness  cannot  We  be  true, 
And  so,  His  gifts  and  promises  between, 
Feed  to  the  last  on  pleasures  ever  new  ? 


XXXI 

T  O  !  where  she  stands  fixed  in  a  saint-like  trance, 

_^  One  upward  hand,  as  if  she  needed  rest 
From  rapture,  lying  softly  on  her  breast ! 
Nor  wants  her  eyeball  an  ethereal  glance ; 
But  not  the  less — nay  more — that  countenance, 
While  thus  illumined,  tells  of  painful  strife 
For  a  sick  heart  made  weary  of  this  life 
By  love,  long  crossed  with  adverse  circumstance. 
— Would  She  were  now  as  when  she  hoped  to  pass 
At  God's  appointed  hour  to  them  who  tread  10 

Heaven's  sapphire  pavement,  yet  breathed  well  content, 
Well  pleased,  her  foot  should  print  earth's  common  grass, 
Lived  thankful  for  day's  light,  for  daily  bread, 
For  health,  and  time  in  obvious  duty  spent. 

Published  1842 


474  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

XXXII 

TO  A  PAINTER 

A~,L  praise  the  Likeness  by  thy  skill  portrayed  ; 
But  'tis  a  fruitless  task  to  paint  for  me, 
Who,  yielding  not  to  changes  Time  has  made, 
By  the  habitual  light  of  memory  see 
Eyes  unbedimmed,  see  bloom  that  cannot  fade, 
And  smiles  that  from  their  birthplace  ne'er  shall  flee 
Into  the  land  where  ghosts  and  phantoms  be ; 
And,  seeing  this,  own  nothing  in  its  stead. 
Couldst  thou  go  back  into  far-distant  years, 
Or  share  with  me,  fond  thought !  that  inward  eye,       n 
Then,  and  then  only,  Painter  !  could  thy  Art 
The  visual  powers  of  Nature  satisfy, 
Which  hold,  whate'er  to  common  sight  appears, 
Their  sovereign  empire  in  a  faithful  heart. 

1840 
XXXIII 

ON  THE  SAME  SUBJECT 

THOUGH  I  beheld  at  first  with  blank  surprise 
This  Work,  I  now  have  gazed  on  it  so  long 
I  see  its  truth  with  unreluctant  eyes ; 
O,  my  Beloved  !  I  have  done  thee  wrong, 
Conscious  of  blessedness,  but,  whence  it  sprung, 
Ever  too  heedless,  as  I  now  perceive  : 
Morn  into  noon  did  pass,  noon  into  eve, 
And  the  old  day  was  welcome  as  the  young, 
As  welcome,  and  as  beautiful — in  sooth 
More  beautiful,  as  being  a  thing  more  holy :  u 

Thanks  to  thy  virtues,  to  the  eternal  youth 
Of  all  thy  goodness,  never  melancholy  ; 
To  thy  large  heart  and  humble  mind,  that  cast 
Into  one  vision,  future,  present,  past. 

1840 

XXXIV 

HARK  !  'tis  the  Thrush,  undaunted,  undeprest, 
By  twilight  premature  of  cloud  and  rain ; 
does  that  roaring  wind  deaden  his  strain 
Who  carols  thinking  of  his  Love  and  nest, 
And  seems,  as  more  incited,  still  more  blest. 
Thanks  ;  thou  hast  snapped  a  fireside  Prisoner's  chain, 
Exulting  Warbler  !  eased  a  fretted  brain, 
And  in  a  moment  charmed  my  cares  to  rest. 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS  475 

Yes,  I  will  forth,  bold  Bird  !  and  front  the  blast, 
That  we  may  sing  together,  if  thou  wilt,  10 

So  loud,  so  clear,  my  Partner  through  life's  day, 
Mute  in  her  nest  love-chosen,  if  not  love-built 
Like  thine,  shall  gladden,  as  in  seasons  past, 
Thrilled  by  loose  snatches  of  the  social  Lay. 

Hydal  Mount,  1838 

XXXV 

TIS  He  whose  yester-evening's  high  disdain 
Beat  back  the  roaring  storm — but  how  subdued 
His  day-break  note,  a  sad  vicissitude ! 
Does  the  hour's  drowsy  weight  his  glee  restrain  ? 
Or,  like  the  nightingale,  her  joyous  vein 
Pleased  to  renounce,  does  this  dear  Thrush  attune 
His  voice  to  suit  the  temper  of  yon  Moon 
Doubly  depressed,  setting,  and  in  her  wane  ? 
Rise,  tardy  Sun  !  and  let  the  Songster  prove 
(The  balance  trembling  between  night  and  morn          10 
No  longer)  with  Avhat  ecstasy  upborne 
He  can  pour  forth  his  spirit.     In  heaven  above, 
And  earth  below,  they  best  can  serve  true  gladness 
Who  meet  most  feelingly  the  calls  of  sadness. 

1838 

XXXVI 

OH   what  a   Wreck !    how   changed    in    mien   and 
speech ! 

Yet — though  dread  Powers,  that  work  in  mystery,  spin 
Entanglings  of  the  brain  ;  though  shadows  stretch 
O'er  the  chilled  heart — reflect ;  far,  far  within 
Hers  is  a  holy  Being,  freed  from  Sin. 
She  is  not  what  she  seems,  a  forlorn  wretch, 
But  delegated  Spirits  comfort  fetch 
To  Her  from  heights  that  Reason  may  not  win. 
Like  Children,  She  is  privileged  to  hold 
Divine  communion  ;  both  to  live  and  move,  10 

Whate'er  to  shallow  Faith  their  ways  unfold, 
Inly  illumined  by  Heaven's  pitying  love  ; 
Love  pitying  innocence,  not  long  to  last, 
In  them — in  Her  our  sins  and  sorrows  past. 

1837 

XXXVII 

T  NTENT  on  gathering  wool  from  hedge  and  brake 

Yon  busy  Little-ones  rejoice  that  soon 
A  poor  old  Dame  will  bless  them  for  the  boon  : 
Great  is  their  glee  while  flake  they  add  to  flake 


476  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

With  rival  earnestness  ;  far  other  strife 

Than  will  hereafter  move  them,  if  they  make 

Pastime  their  idol,  give  their  day  of  life 

To  pleasure  snatched  for  reckless  pleasure's  sake. 

Can  pomp  and  show  allay  one  heart-born  grief? 

Pains  which  the  World  inflicts  can  she  requite  ?  10 

Not  for  an  interval  however  brief; 

The  silent  thoughts  that  search  for  steadfast  light, 

Love  from  her  depths,  and  Duty  in  her  might, 

And  Faith — these  only  yield  secure  relief. 

March  8,  1842 

XXXVIII 

A  PLEA  FOR  AUTHORS,  MAY,  1838 

FAILING  impartial  measure  to  dispense 
To  every  suitor,  Equity  is  lame ; 
And  social  Justice,  stript  of  reverence 
For  natural  rights,  a  mockery  and  a  shame ; 
Law  but  a  servile  dupe  of  false  pretence, 
If,  guarding  grossest  things  from  common  claim 
Now  and  for  ever,  She,  to  works  that  came 
From  mind  and  spirit,  grudge  a  short-lived  fence. 
'  What !  lengthened  privilege,  a  lineal  tie, 
For  Books ! '  Yes,  heartless  Ones,  or  be  it  proved          10 
That  'tis  a  fault  in  Us  to  have  lived  and  loved 
Like  others,  with  like  temporal  hopes  to  die ; 
No  public  harm  that  Genius  from  her  course 
Be  turned ;    and   streams  of  truth  dried  up,  even  at 
their  source ! 

XXXIX 

VALEDICTORY  SONNET 
Closing  the  Volume  of  Sonnets  published  in  1838 

SERVING  no  haughty  Muse,  my  hands  have  here 
Disposed  some  cultured  Flowerets  (drawn  from  spots 
Where  they  bloomed  singly,  or  in  scattered  knots,) 
Each  kind  in  several  beds  of  one  parterre ; 
Both  to  allure  the  casual  Loiterer, 
And  that,  so  placed,  my  Nurslings  may  requite 
Studious  regard  with  opportune  delight, 
Nor  be  unthanked,  unless  I  fondly  err. 
But  metaphor  dismissed,  and  thanks  apart, 
Reader,  farewell  !     My  last  words  let  them  be —          10 
If  in  this  book  Fancy  and  Truth  agree ; 
If  simple  Nature  trained  by  careful  Art 
Through  It  have  won  a  passage  to  thy  heart ; 
Grant  me  thy  love,  I  crave  no  other  fee  ! 

1838 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS  477 


XL 

TO  THE  REV.  CHRISTOPHER  WORDSWORTH,  D.D.,  MASTER  OF 

HARROW  SCHOOL, 
After  the  perusal  of  his  Theophilus  Anglicanus,  recently  published 

NLIGHTENED  Teacher,  gladly  from  thy  hand 

Have  I  received  this  proof  of  pains  bestowed 
y  Thee  to  guide  thy  Pupils  on  the  road 
That,  in  our  native  isle,  and  every  land, 
The  Church,  when  trusting  in  divine  command 
And  in  her  Catholic  attributes,  hath  trod  : 
O  may  these  lessons  be  with  profit  scanned 
To  thy  heart's  wish,  thy  labour  blest  by  God  ! 
So  the  bright  faces  of  the  young  and  gay 
Shall  look  more  bright — the  happy,  happier  still,         10 
Catch,  in  the  pauses  of  their  keenest  play, 
Motions  of  thought  which  elevate  the  will 
And,  like  the  Spire  that  from  your  classic  Hill 
Points  heavenward,  indicate  the  end  and  way. 

Rydal  Mount,  Dec.  11,  1843 

XLI 

TO  THE  PLANET  VENUS, 

Upon  its  approximation  (as  an  Evening  Star)  to  the  Earth,  January,  1838 
T  T  7  HAT  strong  allurement  draws,  what  spirit  guides, 
VV     Thee,  Vesper!  brightening  still,  as  if  the  nearer 
Thou  com'st  to  man's  abode  the  spot  grew  dearer 
Night  after  night  ?     True  is  it  Nature  hides 
Her  treasures  less  and  less. — Man  now  presides 
In  power,  where  once  he  trembled  in  his  weakness ; 
Science  advances  with  gigantic  strides ; 
But  are  we  aught  enriched  in  love  and  meekness  ? 
Aught  dost  thou  see,  bright  Star !  of  pure  and  wise 
More  than  in  humbler  times  graced  human  story ;         10 
That  makes  our  hearts  more  apt  to  sympathise 
With  heaven,  our  souls  more  fit  for  future  glory, 
When  earth  shall  vanish  from  our  closing  eyes, 
Ere  we  lie  down  in  our  last  dormitory  ? 

XLII 

WANSFELL  !  »  this  Household  has  a  favoured  lot, 
Living  with  liberty  on  thee  to  gaze, 
To  watch  while  Morn  first  crowns  thee  with  her  rays, 
Or  when  along  thy  breast  serenely  float 

1  The  Hill  that  rises  to  the  south-east,  above  Ambleside. 


478  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Evening's  angelic  clouds.     Yet  ne'er  a  note 
Hath  sounded  (shame  upon  the  Bard !)  thy  praise 
For  all  that  thou,  as  if  from  heaven,  hast  brought 
Of  glory  lavished  on  our  quiet  days. 
Bountiful  Son  of  Earth  !  when  we  are  gone 
From  every  object  dear  to  mortal  sight,  10 

As  soon  we  shall  be,  may  these  words  attest 
How  oft,  to  elevate  our  spirits,  shone 
Thy  visionary  majesties  of  light, 
How  in  thy  pensive  glooms  our  hearts  found  rest. 

Dec.  24,  1842 

XLIII 

WHILE  beams  of  orient  light  shoot  wide  and  high, 
Deep  in  the  vale  a  little  rural  Town l 
Breathes  forth  a  cloud-like  creature  of  its  own, 
That  mounts  not  toward  the  radiant  morning  sky, 
But,  with  a  less  ambitious  sympathy, 
Hangs  o'er  its  Parent  waking  to  the  cares 
Troubles  and  toils  that  every  day  prepares. 
So  Fancy,  to  the  musing  Poet's  eye, 
Endears  the  Lingerer.     And  how  blest  her  sway 
(Like  influence  never  may  my  soul  reject !)  10 

If  the  calm  Heaven,  now  to  its  zenith  decked 
With  glorious  forms  in  numberless  array, 
To  the  lone  shepherd  on  the  hills  disclose 
Gleams  from  a  world  in  which  the  saints  repose. 

Jan.  1,  1843 

XLIV 

IN  my  mind's  eye  a  Temple,  like  a  cloud 
Slowly  surmounting  some  invidious  hill, 
Rose  out  of  darkness :  the  bright  Work  stood  still ; 
And  might  of  its  own  beauty  have  been  proud, 
But  it  was  fashioned  and  to  God  was  vowed 
By  Virtues  that  diffused,  in  every  part, 
Spirit  divine  through  forms  of  human  art : 
Faith  had  her  arch — her  arch,  when  winds  blow  loud, 
Into  the  consciousness  of  safety  thrilled  ; 
And  Love  her  towers  of  dread  foundation  laid  10 

Under  the  grave  of  things ;  Hope  had  her  spire 
Star-high,  and  pointing  still  to  something  higher  ; 
Trembling  I  gazed,  but  heard  a  voice — it  said, 
'  Hell-gates  are  powerless  Phantoms  when  tve  build.' 

Published  1827 

1  Ambleside. 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS  479 

XLV 

ON  THE  PROJECTED  KENDAL  AND  WINDERMERE  RAILWAY 

IS  then  no  nook  of  English  ground  secure 
From  rash  assault  ? l     Schemes  of  retirement  sown 
In  youth,  and  'mid  the  busy  world  kept  pure 
As  when  their  earliest  flowers  of  hope  were  blown, 
Must  perish  ; — how  can  they  this  blight  endure  ? 
And  must  he  too  the  ruthless  change  bemoan 
Who  scorns  a  false  utilitarian  lure 
'Mid  his  paternal  fields  at  random  thrown  ? 
Baffle  the  threat,  bright  Scene,  from  Orrest-head 
Given  to  the  pausing  traveller's  rapturous  glance  :         10 
Plead  for  thy  peace,  thou  beautiful  romance 
Of  nature  ;  and,  if  human  hearts  be  dead, 
Speak,  passing  winds  ;  ye  torrents,  with  your  strong 
And  constant  voice,  protest  against  the  wrong. 

Oct.  12, 1844 

XLVI 

PROUD  were  ye,  Mountains,  when,  in  times  of  old, 
Your  patriot  sons,  to  stem  invasive  war, 
Intrenched  your  brows ;  ye  gloried  in  each  scar  : 
Now,  for  your  shame,  a  Power,  the  Thirst  of  Gold, 
That  rules  o'er  Britain  like  a  baneful  star, 
Wills  that  your  peace,  your  beauty,  shall  be  sold, 
And  clear  way  made  for  her  triumphal  car 
Through  the  beloved  retreats  your  arms  enfold  ! 
Hear  YE  that  Whistle  ?     As  her  long-linked  Train 
Swept  onwards,  did  the  vision  cross  your  view  ?  10 

Yes,  ye  were  startled ; — and,  in  balance  true, 
Weighing  the  mischief  with  the  promised  gain, 
Mountains,  and  Vales,  and  Floods,  I  call  on  you 
To  share  the  passion  of  a  j  ust  disdain. 

1844 

1  The  degree  and  kind  of  attachment  which  many  of  the  yeomanry  feel  to 
their  small  inheritances  can  scarcely  be  overrated.  Near  the  house  of  one 
of  them  stands  a  magnificent  tree,  which  a  neighbour  of  the  owner  advised 
him  to  fell  for  profit's  sake.  '  Fell  it ! '  exclaimed  the  yeoman,  '  I  had 
rather  fall  on  my  knees  and  worship  it.'  It  happens,  I  believe,  that  the 
intended  railway  would  pass  through  this  little  property,  and  I  hope  that  an 
apology  for  the  answer  will  not  be  thought  necessary  by  one  who  enters 
into  the  strength  of  the  feeling. 


480  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

XLVII 

AT  FURNESS  ABBEY 

HERE,  where,  of  havoc  tired  and  rash  undoing, 
Man  left  this  Structure  to  become  Time's  prey, 
A  soothing  spirit  follows  in  the  way 
That  Nature  takes,  her  counter-work  pursuing. 
See  how  her  Ivy  clasps  the  sacred  Ruin, 
Fall  to  prevent  or  beautify  decay; 
And,  on  the  mouldered  walls,  how  bright,  how  gay, 
The  flowers  in  pearly  dews  their  bloom  renewing  ! 
Thanks  to  the  place,  blessings  upon  the  hour ; 
Even  as  I  speak  the  rising  Sun's  first  smile  10 

Gleams  on  the  grass-crowne,d  top  of  yon  tall  Tower, 
Whose  cawing  occupants  with  joy  proclaim 
Prescriptive  title  to  the  shattered  pile, 
Where,  Cavendish,  thine  seems  nothing  but  a  name  ! 

Probably  1845 

XLVIII 

AT  FURNESS  ABBEY 

WELL  have  yon  Railway  Labourers  to  THIS  ground 
Withdrawn  for  noontide  rest.     They  sit,  they 

walk 

Among  the  Ruins,  but  no  idle  talk 
Is  heard  ;  to  grave  demeanour  all  are  bound  ; 
And  from  one  voice  a  Hymn  with  tuneful  sound 
Hallows  once  more  the  long-deserted  Quire 
And  thrills  the  old  sepulchral  earth  around. 
Others  look  up,  and  with  fixed  eyes  admire 
That  wide-spanned  arch,  wondering  how  it  was  raised, 
To  keep,  so  high  in  air,  its  strength  and  grace  :  10 

All  seem  to  feel  the  spirit  of  the  place, 
And  by  the  general  reverence  God  is  praised : 
Profane  Despoilers,  stand  ye  not  reproved, 
While  thus  these  simple-hearted  men  are  moved? 

June  21,  1845 


NOTES 

POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 

P.I.  I.  EXTRACT.  From  the  Conclusion  of  a  Poem  composed  in  anticipation 
of  leaving  School: — 'I  wrote,  while  yet  a  schoolboy,  a  long  poem  running 
upon  my  own  adventures  and  the  scenery  of  the  county  in  which  I  was 
brought  up.  The  only  part  of  that  poem  which  has  been  preserved  is  the 
conclusion  of  it,  which  stands  at  the  beginning  of  my  collected  poems.' 
Autobiographical  Memoranda  in  the  Memoirs  of  W.  W.,  by  Christopher 
Wordsworth,  vol.  i.  p.  12.  'The  poem  of  which  it  [the  Extract]  was 
the  conclusion,  was  of  many  hundred  lines,  and  contained  thoughts  and 
images,  most  of  which  have  been  dispersed  through  my  other  writings.' — 

I.  F.     Cp.  The  Prelude,  viii.,  468  foil. 

P.  2.  II.  WRITTEN  IN  VERY  EARLY  YOUTH  :— Dated  1786  by  W.  in  ed. 
1837.  Published  originally  in  The  Morning  Post,  Feb.  13,  1802.  From 
1807  to  1843  included  among  Miscellaneous  Sonnets. 

P.  2.  III.  AN  EVENING  WALK.    Addressed  to  a  Young  Lady : — The  poet's 
sister  Dorothy.     For  the  original  form  of  this  poem  cp.  vol.  iii.  p.  450. 
L.  9.  In  ed.  1793,  1.  9  ran  : 

Where,  bosom'd  deep,  the  shy  Winander  peeps. 

In  1827,  partly  for  euphony,  partly  no  doubt  to  avoid  the  strained  use 
of  'bosom'd  ': 

Where,  deep  embosom'd,  shy  Winander  peeps. 

The    final    text    (1836)    follows    the    severer    style    characteristic    of 
Wordsworth. 

P.  3, 1.  32.  The  following  lines,  which  appeared  only  in  ed.  1793,  are  a 
good  illustration  of  the  faults  which  Wordsworth  grew  out  of,  and  at  the 
same  time  of  his  characteristic  realism  : 

While,  Memory  at  my  side,  I  wander  here, 
Starts  at  the  simplest  sight  th'  unbidden  tear, 
A  form  discover'd  at  the  well-known  seat, 
A  spot,  that  angles  at  the  riv'let's  feet, 
The  ray  the  cot  of  morning  trav'ling  nigh, 
And  sail  that  glides  the  well-known  alders  by. 

L.  48.    Still-twinkling: — i.e.   twinkling  continually.      Cp.   the  use  of 
'  still '  in  The  Prelude,  i.  455. 
L.  54.   I  have  added  a  comma  after  'ghyll,'  because  I  believe  that 

II.  55,  56,  which  were  added  to  the  poem  in  ed.  1820,  refer  entirely  to 
l— HH 


482  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

what  follows.  It  is  the  suddenness  of  the  appearance  of  the  '  obscure 
retreat'  which  seems  like  the  effect  of  '  enchantment.' 

P.  4,  1.  73.  Alluding  to  Horace's  well-known  lyric  0  fans  Bandusiae 
(Od.  in.  13.).    Wordsworth  wrote  Blandusia,  a  reading  of  the  name  with 
some  slight  authority,  and  found  in  a  few  printed  edd.  of  Horace. 
L.  85.  LI.  70-85  were  added  in  ed.  1820. 

P.  5,  1.  127.  LI.  98-127  represent  only  twelve  lines  (97-108)  in  the 
original  ed. ;  the  passage  was  entirely  rewritten  for  ed.  1820. 

L.  133.  The  poem  referred  to  is :  A  poem  written  during  a  shooting 
excursion  on  the  moors:  by  the  Rev.  William  Greenwood,  Fellow  of 
St.  John's  College,  Cambridge,  and  Rector  of  Bignor ,  in  Sussex,  MDCCLXXXVII. 
p.  18: 

.  .  .  the  broom 

In  scattered  plots  by  vivid  rings  of  green 
Encircled  .  .  . 
L.  135.   '  Down  the  rough  slope  the  pondrous  waggon  rings.' 

Beattie.— W.  1793.—  The  Minstrel,  Bk.  i.  stanza  39. 
L.  141.  Blasted: — Wordsworth  italicised  this  word  presumably  because 
it  was  not  in  his  day  familiarly  used  in  this  sense.    The  earliest  occurrence 
of  it  noted  in  N.  E.  D.  is  in  1758,  Borlase's  Nat.  Hist.  Cornwall,  xv. 
§  i.  161. 

P.  6,  1.  170.  I.e.  A  bar  divides  the  sun's  orb  as  a  bar  might  divide  an 
aegis,  like  the  shield  of  aegis-bearing  Zeus. 

L.  175.  Prospect  all  on  fire: — This  phrase,  hitherto  untraced,  is  from  a 
forgotten  poem  called  Sunday  Thoughts,  by  Moses  Browne.  Wordsworth 
took  it  no  doubt  from  Scott's  Critical  Essays  (pp.  349  and  351,  where 
Scott  highly  praises  the  phrase  itself).  The  passage  quoted  by  Scott 
runs : 

Look  how  the  rapid  journeyer  seems  to  bait 
His  slackening  steeds,  and  loos'd  to  evening  sports 
Shoots  down  obliquely  his  diverging  beams, 
That  kindle  on  opposing  hills  the  blaze 
Of  glittering  turrets  and  illumined  domes, 
A  prospect  all  on  fire.  .  .  . 
For  Scott,  see  next  note. 

P.  7,  1.  191.  The  Seasons :—'  Summer,'  11.  1627-29  (Aldine  edition, 
1862)  :— 

...  he  dips  his  orb ; 

Now  half-immers'd ;  and  now  a  golden  curve 
Gives  one  bright  glance,  then  total  disappears. 

In  the  note  of  1793,  Wordsworth  added,  fSee  Scott's  Critical  Essays.' 
The  reference  is  to  the  Critical  Essays  (pp.  346-48)  of  John  Scott  of 
Amwell,  the  Quaker  poet  (1730-1783).  As  the  book  is  very  rare,  and  so 
little  known,  that  Prof.  Knight  apparently  mistook  Wordsworth's  refer- 
ence for  one  to  Sir  Walter  Scott  (his  only  note  is,  '  It  is  difficult  to  know 
to  what  Wordsworth  here  alludes '),  I  append  the  passage  in  question, 


NOTES  483 

which  is  very  characteristic  of  the  volume  in  which  it  occurs.  The 
volume  contains  nine  essays,  on  nine  poetical  works,  viz. — Denham's 
Cooper  s  Hill,  Milton's  Lycidas,  Pope's  Windsor  Forest,  Dyer's  Grongar 
Hill  and  Ruins  of  Rome,  Collins'  Oriental  Eclogues,  Gray's  Churchyard 
Elegy,  Goldsmith's  Deserted  Village,  Thomson's  Seasons.  The  author's 
whole  conception  of  poetry  is  as  tame  as  anything  in  the  eighteenth 
century.  What  attracted  Wordsworth  was  no  doubt  his  sensible,  if 
somewhat  pedantic,  objection  to  meaningless  'poetic  diction.'  Here  is 
the  passage.  '  Our  author's  [Thomson's]  description  of  the  sun  setting  is 
another  remarkable  instance  of  his  peculiar  manner  : 

Low  walks  the  sun,  and  broadens  by  degrees, 

Just  o'er  the  verge  of  day.     The  shifting  clouds 

Assembled  gay,  a  richly-gorgeous  train, 

In  all  their  pomp  attend  his  setting  throne. 

Air,  earth,  and  ocean  smile  immense.     And  now, 

As  if  his  weary  chariot  sought  the  bowers 

Of  Amphitrite,  and  her  tending  nymphs, 

(So  Grecian  fable  sung)  he  dips  his  orb  ; 

Now  half-immers'd  ;  and  now  a  golden  curve 

Gives  one  bright  glance,  then  total  disappears. 

The  passage  is  truly  poetical,  but  very  incorrect.  The  painting  is  strong, 
but  careless  ;  it  is  a  group  of  beautiful,  but  inconsistent  imagery.  The 
' '  sun's  walking "  is  an  act  that  infers  the  supposition  of  an  imaginary 
person;  its  "broadening"  is  an  act  that  can  relate  only  to  the  real 
visible  globe  of  fire ;  the  mention  of  the  "  setting  throne  "  again  indicates 
a  prosopopoeia,  and  the  ' '  dipping  "  of  "  the  orb"  again  implies  a  reference 
to  the  natural  object.  This  would  have  been  a  most  masterly  piece  of 
composition  if  the  verb  "  walks  "  had  been  exchanged  for  some  other  not 
incongruous  to  the  verb  "  broaden  "  ;  if  the  "  setting  throne,"  the  un- 
meaning phrase,  "just  o'er  the  verge  of  day,"  and  the  bombastick 
"immense  smile  of  air,"  etc.,  had  been  all  omitted;  the  gradual 
descent  and  enlargement  of  the  sun,  its  immersion  within  the  horizon, 
reduction  to  a  curve  and  total  disappearance  (all  fine,  natural  and  pictur- 
esque circumstances),  been  regularly  connected  ;  and  the  romantick 
idea  of  "Phoebus's"  chariot  seeking  the  bowers  of  Amphitrite,  been 
kept  intirely  (sic)  distinct,  and  introduced  last  as  an  illustrative 
illusion.' 

L.  206.  This  and  the  next  six  lines  took  the  place,  in  1836,  of  the 
following  four  lines — an  interesting  instance  of  an  improvement  effected 
after  many  years  : 

Lost  gradual  o'er  the  heights  in  pomp  they  go, 
While  silent  stands  th'  admiring  vale  below 
Till,  but  the  lonely  beacon,  all  is  fled, 
That  tips  with  eve's  last  gleam  his  spiry  head. 

The  expression  '  visionary  horsemen '  is  used  in  the  passage  in  Clarke's 
Survey  referred  to  in  Wordsworth's  note. 


484  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

L.  207.  James  Clarke  (not  Clark),  Survey,  etc.,  p.  56.      Part  of  the 
passage  is  quoted  with  other  illustrative  matter  by  Prof.  Knight  (Eversley 
Wordsworth,  vol.  i.  p.  19). 
L.  215.  This  couplet,  which  originally  ran  : 

And,  fronting  the  bright  west  in  stronger  lines, 
The  oak  its  dark'ning  boughs  and  foliage  twines, 

was  omitted  in  ed.  1815,  but  restored  in  its  final  form  in  1820.  In  the 
Fenwick  note  Wordsworth  says  of  it :  '  This  is  feebly  and  imperfectly 
expressed,  but  I  recollect  distinctly  the  very  spot  where  this  first  struck 
me.  It  was  on  the  way  between  Hawkshead  and  Ambleside,  and  gave 
me  extreme  pleasure.  The  moment  was  important  in  my  poetical 
history  ;  for  I  date  from  it  my  consciousness  of  the  infinite  variety  of 
natural  appearances  which  had  been  unnoticed  by  the  poets  of  any  age 
or  country,  so  far  as  I  was  acquainted  with  them  ;  and  I  made  a  resolu- 
tion to  supply  in  some  degree  the  deficiency.  I  could  not  have  been  at 
that  time  above  fourteen  years  of  age. ' 

LI.  216-221.  A  comparison  of  these  lines,  reached  in  1836,  with  the 
text  of  1793  (vol.  iii.  p.  455),  well  illustrates  the  importance  of  the  1836 
revision  and  the  progress  in  severity  of  Wordsworth's  style. 

P.  8,  1.  231.  This  is  a  fact  of  which  I  have  been  an  eye-witness. — 
W.  (1793).  Mantling  here  probably  means  '  covering ' ;  but  cp.  Paradise 
Lost,  vii.  439,  and  note  below,  p.  537. 

L.  235.  The  lily  of  the  valley  is  found  in  great  abundance   in  the 
smaller  islands  of  Winandermere. — W.  (1793). 
L.  237.  Collins,  Ode  to  the  Passions,  1.  60. 

L.  249.  The  following  lines  occur  only  in  ed.  1793  :  the  inappropriate 
sentiment  of  the  last  two,  and  the  typically  '  poetic  diction '  of  the  ex- 
pression '  rocking  shades '  when  used  for  trees  in  connection  with  the 
'  sound '  made  by  their  rocking  branches,  sufficiently  explain  the 
excision : 

No  ruder  sound  your  desart  haunts  invades, 
Than  waters  dashing  wild,  or  rocking  shades. 
Ye  ne'er,  like  hapless  human  wanderers,  throw 
Your  young  on  winter's  winding  sheet  of  snow. 

LI.  252-278  should  be  compared  with  the  longer  passage  of  ed.  1793 
with  its  accumulation  of  horrors,  inartistic  perhaps,  and  often  expressed 
in  strained  language,  but  very  impressive  in  its  vivid  realism.  The 
description  was  gradually  pruned,  in  edd.  1820,  1827,  1836,  1845. 

L.  286.  A  passage  of  twenty  lines  followed  here  in  ed.  1793  and  was 
omitted  in  ed.  1820.     After  1.  294  six  lines  stood  in  1793,  the  last  four 
of  which  were  cancelled  in  1815,  the  first  two  in  1827. 
P.  9,  1.  291.  Alluding  to  this  passage  of  Spenser — 

Her  angel  face 

As  the  great  eye  of  Heaven  shined  bright, 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  that  shady  place. 

W.    (1793). 


NOTES  485 

The  Faerie  Queene,  bk.  i.  canto  iii.  stanza  4.  Spenser  wrote  ( the  shady 
place.' 

L.  304.  After  this  line  a  passage  of  eight  lines  (ed.  1793)  was  omitted 
in  ed.   1815  ;  similarly  ed.   1815  omitted  a  couplet  after  1.  306,  another 
after  1.  308,  and  eight  lines  after  1.  314. 
L.  305.  Shakespeare,  The  Tempest,  iv.,  i. 

And  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded 
Leave  not  a  rack  behind. 
P.  10, 1.  330.  In  ed.  1793  follows  this  couplet  : 

While  rose  and  poppy,  as  the  glow-worm  fades, 
Checquer  with  paler  red  the  thicket  shades. 

The  attempt  to  describe  too  much,  and  the  inappropriate  juxtaposition  of 
the  two  colour-pictures,  no  doubt  determined  Wordsworth  to  make  the 
excision. 

L.  334.  This  line  was  unfortunately  substituted  in  ed.  1836  for  the 
original : 

She  lifts  in  silence  up  her  lovely  face  : 

no  doubt  because  of  the  position  of  (up.'  For  a  similar,  but  much  less 
happy,  position  cp.  the  original  text  of  this  poem,  1.  28  : 

When  Life  rear'd  laughing  up  her  morning  sun. 

L.  347.  This  poem  was  finished  and  dedicated  to  his  sister  after  the 
Long  Vacation  in  1789.  That  and  the  previous  Long  Vacation  had  been 
spent  chiefly  in  the  lake  district,  partly  in  the  company  of  Dorothy 
Wordsworth  and  Mary  Hutchinson.  In  a  letter  of  Dorothy  Wordsworth 
to  a  friend  written  soon  after  the  publication  of  An  Evening  Walk,  she 
quotes  from  a  letter  of  her  brother  speaking  of  '  that  sympathy  which 
will  almost  identify  us,  when  we  have  stolen  to  our  little  cottage' 
(Knight's  Life,  i.  (ix.)  p.  83).  These  are  some  of  the  earliest  mentions  of 
the  project  which  was  evidently  for  many  years  in  their  hearts,  and  was 
finally  realised  in  Dove  Cottage. 

P.  11,  1.  366.  Prof.  Knight  refers  to  lines  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  John  Brown 
(1715-1766)  quoted  by  Wordsworth  in  his  Guide  through  the  District  of  the 
Lakes,  §  1  : 

But  the  soft  murmur  of  swift-gushing  rills, 
Forth  issuing  from  the  mountain's  distant  steep 
(Unheard  till  now,  and  now  scarce  heard),  proclaimed 
All  things  at  rest. 

'  Dr.  John  Brown  was  one  of  the  first,  as  Wordsworth  pointed  out,  to 
lead  the  way  to  a  true  estimate  of  the  English  lakes'  (Prof.  Knight). 
He  was  a  talented,  eccentric  man,  whose  best  known  work  was  An 
Estimate  of  the  Manners  and  Principles  of  the  Times,  but  who  also  wrote 
tragedies :  Barbarossa  and  Athelstane,  and  a  Dissertation  on  the  Rise, 
Union,  and  Power,  the  Progressions,  Separations,  and  Corruptions,  of 
Poetry  and  Music,  and  other  works.  See  Diet,  of  Nat.  Biog. 

L.  368.  This  line  was  substituted  in  ed.  1832  for  that  of  ed.  1793  : 
List'ning  th'  aereal  music  of  the  hill. 


486  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

The  dissyllabic  scansion  of  ' spiritual'  is  characteristic  of  Wordsworth, 
and  was  imitated  by  Tennyson.  It  was  also  employed  by  Milton,  e.g. 
Par.  Reg.,  1.  10. 

L.  378.  Of  this  poem  and  the  Descriptive  Sketches,  published  in  the 
same  year,  1793,  Dorothy  Wordsworth  wrote  in  a  letter  to  her  friend 
Miss  Pollard,  Feb.  16th,  1793  (Knight's  Life,  i.  (ix)  p.  81) :  ' .  .  .  The 
scenes  which  he  describes  have  been  viewed  with  a  poet's  eye,  and  are 
pourtrayed  with  a  poet's  pencil,  and  the  poems  contain  many  passages 
exquisitely  beautiful ;  but  they  also  contain  many  faults,  the  chief  of 
which  is  obscurity,  and  a  too  frequent  use  of  some  particular  expressions 
and  uncommon  words,  for  instance  "  moveless."  .  .  .  The  word  "  view- 
less "  also  is  introduced  far  too  often.  ...  I  regret  exceedingly  that  he 
did  not  submit  these  works  to  the  inspection  of  some  friend  before  their 
publication,  and  he  also  joins  with  me  in  this  regret.  .  .  .'  No  criticism 
could  be  more  just. 

P.  11.  IV.  LINES.  Written  while  sailing  in  a  boat  at  Evening.  These 
Lines  and  the  following  poem  were  originally  one  piece,  and  were  so 
published  in  1798.  The  separation  was  made  '  on  the  recommendation  of 
Coleridge.' — I.  F.  Both  poems  were  transferred  in  ed.  1845  from  Poems 
of  Sentiment  and  Reflection. 

P.  12.  V.  REMEMBRANCE  OF  COLLINS.  Composed  upon  the  Thames  near 
Richmond,  1.  18  : — '  Him '  is  in  italics,  because  the  oar  is  suspended  not 
for  Thomson  but  for  Collins — (Prof.  Dowden).  Cp.  Collins,  Ode  on  the 
Death  of  Thomson : 

Remembrance  oft  shall  haunt  the  shore 

Where  Thames  in  summer  wreaths  is  drest, 
And  oft  suspend  the  dashing  oar 
To  bid  his  gentle  spirit  rest. 

P.  12.  VI.  DESCRIPTIVE  SKETCHES.  Taken  during  a  Pedestrian  Tour 
among  the  Alps.  The  original  form  of  this  poem,  written  in  the  years 
1791-1792,  was  published  in  1793.  The  changes  introduced  in  sub- 
sequent editions  were  so  numerous  and  important  that,  in  order  not  to 
burden  these  notes,  I  follow  the  example  of  the  best  modern  editors  in 
printing  the  original  text  in  an  Appendix,  vol.  iii.  p.  462.  It  suffices  here 
to  say  that  the  main  effect  of  the  alterations  and  omissions  was  to  tone 
down  both  the  artificial  ( poetic  diction,'  and  the  equally  conventional 
poetic  melancholy  with  which  these  first  fruits  of  Wordsworth's  muse 
were,  not  unnaturally,  infected.  Cp.  Introduction,  p.  xli. 

For  this  tour  cp.  Introduction,  p.  xxx  :  'Much  the  greatest  part  of 
this  poem  was  composed  during  my  walks  upon  the  banks  of  the  Loire, 
in  the  years  1791,  1792.'— I.  F. 

P.  13,  1.  3.  This  line  was  inserted  in  ed.  1827  :  previously, 
Sure,  nature's  God  that  spot  to  man  had  giv'n, 
Where  murmuring  rivers  join  the  song  of  ev'n. 
After  1.  6,  there  were  four  lines  in  ed.  1793  not  subsequently  reprinted. 


NOTES  487 

P.  14,  1.  9.  The  treatment  of  this  passage  (11.  9-18)  illustrates  the 
growth  of  Wordsworth's  robustness  of  sentiment.  Cp.  the  original, 
vol.  iii.  p.  463.  The  principal  changes  were  made  in  ed.  1827,  when  the 
'  way  forlorn '  gave  way  to  the  '  holiday  delight,'  the  '  sad  vacuities '  to 
'gains  too  cheaply  earned,'  and  the  'lost  flowers,'  etc.,  to  'brisk  toil,' 
etc.  '  Velvet '  was  transferred  from  '  tread '  to  '  green-sward '  in  ed. 
1820. 

L.  24.  And  calls  it  luxury: — Addison's  Cato,  i.  i.  171.  ( Blesses  his 
stars,  and  thinks  it  luxury.' 

L.  34.  Rugged  was  substituted  for  '  viewless '  in  ed.  1820.  Cp. 
Dorothy  Wordsworth's  letter  quoted  above,  note  on  1.  378  of  An 
Evening  Walk. 

L.  43.  Originally  : 

Me,  lur'd  by  hope  her  sorrows  to  remove, 
A  heart,  that  could  not  much  itself  approve. 
Recast  in  ed.  1836. 

P.  15,  1.  65.  Sober  Reason  is  between  inverted  commas  in  the  original 
edition,  and  in  edd.  1815  and  1820. 

L.  61.  Professor  Knight  cps.  Pope,  Windsor  Forest,  11.  129,  130: 
He  lifts  the  tube,  and  levels  with  his  eye : 
Straight  a  short  thunder  breaks  the  frozen  sky. 

L.  71.  Parting  genius: — Milton,  On  the  Morning  of  Christ's  Nativity, 
1.  186. 

L.  89.  The  word  '  viewless '  was  expelled  here  in  ed.  1836  by  the  sub- 
stitution of  'loitering  traveller'  for  'viewless  lingerer.'  Cp.  note  on 
An  Evening  Walk,  1.  378  above. 

L.  92.  After  this  line  the  original  edition  had  a  passage  (11.  96-101) 
somewhat  overburdened  with  epithets,  which  was  transferred,  with 
alterations,  in  all  later  editions  to  a  later  place.  Cp.  below,  note  on 
1.  131. 

P.  16,  1.  106.   Here  follow,  in  original   ed.   only,  four  lines  which 
Wordsworth  no  doubt  felt  to  be  frigid  and  false  in  sentiment  : 
Heedless  how  Pliny,  musing  here,  survey'd 
Old  Roman  boats  and  figures  thro'  the  shade, 
Pale  Passion,  overpower'd,  retires  and  woos 
The  thicket,  where  th'  unlisten'd  stock-dove  coos. 
There  is  a  touch  of  the  real  Wordsworth,  however,  in  the  last  words. 
L.  118,  till  ed.  1827,  followed  the  couplet : 

While  evening's  solemn  bird  melodious  weeps, 
Heard,  by  star-spotted  bays,  beneath  the  steeps. 

The  realism  of  '  star-spotted,'  though  not  felicitous,  is  noticeable, 
especially  in  connection  with  the  frigid  'poetic  diction'  of  the  previous 
line.  It  is  the  constant  juxtaposition  of  these  two  things  which  make 
these  early  poems  of  Wordsworth  so  interesting  to  the  student  of 
literary  history. 

L.    126.    Till   ed.    1836   e spotting    the    steaming    deeps' — the   word 


488  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

'  spotting '   being    evidently  suggested  by   '  star-spotted '   a  few   lines 
before. 

LI.  131-134  were  transferred  in  all  editions  after  the  first  from  their 
original  place  (see  orig.  ed.,  11.  96  foil.)  to  this,  where  they  supplanted  a 
somewhat  obscure  and  over-phrased  description.  In  1.  134  'sylvan' 
replaced  '  bosom'd ' ;  cp.  note  on  An  Evening  Walk,  1.  9.  An  additional 
objection  to  the  use  of  '  bosom'd '  in  this  line,  when  it  stood  in  its  original 
place,  was  the  occurrence  of  the  word  a  few  lines  before,  in  a  more  legiti- 
mate expression  : 

Como,  bosom'd  deep  in  chestnut  groves. 

P.  17,  1.  146.  Originally  this  couplet  ran  : 

Once  did  I  pierce  to  where  a  cabin  stood, 
The  redbreast  peace  had  bury'd  it  in  wood. 
In  ed.  1827  was  substituted  : 

And  once  I  pierced  the  mazes  of  a  wood, 
Where,  far  from  public  haunt,  a  cabin  stood. 
The  final  text  was  reached  in  ed.  1836. 

L.  150.  This  couplet  (ed.  1836)  replaced  the  single  line  : 
Beneath  an  old-grey  oak  as  violets  lie. 

L.  166.  The  whole  of  the  following  passage  about  the  gipsy  was  much 
rehandled  and  gradually  reduced  from  its  original  superabundance  of 
detail  and  of  somewhat  melodramatic  language.  Cp.  the  similar  treat- 
ment of  the  similar  episode  in  An  Evening  Walk,  above,  p.  484,  note  on 
11.  252-278. 

P.  18,  1.  192.  Or  on  her  fingers: — Originally  'on  viewless  fingers'; 
altered  ed.  1836. 

LI.  196-207.  This  passage  was  very  much  chastened  and  rewritten  in 
ed.  1836. 

P.  19,  1.  225.  Gleamy  was  substituted  for  'drizzling'  in  ed.  1836, 
while  the  expression  '  black,  drizzling  crags '  was  removed  from  the 
passage  about  the  Reuss  a  few  lines  before.  The  expression  '  drizzling 
shower '  occurs  in  Paradise  Lost,  vi.  646. 

L.  238.  Originally,  'Before  those  hermit  doors,  that  never  know.' 
In  ed.  1836  'lonesome'  was  substituted  for  'hermit,'  in  accordance  with 
Wordsworth's  objection  to  substantives  used  adjectivally.  The  text  as  it 
stands  is  that  of  1845.  Cp.  the  alteration  of  '  hamlet  fame,'  An  Evening 
Walk,  176,  to  'village  fame,'  An  Evening  Walk,  192;  'hermit  waves,' 
219,  to  '  flood  serene,'  232 ;  '  cottage  bow'r,'  227,  to  '  hut-like  bower,' 
238.  L.  328,  '  Tune  in  the  mountain  dells  their  water  lyres,'  is  part  of 
a  passage  cancelled  in  all  subsequent  editions.  In  Descriptive  Sketches, 
224,  'insect  buzz,'  234,  'Banditti  voices,'  occur  in  verses  cancelled  in 
1827  and  1845  respectively;  305,  'casement  shade'  became  'shady  porch' 
(244)  in  ed.  1836 ;  576,  '  brother  pair'  became  'well-matched  pair'  (486) 
in  ed.  1836;  581,  'whirlwind  sound '  disappeared  from  ed.  1836(491); 
720,  'pilgrim  feet'  disappeared  in  ed.  1820  ;  721,  '  despot  courts '  became 
'  proud  courts'  in  ed.  1820,  'despotic  courts,'  ed.  1827. 


,  NOTES  489 

LI.  246-249  were  substituted  in  ed.  1845  for  the  somewhat  obscure 
couplet : 

There,  did  the  iron  genius  not  disdain 
The  gentle  power  that  haunts  the  myrtle  plain, 
There  might  the  love-sick  maiden,  etc. 

P.  20, 11.  272-274  took  the  place  in  ed.  1845  of  the  following  : 
And  mournful  sounds,  as  of  a  spirit  lost, 
Pipe  wild  along  the  hollow-blustering  coast, 
'Till  the  sun  walking  on  his  western  field 
Shakes  from  behind  the  clouds  his  flashing  shield. 

The  former  of  these  couplets  one  does  not  regret,  as  a  not  very  felicitous 
rendering  of  a  trite  image ;  but  one  would  like  to  know  why  Words- 
worth rejected  the  second. 

L.  282.  West  was  first  italicised  in  ed.  1836,  apparently  merely  to 
point  the  contrast  with  '  eastward '  above. 

L.  302.  'Faint  huzzas': — Prof.  W.  P.  Ker  has  very  kindly  pointed 
out  to  me  that  Wordsworth  obviously  borrowed  this  quotation,  together 
with  its  application  to  Dundee  (which  is  not  made  by  Burns),  from  a 
contemporary  treatise  on  the  picturesque,  by  William  Gilpin, — the 
original,  as  Prof.  Ker  says,  of  Dr.  Syntax  :  Observations  relative  chiefly 
to  Picturesque  Beauty,  made  in  the  year  1776,  on  several  Parts  of  Great 
Britain ;  particularly  the  High-Lands  of  Scotland.  By  William  Gilpin, 
A.  M.  ;  Prebendary  of  Salisbury ;  and  Vicar  of  Boldre  in  New-Forest, 
near  Lymington.  London.  1789.  Vol.  i.  p.  137.  '  In  the  article  of 
victory  Dundee  was  mortally  wounded.  An  old  highlauder  shewed  us 
a  few  trees,  under  the  shade  of  which  he  was  led  out  of  the  battle  ;  and 
where  he  breathed  his  last  with  that  intrepidity,  which  is  so  nobly 
described  by  a  modern  Scotch  poet,  in  an  interview  between  death  and 
a  victorious  hero : 

'  Nae  cauld,  faint-hearted  doubtings  tease  him  ; 
Death  comes — wi'  fearless  eye  he  sees  him  ; 
Wi'  bluidy  ban'  a  welcome  gies  him  : 

An'  when  he  fa's, 

His  latest  draught  o'  breathin'  lea'es  him 
In  faint  huzzas  ! ' 

Burns,  The  Author's  Earnest  Cry  and 

Prayer,  stanza  xxx. 

P.  21,  1.  327.  There  followed  at  this  point,  in  the  original  edition  only 
(11.  390-397),  a  passage  of  somewhat  gruesome  description ;  another,  in 
which  the  attempted  realism  certainly  oversteps  the  boundary  of  the 
ludicrous,  was  also  omitted  after  the  original  edition  (11.  408-413). 
P.  22,  1.  35(J.  Before  ed.  1836  : 

Broke  only  by  the  melancholy  sound. 
LI.  362-3  were  added  in  ed.  1836. 

LI.  366-379.  This  passage  was  considerably  chastened  after  the 
original  edition,  especially  in  edd.  1815  and  1836. 


490  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

P.  24,  1.  448.  f  The  blessings  he  enjoys  to  guard': — Smollett,  Ode  to 
Leven  Water,  last  two  lines  : 

And  hearts  resolved  and  hands  prepared 
The  blessings  they  enjoy  to  guard. 

LI.  449-452  represent  11.  536-541  of  original  edition,  one  of  the  very 
immature  passages  which  only  appear  in  that  edition. 

P.  25,  11.  500-517.  This  fine  passage  was  the  result  of  considerable  re- 
handling,  especially  in  ed.  1836,  when  some  lines  somewhat  spoiled  by 
frigid  diction  were  omitted.  Cp.  orig.  ed.,  11.  590  foil. 

P.  26,  1.  520.  In  the  original  edition  only  there  is  a  curiously  infelici- 
tous line  here,  following  the  line  about  the  Seine  : 

Or  where  thick  sails  illume  Batavia's  groves. 
L.  532.  In  the  original  edition  this  passage  began  : 

Soon  flies  the  little  joy,  etc. 

Wordsworth  appended  the  note  Optima  quaeque  dies,  etc.,  referring  to 
the  line  of  Virgil  (Georgic  iii.  66) : 

Optima  quaeque  dies  miseris  mortalibus  aevi 
Primafugit. 

LI.  532-539.  This  passage  should  be  compared  with  the  orig.  ed., 
11.  631  foil.,  as  a  specimen  of  Wordsworth's  development  both  in  literary 
taste  and  in  his  spiritual  outlook.  The  first  four  lines  grew  in  ed.  1836 
out  of  this  couplet  : 

Soon  flies  the  little  joy  to  man  allow'd, 
And  tears  before  him  travel  like  a  cloud. 

(in  ed.  1815,  'And  grief  before  him  travels  like  a  cloud').  In  the  follow- 
ing lines  a  series  of  personifications  ending  with  : 

Conscience  dogging  close  his  bleeding  way 
Cries  out,  and  leads  his  spectres  to  their  prey, 

were  toned  down  in  ed.  1836,  while  the  last  couplet  of  the  text  was 
substituted  for : 

'Till  Hope-deserted,  long  in  vain  his  breath 
Implores  the  dreadful  untried  sleep  of  Death. 

There  is  in  this  last  line  an  imaginative  power  which  betrays  the  great 
poet,  and  one  cannot  but  regret  its  excision,  happily  though  the  mild 
thought  of  the  substituted  couplet  is  expressed. 

LI.  540-544.  This  passage,  and  in  fact  the  rest  of  the  poem  to  the  end, 
was  much  rehandled  both  in  ed.  1815  and  in  ed.  1836.  In  1.  544  the 
epithet  ' viewless'  was  ejected  in  ed.  1815  (orig.  ed.,  1.  648).  With  the 
sentiment  of  1.  550  and  the  following  lines  cp.  the  verses  Composed  in 
one  of  the  Catholic  Cantons  (vol.  ii.  p.  91 ),  in  which  Wordsworth  is  evidently 
reminiscent  of  this  passage.  In  1820  Wordsworth,  with  his  wife,  his 
sister,  and  friend,  revisited  many  of  the  scenes  of  this  earlier  tour. 

LI.  553-568.  Some  of  the  changes  in  this  passage  are  noteworthy.  In 
1.  553  (662  orig.)  ' tiptoe'  gave  way  to  'pausing,'  in  ed.  1836.  'Blood- 
red  streams'  only  occurs  in  orig.  ed.  (663).  In  557  (668)  'happy 
shore'  became  'sacred  floor'  in  ed.  1820.  L.  669  orig.  ed.,  '  Where  the 
charm'd  worm  of  pain  shall  gnaw  no  more '  was  altered  to  its  present 


NOTES  491 

form  in  ed.  1836.  LI.  561-2  represent  11.  666-667  of  the  original,  altered 
both  in  expression  and  in  position.  L.  564  was,  in  original  edition  only 
(673),  t  Those  turrets  tipp'd  by  hope  with  morning  gold ' ;  after  which,  in 
that  edition  only,  came  the  couplet : 

And  watch,  while  on  your  brows  the  cross  ye  make, 
Round  your  pale  eyes  a  wintry  lustre  wake  : 
for  it  was  substituted  in  ed.  1820 : 

In  that  glad  moment  when  the  hands  are  prest 
In  mute  devotion  on  the  thoughtful  breast ! 

while  in  ed.  1836  11.  565-566  were  inserted.  In  original  edition  the  whole 
passage  ended  with  lines  characteristic  of  that  period  of  Wordsworth's 
life;  cp.  orig.  ed.,  11.  676-679. 

P.  27,  1.  570.  Ed.  1827.  Previously  ' Bosom'd  in  gloomy  woods.'  In 
1.  569  Wordsworth  wrote  in  original  edition  (680),  '  to  where  Chamouny 
shields,'  explaining  that  though  ( this  word  is  pronounced  upon  the  spot 
Chamouny,  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  reading  it  long,  thinking  it  more 
musical.' 

LI.  575-578  replaced  orig.  ed.  686-691  in  ed.  1836 : 
That  mountain's  matchless  height 
That  holds  no  commerce  with  the  summer  night 
is  a  great  improvement  on 

That  mountain  nam'd  of  white 
That  dallies  with  the  Sun  the  summer  night. 

Cp.  Coleridge's  exclamation,  l  O  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the 
night ' :  Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouni,  a  poem,  written  in 
1802,  which  obviously  recalls  this  passage. 

Cp.  11.  579-583  with  original  edition,  in  which,  among  other  realistic 
details,  the  age  of  the  mountain  is  stated  in  accordance  with  Archbishop 
Ussher's  Era  of  Creation.  This  passage  was  practically  rewritten  for 
ed.  1820. 

LI.  589-590.  It  is  scarce  necessary  to  observe  that  these  lines  were 
written  before  the  emancipation  of  Savoy. — W.  (1793).  LI.  589-90  were 
originally : 

While  no  Italian  arts  their  charms  combine 
To  teach  the  skirt  of  thy  dark  cloud  to  shine. 

This  awkward  reminiscence  of  the  'silver  lining'  gave  place  in  ed. 
1820  to : 

Hard  lot ! — for  no  Italian  arts  are  thine 
To  cheat,  or  chear,  to  soften,  or  refine. 

'Soothe'  was  substituted  for  '  cheat'  in  ed.  1827.  After  this  passage 
came  another  of  the  '  pathetic '  passages  in  original  edition  only  (709- 
712). 

L.  591.  The  following  passage  was  considerably  altered  in  ed.  1820 
and  compressed  in  ed.  1836.  See  original  edition.  In  719  original 
edition  Wordsworth  wrote : 

In  the  wide  range  of  many  a  weary  round 
Still  have  my  pilgrim  feet  unfailing  found. 


492  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

In  ed.  1820  e  weary'  became  'varied,'  and  '  Fleet  as  my  passage  was  I 
still  have  found'  got  rid  of  the  'pilgrim  feet.'  LI.  721-723  orig.  ed.  gave 
way  to  the  present  text  (597-598)  in  ed.  1836,  in  which  ed.  11.  601-003 
were  added.  The  latter  part  of  the  passage  (604-611)  was  considerably 
compressed  in  ed.  1836,  such  expressions  as  '  table  wealth '  and  '  tempting 
hoard'  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  homely,  but  not  very  well  expressed 
'  housewife,  led  To  cull  her  dinner  from  its  garden  bed '  being  removed. 

P.  28,  1.  612.  In  original  edition  this  passage  begins  with  one  of  the 
more  sentimental  moods,  and  with  more  imitative  'poetic  diction.'  See 
orig.  ed.  740-743. 

LI.  612-613.  This  couplet  was  reached  after  much  trouble  in  ed.  1845. 
'  War's  discordant  habits'  in  orig.  ed.  746  evidently  displeased  ;  ed.  1820 
has  'discordant  garments,'  ed.  1827  'discordant  vestments,'  ed.  1836 
'  discordant  garb.'  The  '  sullen  breeze '  became  the  '  froward  breeze  '  in 
ed.  1820.  The  'red  banner'  was  altered  at  the  dictates  of  history  to 
'three-striped  banner'  in  ed.  1836.  The  following  couplet  was  a  com- 
pression, in  ed.  1827,  of  four  lines,  with  the  substitution  of  '  nightingales ' 
for  the  poetic  diction  'solemn  songstress.' 

L.  632.  Pleasant  was  substituted  for  '  long  long '  in  ed.  1836. 

P.  29,  11.  644-651  date  from  ed.  1836.  Cp.  orig.  ed.  782-791.  The 
change  of  political  outlook  is  obvious. 

LI.  652-658  is  the  text  of  ed.  1836,  still  further  softening  that  of  ed. 
1820,  which  itself  was  a  complete  rewriting  of  the  turgid  diction  of 
orig.  ed.  792-805. 

L.  670.  Cp.  the  close  of  original  edition.  The  more  cheerful  note  was 
first  sounded  in  ed.  1827. 

P.  29.  VII.  LINES.  Left  upon  a  Seat  in  a  Yew-tree,  which  stands  near 
the  lake  of  Esthwaite,  on  a  desolate  part  of  the  shore,  commanding  a  beautiful 
prospect : — The  tree  has  disappeared,  and  the  slip  of  common  on  which 
it  stood,  that  ran  parallel  to  the  lake,  and  lay  open  to  it,  has  long  been 
enclosed  ;  so  that  the  road  has  lost  much  of  its  attraction. — I.  F.  The 
tree  stood  '  about  three  quarters  of  a  mile  from  Hawkshead,  on  the 
eastern  shore  of  the  lake,  a  little  to  the  left,  above  the  present  highway, 
as  one  goes  towards  Sawrey. '— Prof.  Knight,  who  also  remarks  that 
there  is  a  tree  near  the  spot  which  is  now  called,  erroneously,  '  Words- 
worth's Yew.' 

P.  30,  1.  27.  This  was  the  original  reading,  restored  in  ed.  1820,  for 
the  inferior  version  of  ed.  1815  : 

The  stone-chat,  or  the  sand-lark,  restless  Bird, 
Piping  along  the  margin  of  the  lake  : 

no  doubt  owing  to  the  expostulation  of  Charles  Lamb  (Letters,  April  7, 
1815).  'One  admirable  line  gone  (or  something  come  instead  of  it), 
"  the  stone-chat,  and  the  glancing  sand-piper,"  which  was  a  line 
quite  alive.' 

L.  38.  This  line  was  added  by  Coleridge  in  ed.   1800 — Prof.  Knight, 


NOTES  493 

who  says  also  that  in  1.  30  above  '  downcast '  (ed.  1800)  for  '  downward ' 
(ed.  1798)  was  an  emendation  by  Coleridge. 

P.  31.  Lines,  etc.  Begun  before  October  1787,  finished  not  before 
1795: — Composed  in  part  at  school  at  Hawkshead. — I.  F.  I.e.  before 
October  1787.  First  published  in  the  Lyrical  Ballads  of  1798.  In 
edd.  1815-1843  placed  among  Poems  of  Sentiment  and  Reflection.  The 
close  of  the  poem,  as  Mr.  Hutchinson  remarks  (Lyrical  Ballads,  ed.  1898, 
p.  219),  '  cannot  have  been  written  earlier  than  1795,  for  here  Words- 
worth sounds  a  counterblast  to  the  teacher  at  whose  feet  he  had  sat 
during  the  years  1793-1794,'  i.e.  Godwin. 

P.  34.  VIII.  GUILT  AND  SORROW  ;  or,  Incidents  upon  Salisbury  Plain, 
1.  81  : — From  a  short  MS.  poem  read  to  me  when  an  undergraduate,  by 
my  schoolfellow  and  friend,  Charles  Parish,  long  since  deceased.  The 
verses  were  by  a  brother  of  his,  a  man  of  promising  genius,  who  died 
young.— W. 

P.  35,  11.  107-108.  This  couplet  is  an  echo  of  one  in  An  Evening 
Walk,  11.  248-249,  of  swans  : 

Or,  starting  up  with  noise  and  rude  delight, 
Force  half  upon  the  wave  their  cumbrous  flight. 
L.  122.  Cp.  The  Prelude,  xiii.  331-335  : 
It  is  the  sacrificial  altar,  fed 

With  living  men — how  deep  the  groans  !  the  voice 
Of  those  that  crowd  the  giant  wicker  thrills 
The  monumental  hillocks,  and  the  pomp 
Is  for  both  worlds,  the  living  and  the  dead. 

P.  37,  1.  214.  June  was  substituted  for  May  in  this  line  in  ed.  1820. 
P.  38,  11.  226-234.    In  the  place  of  this  stanza  originally  stood  the 
two  following  : 

The  suns  of  twenty  summers  (lanced  along, — 

Ah  !  little  marked,  how  fast  they  rolled  away  : 

Then  rose  a  mansion  proud  our  woods  among, 

And  cottage  after  cottage  owned  its  sway. 

No  joy  to  see  a  neighbouring  house  or  stray 

Through  pastures  not  his  own,  the  master  took  ; 

My  father  dared  his  greedy  wish  gainsay ; 

He  loved  his  old  hereditary  nook, 

And  ill  could  I  the  thought  of  such  sad  parting  brook. 

But,  when  he  had  refused  the  proffered  gold, 

To  cruel  injuries  he  became  a  prey, 

Sore  traversed  in  whate'er  he  bought  and  sold  ; 

His  troubles  grew  upon  him  day  by  day, 

Till  all  his  substance  fell  into  decay. 

His  little  range  of  water  was  denied  ; l 

1  Several  of  the  lakes  in  the  north  of  England  are  let  out  to  different  fishermen, 
in  parcels  marked  out  by  imaginary  lines  drawn  from  rock  to  rock. — W.  (1798). 


494  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

All  but  the  bed  where  his  old  body  lay, 
All,  all  was  seized,  and  weeping,  side  by  side, 
We  sought  a  home  where  we  uninjured  might  abide. 
The  substantial  alteration  of  the  text,  by  which  this  attack  upon  the 
evils  of  '  landlordism '  was  omitted,  was  made  in  ed.  1820. 

P.  40,  1.  297-  After  this  stanza  followed  only  in  edd.  1798  and  1800 
the  following : 

Oh  !  dreadful  price  of  being  to  resign 
All  that  is  dear  in  being  !  better  far 
In  Want's  most  lonely  cave  till  death  to  pine, 
Unseen,  unheard,  un watched  by  any  star ; 
Or  in  the  streets  and  walks  where  proud  men  are, 
Better  our  dying  bodies  to  obtrude, 
Than  dog-like,  wading  at  the  heels  of  war, 
Protract  a  cursed  existence,  with  the  brood 
That  lap  (their  very  nourishment !)  their  brother's  blood. 
P.  41,  1.  326.  Cp.  above,  An  Evening  Walk,  1.  135. 
P.  43,  1.  405.  After  this  stanza  stood  in  edd.  1798-1805  the  follow- 
ing (the  motive  of  its  removal  was  doubtless  Wordsworth's  increased 
conviction  of  the  value  of  order   and  industry.     Cp.    Gipsies  (written 
1807),  above,  p.  320)  : 

My  heart  is  touched  to  think  that  men  like  these, 
The  rude  earth's  tenants,  were  my  first  relief : 
How  kindly  did  they  paint  their  vagrant  ease ! 
And  their  long  holiday  that  feared  not  grief, 
For  all  belonged  to  all,  and  each  was  chief. 
No  plough  their  sinews  strained  ;  on  grating  road 
No  wain  they  drove,  and  yet,  the  yellow  sheaf 
In  every  vale  for  their  delight  was  stowed  : 
For  them,  in  nature's  meads,  the  milky  udder  flowed. 
P.  45,  1.  493.     Griding: — Wordsworth  no  doubt  borrowed  this  word 
from  Milton  (cp.  Paradise  Lost,  vi.  329),  as  Milton  from  Spenser,  and 
Spenser  from  Lydgate.     Cp.  New  Eng.  Diet. 

P.  50.  1791-1794: — Stanzas  xxiii. -xxxiv.  and  xxxviii.-l.  of  this  poem 
were  first  published  under  the  title  The  Female  Vagrant,  in  Lyrical  Ballads 
(1798).  The  Female  Vagrant  underwent  considerable  changes  and  excisions 
in  subsequent  editions. .  The  whole  poem,  Guilt  and  Sorrow,  first  appeared 
in  Poems,  chiefly  of  Early  and  Late  Years  (1842).  The  stanzas  not 
previously  published  had  been  considerably  altered  since  their  first  com- 
position, as  the  following  extract  from  Wordsworth's  note  dictated  to 
Miss  Fenwick  testifies.  'Mr.  Coleridge,  when  I  first  became  acquainted 
with  him,  was  so  much  impressed  with  this  poem,  that  it  would  have 
encouraged  me  to  publish  the  whole  as  it  then  stood  ;  but  the  mariner's 
fate  appeared  to  me  so  tragical  as  to  require  a  treatment  more  subdued 
and  yet  more  strictly  applicable  in  expression  than  I  had  at  first  given 
to  it.  This  fault  was  corrected  nearly  fifty  years  afterwards,  when  I 


NOTES  495 

determined  to  publish  the  whole.'  Cp.  Coleridge,  Biographia  Literaria, 
ch.  iv. ,  where  the  effect  of  the  poem  upon  Coleridge,  then  in  his  twenty- 
fourth  year,  is  recorded  amid  some  of  his  best  criticism.  Coleridge 
especially  notices  that  in  this  poem  Wordsworth  has  freed  himself  from 
the  conventional,  '  arbitrary  and  illogical  phrases,'  which  to  some  extent 
hung  about  such  early  work  as  the  Descriptive  Sketches.  It  is  noteworthy, 
in  this  connection,  that  in  the  first  stanza  of  The  Female  Vagrant  the  line 
'  High  o'er  the  cliffs  I  led  my  fleecy  store'  exemplifies  in  its  synonym  for 
'  sheep '  the  poetic  diction  against  which  the  poet  waged  war  ;  and  that 
in  the  second  edition  of  Lyrical  Ballads  (1800)  the  stanza  is  altered  so 
that  the  expression  '  fleecy  store '  may  be  left  out.  With  regard  to  the 
subject  and  motive  of  the  poem,  Wordsworth  wrote  to  his  friend 
Wrangham  in  Dec.  1795  (Hutchinsou,  Lyrical  Ballads,  1898,  p.  226)  that 
it  was  composed  (to  expose  the  vices  of  the  penal  law,  and  the  calamities 
of  war  as  they  affect  individuals.'  It  develops  the  sentiment  of  the 
gloomier  parts  of  the  Descriptive  Sketches,  and  shows  Wordsworth  at  the 
climax  of  his  Godwinian  and  '  Republican '  period.  Cp.  his  Letter  to  the 
Bishop  of  Landaff:  by  a  Republican  (1793). 

P.  51.  THE  BORDEKERS. — A  TRAGEDY.  This  dramatic  piece,  as  noticed 
in  its  title-page,  was  composed  in  1795-1796.  It  lay  from  that  time  till 
within  the  last  two  or  three  months  unregarded  among  my  papers, 
without  being  mentioned  even  to  my  most  intimate  friends.  Having, 
however,  impressions  upon  my  mind  which  made  me  unwilling  to 
destroy  the  MS.,  I  determined  to  undertake  the  responsibility  of  publish- 
ing it  during  my  own  life,  rather  than  impose  upon  my  successors  the 
task  of  deciding  its  fate.  Accordingly,  it  has  been  revised  with  some 
care ;  but,  as  it  was  at  first  written,  and  is  now  published,  without  any 
view  to  its  exhibition  upon  the  stage,  not  the  slightest  alteration  has 
been  made  in  the  conduct  of  the  story,  or  the  composition  of  the 
characters ;  above  all,  in  respect  to  the  two  leading  persons  of  the 
drama,  I  felt  no  inducement  to  make  any  change.  The  study  of  human 
nature  suggests  this  awful  truth,  that,  as  in  the  trials  to  which  life 
subjects  us,  sin  and  crime  are  apt  to  start  from  their  very  opposite 
qualities,  so  are  there  no  limits  to  the  hardening  of  the  heart,  and  the 
perversion  of  the  understanding  to  which  they  may  carry  their  slaves. 
During  my  long  residence  in  France,  while  the  revolution  was  rapidly 
advancing  to  its  extreme  of  wickedness,  I  had  frequent  opportunities  of 
being  an  eye-witness  of  this  process,  and  it  was  while  that  knowledge 
was  fresh  upon  my  memory,  that  the  Tragedy  of  The  Borderers  was 
composed.— W.  (1842). 

The  Borderers  shows  Wordsworth  at  the  gloomiest  period  of  his  spiritual 
experience,  but  just  emerging  from  it.  Whereas  in  The  Female  Vagrant 
and  Descriptive  Sketches  his  criticism  of  the  social  order  implies  hope  of 
its  regeneration  through  the  application  of  Godwinian  and  French- 
revolutionary  principles,  in  The  Borderers  his  view  of  man  and  society 


496  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

is  more  pessimistic.  As  Mr.  Hutchinson  well  puts  it,  '  looking  back 
upon  his  former  self — the  sanguine  enthusiast  of  1793 — he  exclaimed  in 
the  bitterness  of  his  soul : 

We  look 

But  at  the  surfaces  of  things  :  we  hear 
Of  towns  in  flames,  fields  ravaged,  young  and  old 
Driven  out  in  troops  to  want  and  nakedness ; 
Then  grasp  our  swords,  and  rush  upon  a  cure 
That  flatters  us,  because  it  asks  not  thought: 
The  deeper  malady  is  better  hid  ; 
The  world  is  poisoned  at  the  heart. — (11.  1039-1046.)' 

Cp.  The  Prelude,  xi. ,  especially  11.  30G-320.  The  Borderers  was  offered  to 
the  manager  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  on  the  suggestion  of  Thomas 
Knight,  the  actor  (d.  1820,  Diet.  Nat.  Biog.).  '  I  had  no  hope,  nor  even  a 
wish  (though  a  successful  play  would  in  the  then  state  of  my  finances  have 
been  a  most  welcome  piece  of  good  fortune),  that  he  should  accept  my 
performance;  so  that  I  incurred  no  disappointment  when  the  piece  was 
judiciously  returned  as  not  calculated  for  the  stage.  In  this  judgement 
I  entirely  concurred  :  and  had  it  been  otherwise,  it  was  so  natural  for 
me  to  shrink  from  public  notice,  that  any  hope  I  might  have  had  of 
success  would  not  have  reconciled  me  altogether  to  such  an  exhibition.' 
—I.  F. 

Coleridge  wrote  to  Cottle,  '  Wordsworth  has  written  a  tragedy  him- 
self. I  speak  with  heartfelt  sincerity,  and,  I  think,  unblinded  judge- 
ment, when  I  tell  you  that  I  feel  myself  a  little  man  by  his  side,  and  yet 
I  do  not  think  myself  a  less  man  than  I  formerly  thought  myself.  His 
drama  is  absolutely  wonderful.  You  know  I  do  not  commonly  speak  in 
such  abrupt  and  unmingled  phrases,  and  therefore  will  the  more  readily 
believe  me.  There  are  in  the  piece  those  profound  touches  of  the  human 
heart  which  I  find  three  or  four  times  in  the  Robbers  of  Schiller,  and 
often  in  Shakespeare;  but  in  Wordsworth  there  are  no  inequalities.' 
This  enthusiasm  reads  strangely  now  that  the  play  itself  is  almost  un- 
read ;  but  it  is  not  more  disproportionate  to  the  value  of  the  play  than 
the  enthusiasm  of  a  contemporary  generally  is,  when  once  it  is  aroused  ; 
and  to  the  poem  considered  as  a  poem  and  a  study,  rather  than  an 
embodiment,  of  certain  human  passions,  it  is  far  less  disproportionate. 
Wordsworth  himself  passes  indirectly  the  soundest  criticism  upon  the 
play.  '  Had  it  been  the  work  of  a  later  period  of  life,  it  would  have 
been  different  in  some  respects  from  what  it  is  now.  The  plot  would 
have  been  something  more  complex,  and  a  greater  variety  of  characters 
introduced  to  relieve  the  mind  from  the  pressure  of  incidents  so  mournful. 
The  manners  also  would  have  been  more  attended  to.  My  care  was 
almost  exclusively  given  to  the  passions  and  the  character,  and  the 
position  in  which  the  persons  in  the  drama  stood  relatively  to  each  other, 
that  the  reader  (for  I  had  then  no  thought  of  the  stage)  might  be  moved, 
and  to  a  degree  instructed,  by  lights  penetrating  somewhat  into  the 


NOTES  497 

depths  of  our  nature.  In  this  endeavour,  I  cannot  think,  upon  a  very 
late  review,  that  I  have  failed.' — I.  F.  One  cannot  help  recalling  the 
anecdote  related— and  very  likely  invented — by  Lamb,  that  Wordsworth 
'  says  he  does  not  see  much  difficulty  in  writing  like  Shakspeare,  if  he 
had  a  mind  to  try  it.  It  is  clear  then  nothing  is  wanting  but  the  mind.'/ 
(Letter  to  Manning,  February  26,  1808.)  At  any  rate,  Wordsworth, 
great  poet  as  he  was,  never  did  produce  another  drama. 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE.  Some  eight  or  ten  lines: — Cp.  11.  1539  foil.,  which 
followed  the  dedication  of  The  White  Doe  of  Rylstone  in  ed.  1836. 


POEMS  REFERRING  TO  THE  PERIOD  OF  CHILDHOOD 

P.  115.  I.  March  26,  1802  :— Professor  Dowden  notices  that  e  on  the 
same  day  Wordsworth  worked  at  The  Cuckoo  (above,  p.  306),  which  in 
idea  may  be  said  to  be  a  companion-piece  to  this  little  poem,  both  being 
occupied  with  the  carrying  on  of  the  feelings  of  boyhood  into  mature 
years. ' 

P.  115.  II.  To  A  BUTTERFLY,  1.  12.  Emmeline — pseudonym  for 
Dorothy,  the  poet's  sister. 

March  14, 1802  : — This  poem  is  dated  1801  in  ed.  1849,  and  the  previous 
poem  1804  ;  but  the  date  of  composition  of  both  is  fixed  by  Dorothy  Words- 
worth's Journal.  Cp.  the  other  To  a  Butterfly  (above,  p.  161). 

P.  117.  IV.  FORESIGHT.  April  28, 1802  :— The  last  stanza  was  added  in 
ed.  1815,  and  the  third  considerably  altered. 

P.  117-  V.  CHARACTERISTICS  OP  A  CHILD  THREE  YEARS  OLD  : — The 
poet's  second  daughter  and  fourth  child,  Catharine,  born  Sept.  6,  1808, 
died  June  4,  1812.  Cp.  above,  p.  442,  Surprised  by  Joy. 

P.  119.  VI.  ADDRESS  TO  A  CHILD,  DURING  A  BOISTEROUS  WINTER 
EVENING,  BY  MY  SISTER,  1.  43.  Edward: — pseudonym  for  'Johnnie, 
the  household  name  of  Wordsworth's  first-born.' — Mr.  Hutchinson. 

P.  122.  VIII.  ALICE  FELL;  OR,  POVERTY.  L.  57.  Duffil: — woollen  cloth 
of  a  thick  nap,  named  from  the  town  Duffel  in  Brabant. 

1802 :— Dated  1801  in  ed.  1849  ;  the  true  date  is  taken  from  Dorothy 
Wordsworth's  Journal.  Wordsworth  excluded  the  piece  from  edd. 
1820,  1827,  1832,  '  in  policy,'  because  '  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.' — I.  F.  The 
incident  happened  to  a  Mr.  Grahame,  brother  of  James  Grahame  (1765- 
1811),,  the  author  of  The  Sabbath  (1804),  and  the  poem  was  written  at 
Mr.  Grahame's  request. 
i-II 


498  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Of  this  ballad,  and  The  Sailor's  Mother  (above,  p.  186),  and  Beggars 
(above,  p.  318),  which  were  all  written  during  March  11-14,  1802,  Mr. 
Hutchinson  remarks  in  the  course  of  an  interesting  note  (Poems  in  Two 
Volumes,  ed.  1897,  vol.  i.  p.  189):  'We  learn  from  Dorothy's  Journal  that 
on  March  5  and  7,  brother  and  sister  were  engaged  on  the  revisal  of  the 
Lyrical  Ballads  of  1800,  of  which  a  new  edition  with  revised  text  and 
expanded  Preface  appeared  in  the  early  summer  of  1802.  Now  the  three 
ballads  of  March  11-14  read  almost  like  specimen  verses,  composed 
expressly  to  illustrate  the  working  of  the  author's  principles  of  poetic 
style.' 

P.  122.  IX.  Lucv  GRAY  ;  OB,  SOLITUDE  : — Of  th.is  poem,  founded  on 
fact,  Wordsworth  says  :  'The  way  in  which  the  incident  was  treated,  and 
the  spiritualising  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  judgement.' — I.  F. 

P.  124.  X.  WE  ABE  SEVEN,  1.  4.  This  first  stanza,  with  'A  little  child, 
dear  brother  Jim,'  or  rather  l  Jem,'  in  allusion  to  a  friend  James  Tobin, 
who  was  so-called,  for  its  first  line,  was  thrown  off  by  Coleridge  on 
the  afternoon  during  which  Wordsworth  had  composed  the  rest  of  the 
poem.  Wordsworth  had  recited  his  poem  to  his  sister  and  Coleridge, 
saying  that  a  prefatory  stanza  must  be  added,  and  mentioning  in  sub- 
stance what  he  wished  to  be  expressed. — From  I.  F.  The  first  line  stood, 
'A  simple  child,  dear  brother  Jim,'  until  1815.  The  Fenwick  note  to 
this  poem  contains  an  interesting  account  of  the  genesis  of  Coleridge's 
Ancient  Mariner,  which  was  planned  in  common  during  a  short  walking 
tour  made  by  the  two  poets  and  Dorothy  Wordsworth  in  the  spring  of 
1798. 

P.  126.  XI.  THE  IDLE  SHEPHEBD-BOYS  ;  OB,  DUNGEON-GHYLL  FOBCE, 
1.  20.  Rusty  Hats  is  a  perfectly  intelligible  expression,  but  it  is 
curious  that  in  the  Fenwick  note  we  read,  (.  .  .  My  shepherd-boys 
trimmed  their  rustic  hats  as  described  in  the  poem.'  The  whole  Fen- 
wick note  is  valuable  as  literary  criticism.  '  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  know- 


NOTES  499 

ing  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. 

P.  128.  XII.  ANECDOTE  FOR  FATHERS.  '  Ret ine  vim  istam,  falsa  enim 
dicam,  si  coges ' : — This  is  a  translation  of  an  oracle  quoted  by  Eusebius  in 
his  Preparatio  Enangelica,  bk.  vi.  ch.  v.,  icAete  f$ir)v  Kupros  Te  Xoyw 
*l/fv8ijy6pa  Xe'£«.  In  editions  from  1800  to  1843  the  title  was  Anecdote  for 
Fathers,  showing  how  the  Practice  of  Lying  may  be  taught.  The  motto  was 
substituted  for  the  explanation  in  ed.  1845. 

L.  1. '  The  boy  was  a  son  of  my  friend  Basil  Montagu,  who  had  been  two 
or  three  years  under  our  care.' — I.  F. 

L.  10.  Kilve: — A  village  on  the  Bristol  Channel  about  a  mile  from 
Alfoxden. 

P.  129,  1.  24.  Liswynfarm: — 'A  beautiful  spot  on  the  Wye,  where 
Mr.  Coleridge,  my  sister,  and  I  had  been  visiting  the  famous  John  Thel- 
wall,  who  had  taken  refuge  from  politics,  after  a  trial  for  high  treason, 
with  a  view  to  bring  up  his  family  by  the  profits  of  agriculture,  which 
proved  as  unfortunate  a  speculation  as  that  he  had  fled  from.' — L  F. 

P.  130.  XIII.  RURAL  ARCHITECTURE,  1.  3.  The  height  of  a  counsellor's 
bag  is  not  at  the  present  day  an  illuminating  expression  ;  but  in  Words- 
worth's day  (as  we  may  gather  from  this  passage),  and  even  as  lately  as 
thirty  or  forty  years  ago,  it  would  have  been  intelligible  enough  to  any 
one  who  had  visited  a  court  of  law.  Barristers  used  to  carry  their  blue 
or  red  brief-bags  slung  over  their  shoulders  and  hanging  down  their 
backs — a  practice  which  has  almost,  if  not  entirely,  died  out.  I  owe 
this  statement  to  a  retired  barrister  who  remembers  the  custom. 

1800 : — Dated  by  Wordsworth  1801,  but  first  published  in  the  Lyrical 
Ballads  of  1800. 

P.  133.  XV.  To  H.  C.  :— Hartley  Coleridge,  first-born  child  of  the 
poet  Coleridge,  born  1796,  himself  the  author  of  exquisite  sonnets, 
died  1849. 

P.  134.  XVI.  INFLUENCE  OF  NATURAL  OBJECTS,  in  calling  forth  and 
strengthening  the  Imagination  in  Boyhood  and  Early  Youth.  From  an  un- 
published poem  : — From  The  Prelude,  i.  401. 


500  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

P.  134.  This  extract  is  reprinted  from  '  The  Friend '  :— No.  19  (Dec.  28, 
1809)  of  Coleridge's  famous  periodical. 

L.  20.  The  trembling  lake : — Esthwaite,  the  lake  close  to  Hawkshead, 
where  Wordsworth  spent  his  school-days. 

P.  135,  1.  56.  The  picture  presented  by  these  lines  as  a  whole  is  as 
vivid  as  possible,  but  the  exact  meaning  of  the  expression  '  spinning  still 
the  rapid  line  of  motion '  is  not  very  clear.  '  Still '  must  mean  (  con- 
tinuously,' and  the  idea  seems  to  be  that  the  continuous  streaming  past 
of  the  banks  resembles  the  continuous  flow  of  thread  from  the  spinning- 
wheel.  Cp.  note  on  An  Evening  Walk,  1.  48,  above,  p.  481. 

L.  63.  In  The  Prelude  the  line  runs  :  '  Till  all  was  tranquil  as  a 
dreamless  sleep.'  The  change  is  for  the  worse  in  point  of  sound,  but 
Wordsworth  probably  felt  that  the  substituted  comparison  was  the  more 
appropriate  ;  or  he  may  have  made  the  alteration  under  the  influence  of 
his  well-known  dislike  of  the  adjectival  use  of  substantives.  Cp.  note 
on  Descriptive  Sketches,  1.  238,  above,  p.  488. 

P.  137.  XVIII.  THE  NORMAN  BOY  : — The  subject  of  this  poem  was 
sent  to  me  by  Mrs.  Ogle,  to  whom  I  was  pei'sonally  unknown,  with  a 
hope  on  her  part  that  I  might  be  induced  to  relate  the  incident  in 
verse  ;  and  I  do  not  regret  that  I  took  the  trouble  ;  for  not  improbably 
the  fact  is  illustrative  of  the  boy's  early  piety,  and  may  concur  with  my 
other  little  pieces  on  children,  to  produce  profitable  reflection  among  my 
youthful  readers.  This  is  said,  however,  with  an  absolute  conviction 
that  children  will  derive  most  benefit  from  books  which  are  not  un- 
worthy the  perusal  of  persons  of  any  age.  I  protest  with  my  whole 
heart  against  those  productions,  so  abundant  in  the  present  day,  in 
which  the  doings  of  children  are  dwelt  upon  as  if  they  were  incapable 
of  being  interested  in  anything  else.  On  this  subject  I  have  dwelt  at 
length  in  the  poem  on  the  growth  of  my  own  mind. — I.  F. 

P.  140.  XIX.  THE  POET'S  DREAM,  1.  28.  A  hollow  dale  in  the  burial- 
ground  of  Allonville  in  the  Pays  de  Caux,  which  was  transformed  into 
a  chapel  to  ( our  Lady  of  Peace '  by  the  Abbe  du  Detroit  in  1696  (from 
Wordsworth's  note). 

P.  141,  1.  73.  The  allusion  is  probably  to  Hippolyte  de  la  Morvonnais, 
a  French  poet,  who  was  a  great  admirer  of  Wordsworth.  In  an  interest- 
ing contribution  to  Prof.  Knight's  Eversley  edition  (vol.  vin.  p.  429), 
Prof.  Legouis  quotes  the  passage  of  de  la  Morvonnais  to  which  Words- 
worth probably  alludes : 

Enfant,  il  (Dieu)  te  promet  le  domaine  de  1'ange 

Si  tu  gardes  1'amour  et  la  foi  des  aieux, 
Et  sa  Mere,  aujourd'hui  loin  de  1'humaine  fange, 
Que  tu  n'as  pas  conuue  et  qui  t'attend  aux  cieux. 


NOTES  501 

P.  142.  XX.  THK  WESTMORELAND  GIRL.  This  Westmoreland  girl 
was  Sarah  Mackereth  of  Wyke  Cottage,  Grasmere.— Prof.  Knight,  who 
also  quotes  from  a  letter  of  Wordsworth  that  the  poem  '  is  truth  to  the 
letter. ' 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS 

P.  146.  I.  THE  BROTHERS,  1.  65,  Footnote.  I  have  not  been  able  to  trace 
the  prose  description  here  referred  to.  The  only  published  work  of  Gil- 
bert's which  is  extant  in  the  British  Museum  and  the  Bodleian,  and  is 
mentioned  in  his  life  in  the  Diet.  Nat.  Biog.  (Supplement,  vol.  n.),  is 
that  containing  the  two  curious  poems  The  Hurricane :  a  Theosophical  and 
Western  Eclogue,  and  A  Solitary  Effusion  in  a  Summer's  Evening  (Bristol, 
1796).  There  is  no  description  of  the  calenture  either  in  the  verse  or  in 
the  prose  of  this  volume.  Gilbert  was  acquainted  with  Cottle,  the  Bristol 
publisher,  and  Southey  and  Coleridge.  Southey  wrote  of  him  in  a  private 
letter,  after  he  had  disappeared  and  was  supposed  to  be  dead  :  '  He  was 
the  most  insane  person  I  have  ever  known  at  large,  and  his  insanity 
smothered  his  genius.'  Gilbert's  biographer  in  the  Diet.  Nat.  Biog.,  Dr. 
Garnett,  somewhat  understates  the  case  when  he  says  that  he  'gives  few 
tokens  of  insanity  as  long  as  he  keeps  to  description ' ;  but  it  is  certain 
that  he  gives  many  tokens  of  real,  though  disordered,  genius.  The  notes 
which  form  the  greater  part  of  his  volume  are  one  of  the  strangest  medleys 
of  wild  nonsense,  curious  knowledge,  and  occasional  penetration  that 
have  ever  been  published :  they  owe  their  remembrance,  however,  to 
the  fact  that  Wordsworth  quoted  from  them  a  passage,  which  he  called 
'  one  of  the  finest  passages  of  modern  English  prose,'  in  his  notes  to  The 
Excursion  (cp.  vol.  in.  p.  554),  and  which  '  thus  conspicuously  brought 
forward,'  says  Dr.  Garnett,  'seems  to  have  inspired  Keats  with  the 
Darien  simile  in  his  sonnet  On  opening  Chapman's  Homer.' 

P.  148,  1.  145.  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.  (1800). 

P.  149,  1.  183.  There  is  not  anything  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  churchyards,  as  here  described,  do  not 
contain  a  single  tombstone,  and  most  of  them  have  a  very  small  number. 
— W.  (1800.) 

P.  153,  1.  369.  This  line  and  the  following  differ  to  a  considerable 
extent  from  the  passage  as  it  stood  in  the  original.  The  recasting  was 
no  doubt  partly  due  to  Coleridge,  who,  in  criticising  Wordsworth's 


502  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

theory  of  the  identity  of  the  language  of  prose  and  that  of  verse,  wrote 
(Biog.  Lit.,  ch.  xviii.  note,  p.  186,  Bohn)  :  '  In  those  parts  of  Mr.  Words- 
worth's works  which  I  have  thoroughly  studied,  I  find  fewer  instances  in 
which  this  [viz.,  rendering  a  passage  unrecognisable  as  verse  by  simply 
transcribing  it  as  prose]  would  be  practicable,  than  I  have  met  in  many 
poems,  where  an  approximation  of  prose  has  been  sedulously  and  on 
system  guarded  against.  Indeed,  excepting  the  stanzas  already  quoted 
from  The  Sailor's  Mother,  I  can  recollect  but  one  instance,  viz. ,  a  short 
passage  of  four  or  five  lines  in  The  Brothers,  that  model  of  English 
pastoral,  which  I  never  yet  read  with  unclouded  eye :  "  James,  pointing 
to  its  summit,  over  which  they  had  all  purposed  to  return  together, 
informed  them  that  he  would  wait  for  them  there.  They  parted,  and 
his  comrades  passed  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  house,  learnt  there  that  nobody  had  seen  him 
all  that  day."  The  only  change  which  has  been  made  is  in  the  position 
of  the  little  word  " there"  in  two  instances,  the  position  in  the  original 
being  clearly  such  as  is  not  adopted  in  ordinary  conversation.  The 
other  words  printed  in  italics  were  so  marked  because,  though  good  and 
genuine  English,  they  are  not  the  phraseology  of  common  conversation 
either  in  the  word  put  in  apposition,  or  in  the  connection  by  the  genitive 
pronoun.  Men  in  general  would  have  said,  "  but  that  was  a  circumstance 
they  paid  no  attention  to"  or  "took  no  notice  of,"  and  the  language  is, 
on  the  theory  of  the  Preface,  j  ustified  only  by  the  narrator's  being  the 
Vicar.  Yet  if  any  ear  could  suspect  that  these  sentences  were  ever 
printed  as  metre,  on  those  very  words  alone  could  the  suspicion  have 
been  grounded.' 

P.  155.  II.  AHTBGAL  AND  ELIDURB  (see  the  Chronicle  of  Geoffrey  of 
Monmouth,  and  Milton's  History  of  England)  : — This  was  written  at  Rydal 
Mount,  as  a  token  of  affectionate  respect  for  the  memory  of  Milton.  '  I 
have  determined,'  says  he  in  his  Preface  to  his  History  of  England,  'to 
bestow  the  telling  over  even  of  these  reputed  tales,  be  it  for  nothing 
else  but  in  favour  of  our  English  poets  and  rhetoricians,  who  by  their 
wit  well  know  how  to  use  them  judiciously.' — I.  F.  The  reference  to 
Milton  should  be  book  i.  par.  2,  and  for  'wit'  should  be  read  ' art.' 

L.  16.  '  Who  never  tasted  grace,  and  goodness  ne'er  had  felt' : — I  have 
not  been  able  to  trace  this  quotation.  It  does  not  appear  to  be  a  para- 
phrase of  anything  in  Milton's  History  ;  nor,  so  far  as  I  can  find,  is  it  an 
Alexandrine  from  Spenser's  Faerie  Queene  or  Thompson's  Castle  of 
Indolence. 

P.  157,  1.  92.  Poorly  provided,  poorly  followed.  Milton's  History,  bk.  i. 
p.  34  (ed.  1695)  has  ( in  a  poor  Habit,  with  only  ten  followers.'  Words- 
worth, however,  appears  to  be  making  an  actual  quotation  from  some 
source  to  me  unknown. 


NOTES  503 

P.  161.  III.  To  A  BUTTERFLY.  April  20,  1802  :— The  Fenwick  note 
gives  1801  as  the  date  of  this  poem  ;  but  we  know  from  Dorothy  Words- 
worth's Journal  that  it  was  written  on  April  20,  1802.  Dorothy 
Wordsworth  speaks  of  it,  apparently,  as  a  '  conclusion '  to  the  poem 
To  a  Butterfly,  beginning,  '  Stay  near  me,'  etc.  Cp.  above,  p.  115. 

P.  162.  IV.  A  FAREWELL :— For  Dove  Cottage,  the  'little  Nook  of 
mountain-ground,'  and  for  Wordsworth's  marriage  with  Mary  Hutchin- 
son,  to  which  reference  is  made  in  this  poem,  cp.  Introd.  p.  xliv. 

L.  22.  Gowan: — Usually,  as  e.g.  in  Auld  Lang  Syne  (fand  pu'd  the 
gowans  fine '),  translated  '  daisy,'  but  obviously  not  to  be  so  translated 
here.  Wordsworth  almost  certainly  means  the  Globe-flower  (Trollius 
Europceus),  known  in  Scotland  as  the  Lucken-gowan.  "See  Jamieson's 
Scottish  Dictionary,  sub  voc.  Gowan,  where  any  obstinate  persuasion  that 
gowan  must  mean  daisy  will  be  dispelled.  Of  Globe-flowers  Robinson 
(English  Flower-Garden)  says  :  ( They  may  be  grown  in  beds  or  borders, 
or  naturalised  by  ponds,  streams,  or  in  any  wet  place.'  The  corn-mari- 
gold, which  might  equally  well  or  even  more  appropriately  have  been  called 
'  gowan'  by  Wordsworth  (see  Jamieson,  loc.  cit.),  cannot  here  be  meant, 
because  it  is  too  dark  to  be  called  '  saffron,'  it  does  not  grow  in  such  a 
locality  as  Wordsworth  describes,  and  it  does  not  flower  at  the  same  time 
of  year  as  the  marsh-marigold.  In  writing  this  note,  for  Selected  Poems 
of  William  Wordsworth,  I  was  much  indebted  to  my  friend  Mr.  A.  P.  P. 
Keep,  of  the  Inner  Temple,  Barrister-at-law. 

P.  163,  1.  56.  Of  which  I  sang  one  song  that  will  not  die : — The  Sparrow's 
Nest,  see  above,  p.  116. 

P.  163.  V.  STANZAS.  Written  in  my  Pocket-copy  of  Thomson's  Castle  of 
Indolence : — The  subject  of  the  first  four  stanzas  is  Wordsworth  himself, 
that  of  the  next  three,  Coleridge.  Matthew  Arnold,  misled,  probably,  by 
some  careless  quotations  of  De  Quincey,  as  well  as  by  a  certain  super- 
ficial appropriateness  of  some  of  the  phrases  in  the  earlier  stanzas  to  the 
much-suffering  Coleridge,  has  helped  to  popularise  the  error  of  supposing 
that  Coleridge  is  the  subject  of  the  first  four,  Wordsworth  of  the  next 
three  stanzas.  In  a  letter  to  Prof.  Knight,  however,  he  avows  the 
correct  belief.  Cp.  Knight's  Wordsworth  (Eversley  Series),  vol.  ii. 
p.  310  ;  Dowden's  Wordsworth  (Aldine),  vol.  i.  p.  383.  This  poem,  apart 
from  its  intrinsic  beauty,  is  of  importance  as  correcting  a  widespread 
illusion,  that  Wordsworth  was  of  a  somewhat  dispassionate  or  phleg- 
matic temperament.  Cp.  the  early  part  of  Resolution  and  Independence, 
above,  p.  328,  and  Dorothy  Wordsworth's  frequent  references  in  her 
Journal  to  the  poet's  excitability  in,  and  nervous  prostration  after,  com- 
position. The  poem  should  be  read  in  connection  with  The  Castle  of 
Indolence.  Mr.  Hutchinson  well  remarks  (Athenwum,  Dec.  15,  1894, 
quoted  by  Knight,  loc.  cit.)  that  the  stanzas  'are  meant  to  be  read 
as  though  they  were  an  afterthought  of  James  Thomson's.  Their 


504  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

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.'  Mr.  Hutchinson  and  the  late  Canon  Ainger  have 
also  pointed  out  the  resemblance  between  Wordsworth's  description  of 
himself  and  Beattie's  Minstrel.  Prof.  Knight  adds  :  '  It  is  somewhat 
curious  that  Dorothy  Wordsworth,  writing  to  Miss  Pollard  from  Forn- 
cett  in  1793,  quotes  the  line  from  The  Minstrel,  bk.  i.  st.  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."' 

P.  165,  1.  58.  Mr.  Hutchinson  has  called  my  attention  to  the  fact  that 
the  word  '  deftly'  is  glossed  in  north-country  dialect  dictionaries  as 
'  softly,  gently.'  The  word  '  lightly  '  would  form  a  bridge  between  this 
and  the  more  universal  use  of  the  word. 

P.  165.  VI.  LOUISA.  After  accompanying  her  on  a  Mountain  Excursion: — 
There  is  room  for  doubt  with  regard  to  both  the  date  of  this  poem  and 
the  identity  of  the  person  named.  It  was  dated  by  Wordsworth  1805, 
but  he  told  Miss  Fenwick  that  the  poem  To  a  Young  Lady  (above, 
p.  368),  which  was  published  in  Feb.  1802,  was  written  fat  the 
same  time '  as  this  one.  It  seems  probable  that  the  two  were  written 
between  Dec.  1800  and  Oct.  1801,  during  which  time  we  have  no 
Journal  of  Dorothy  Wordsworth.  The  date,  however,  is  not  likely 
to  be  fixed,  unless  we  can  fix  the  identity  of  the  person  named  Louisa. 
The  most  plausible  conjecture  on  the  latter  point  is  that  of  Mr.  Hutchin- 
son (in  his  reprint  (181)7)  of  the  Poems  in  Two  Volumes  of  1807 ;  cp.,  too, 
Mr.  W.  Hale  White,  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  MSS.,  p.  46),  based  on 
Wordsworth's  practice  of  choosing  pseudonyms  metrically  equivalent  to 
the  real  name  thus  veiled.  He  thinks  that  Louisa  stands  for  Joanna 
Hutchinson,  who  in  1801  was  twenty-one  years  of  age.  Prof.  Knight 
thinks  that  Dorothy  Wordsworth  is  meant,  Mr.  Ernest  Coleridge,  Mary 
Hutchinson,  afterwards  the  poet's  wife. 

L.  12.  I  follow  Mr.  Hutchinson's  example  in  printing  this  stanza  in  the 
text,  though  for  some  strange  and  unexplained  reason,  it  was  omitted  in 
ed.  1845  and  subsequent  editions. 

P.  167.  IX.  1799: — So  dated  by  Wordsworth,  but  perhaps  not  written 
till  after  the  publication,  in  1800,  of  the  other  Lucy  poems.  The  first 
notice  that  we  have  of  this  poem  is  in  the  printer's  copy  of  the  1802  ed. 
of  Lyrical  Ballads,  from  which  edition,  however,  it  was  omitted,  appar- 
ently by  accident.  It  was  first  published  in  1807.  Cp.  A  description  of 
the  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  MSS.  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  T.  Norton 
Longman,  by  W.  Hale  White,  p.  45. 

P.  168.  XI.  To :— Prompted  by  the  undue  importance  attached  to 


NOTES  505 

personal  beauty  by  some  dear  friends  of  mine. — (I.  F.)  'No  doubt 
addressed  to  the  poet's  daughter  Dora.  See  The.  Longest  Day,  stanza  xvi. ' 
— Mr.  Hutchinson.  Cp.  above,  p.  137. 

P.  169,  1.  20.  e  To  draw,  out  of  the  object  of  his  eyes ' : — Prof.  Knight 
refers  to  Lyly's  Endymion,  v.  3  : 

To  have  him  in  the  object  of  mine  eyes. 

But  Wordsworth  is  probably  quoting  here  and  two  lines  below  from  some 
source  at  present  unknown.  The  common  juxtaposition  of  '  object '  and 
'eye'  might  be  illustrated  by  many  quotations  from  Shakespeare:  cp. 
e.g.  Midsummer's  Niyht's  Dream,  iv.  i.  175  : 

The  object  and  the  pleasure  of  mine  eye 

Is  only  Helena. 

P.  169.  XII.  THE  FORSAKEN.  Published  1842 :— This  was  an  overflow, 
as  Wordsworth  tells  us  in  the  Fenwick  note,  from  The  Affliction  of 
Margaret .  For  the  date  see  note  to  that  poem  below,  p.  506. 

P.  171.  XIV.  A  COMPLAINT: — Written  at  Town-End,  Grasmere.  Sug- 
gested by  a  change  in  the  manner  of  a  friend. — I.  F.  The  friend  was 
doubtless  Coleridge,  who  returned  from  Malta  in  1806.  This  was  the 
period  when  the  old  complete  union  between  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth 
became  subjected  to  many  slight  and  some  grave  shocks,  and  passed  into 
a  friendship,  always  deep  and  sincere,  as  the  friendship  of  two  men  of 
such  high  ideals  could  not  fail  to  remain,  but  shadowed  by  much  trouble 
and  anxiety.  The  best  account  of  the  relations  between  Wordsworth 
and  Coleridge  is  given  in  the  Life  of  Coleridge  by  the  late  Mr.  Dykes 
Campbell.  Coleridge's  MS.  notebooks  (cp.  the  extracts  printed  by  Mr. 
E.  H.  Coleridge  under  the  title  Anima  Poetce,  pp.  131,  169,  quoted  by 
Mr.  Hutchinson  in  Poems  in  Two  Volumes,  n.  217),  Dorothy  Words- 
worth's Journals,  and  the  recently  published  letters  of  D.  W.  to  Mrs. 
Clarkson  (Athenceum,  1904,  Jan.  etc.)  are  the  principal  sources  of  our 
information  on  the  subject. 

P.  171.  XV.  To :— Mrs.  Wordsworth.— I.  F. 

P.  172.  XVI.  Published  1845  : — The  date  of  composition  is  unknown  ; 
but  it  seems  probable  that  the  poem  was  suggested  by  the  preceding  one, 
and  in  particular  by  the  second  stanza,  excised  in  the  ed.  of  1845,  which 
ran  as  follows  : 

Such  if  thou  wert  in  all  men's  view, 

A  universal  show, 
What  would  my  Fancy  have  to  do, 

My  Feelings  to  bestow  ? 

P.  172.  XVII.,  1.  1.  How  rich  that  forehead's  calm  expanse: — Sug- 
gested by  a  print  at  Coleorton  Hall. — I.  F. 

L.  8.  An  Angel  from  his  station : — Wordsworth  obviously  alludes  to 
Drydeu's  line  in  Alexander's  Feast : 

She  drew  an  angel  down. 


506  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

P.  173.  XIX.  To :— To  Mrs.  Wordsworth.— I.  F. 

L.  8.  'Sober  certainties ' : — Cp.  Comus,  1.  263,  '  Such  sober  certainty 
of  waking  bliss.' 

P.  175.  XX.  LAMENT  OF  MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS  on  the  Eve  of  a  New 
Year,  1.  66.  '  From  her  sunk  eyes  a  stagnant  tear '  is  taken,  with  some 
loss,  from  a  discarded  poem,  The  Convict,  in  which  occurred,  when  he 
was  discovered  lying  in  the  cell,  these  lines  : 

But  now  he  upraises  the  deep-sunken  eye, 

The  motion  unsettles  a  tear  ; 
The  silence  of  sorrow  it  seems  to  supply 

And  asks  of  me — why  I  am  here. — I.  F. 
The  Convict  is  given  below,  vol.  iii.  p.  419. 

P.  175.  XXI.  THE  COMPLAINT  of  a  Forsaken  Indian  Woman.  Hazlitt, 
in  My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets,  says : — ' .  .  .  Coleridge  read  aloud, 
with  a  sonorous  and  musical  voice,  the  ballad  of  Betty  Foy.  I  was 
not  critically  or  sceptically  inclined.  I  saw  touches  of  truth,  and  nature, 
and  took  the  rest  for  granted.  But  in  The  Thorn,  The  Mad  Mother,  and 
The  Complaint  of  a  poor  Indian  Woman,  I  felt  that  deeper  passion  and 
pathos,  which  have  since  been  acknowledged  as  the  characteristics  of  the 
author  ;  and  the  sense  of  a  new  style  and  a  new  spirit  in  poetry  came 
over  me.  It  had  to  me  something  of  the  effect  that  arises  from  the 
turning  up  of  the  fresh  soil,  or  the  first  welcome  breath  of  spring.'  The 
Mad  Mother  was  the  earlier  title  of  the  poem  Her  Eyes  are  Wild,  above, 
p.  230.  For  The  Thorn,  see  above,  p.  332. 

P.  181.  XXIII.  REPENTANCE.  A  Pastoral  Ballad,  1.  28.  Prof.  Knight 
quotes  from  Wordsworth's  MSS.  several  variations  from  the  published 
text  of  this  poem  :  among  them  the  following,  which  avoids  the  some- 
what artificial  phrase  '  if  night  had  been  sparing  of  sleep '  : 

When  my  sick,  crazy  body  had  lain  without  sleep, 
How  cheering  the  sunshiny  vale  where  I  stood. 

P.  181.  XXIV.  THE  AFFLICTION  OF  MARGARET : — This  was  taken 

from  the  case  of  a  poor  widow  who  lived  in  the  town  of  Penrith. — I.  F. 

P.  183.  Published  1807  .'—Dated  by  Wordsworth  1804:  but  in  the 
MS.  printer's  copy  for  the  ed.  of  1807,  after  the  title  The  Affliction  of 

Mary  (sic)  —  —  of ,  is  the  note  in  brackets  :  '  Written  for  the  Lyrical 

Ballads.'  Then  follow  some  prefatory  verses,  which  were  not  published 
(cp.  A  Description  of  the  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  MSS.,  etc.,  p.  63). 
From  these  facts  Mr.  Hutchinson  seems  to  be  justified  in  dating  this 
poem  '  some  years  earlier '  than  1804.  The  inference  applies  also  to 
The  Forsaken,  above,  p.  169. 

P.  186.  MATERNAL  GRIEF.  Published  1842 : — Written  probably  about 
1810,  being,  as  the  Fenwick  note  tells  us,  '  in  part  an  overflow  from  the 


NOTES  507 

Solitary's  description  of  his  own  and  his  wife's  feelings  upon  the  decease 
of  their  children.'    Cp.  The  Excursion,  bk.  in. 

P.  186.  XXVII.  THE  SAILOR'S  MOTHER  This  poem,  written  about 
the  same  time  as  Alice  Fell,  The  Emigrant  Mother,  and  Beggars,  represents 
Wordsworth  at  the  extreme  of  his  theory  of  poetic  realism,  as  the 
Fenwick  note  indicates :  '  I  met  this  woman  near  the  Wishing-gate,  on 
the  high  road  that  then  led  from  Grasmere  to  Ambleside.  Her  appear- 
ance was  exactly  as  here  described,  and  such  was  her  account,  nearly  to 
the  letter.'  Mr.  Hutchiuson  (Poems  in  Two  Volumes,  i.  171)  calls  stanzas 
iii.  and  iv.  ( a  reductio  ad  absurdum  of  the  fallacies  propounded  by  Words- 
worth in  the  famous  Preface  to  the  Lyrical  Ballads  of  1800.'  LI.  14-16 
originally  stood  : 

With  the  first  word  I  had  to  spare 
I  said  to  her,  '  Beneath  your  cloak 
What 's  that  which  on  your  arm  you  bear  ?  ' 

LI.  19-21  were  restored  in  ed.  1832  to  their  present,  and  original, 
form  at  the  instigation  of  Barron  Field  (who  became  Wordsworth's 
friend  through  having  been  in  the  India  Office  with  Charles  Lamb,  and 
compiled  memoirs  of  Wordsworth  which  were  never  published).  In  pro- 
mising the  restoration,  Wordsworth  wrote  :  '  I  suppose  I  had  objected  to 
the  first  line,  which,  it  must  be  allowed,  is  rather  flat.' — Knight,  Life, 
in.  (xi.)  152.  In  ed.  1820  he  had  substituted  : 

I  had  a  Son — the  waves  might  roar, 
He  feared  them  not,  a  Sailor  gay  ! 
But  he  will  cross  the  waves  [deep,  ed  1827]  no  more. 
LI.  23-24  are  the  final  form  of  the  following  original  : 
And  I  have  been  as  far  as  Hull,  to  see 
What  clothes  he  might  have  left,  or  other  property. 

P.  187.  XXVIII.  THE  CHILDLESS  FATHER,  1.  12.  One  Child:— Prof. 
Knight  notes  that  in  the  list  of  errata  in  ed.  1820  (  one '  is  corrected  to 
'&' ;  '  but  the  text  remained  "one  child"  in  all  subsequent  editions.' 
This  was  probably  an  oversight. 

P.  189.  XXIX.  THE  EMIGRANT  MOTHER,  11.  55-64.  This  stanza 
originally  stood  as  follows  : 

'Tis  gone — forgotten — let  me  do 

My  best — there  was  a  smile  or  two, 

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  ; 

Smiles  hast  thou,  sweet  ones  of  thy  own  ; 

I  cannot  keep  thee  in  my  arms, 

For  they  confound  me  :  as  it  is, 

I  have  forgot  those  smiles  of  his. 


508  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Coleridge  (Biog.  Lit.,  ch.  ix.)  criticised  the  expressions  '  let  me  do  my 
best '  and  '  as  it  is  '  as  samples  of  a  '  characteristic,  though  only  occa- 
sional, defect,  which,'  he  says,  '  I  appear  to  myself  to  find  in  these  poems,' 
viz.,  '  the  inconstancy  of  the  style' ;  under  which  name  he  referred  to 
'  the  sudden  and  unprepared  transitions  from  lines  or  sentences  of 
peculiar  felicity  (at  all  events  striking  and  original)  to  a  style,  not  only 
unimpassioned,  but  undistinguished.'  The  first  two  lines  were  altered 
to  their  final  form  in  ed.  1820.  The  last  two  were  several  times  re- 
handled  :  '  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 '  (1827)  ;  final  text  1836.  The  change  of  '  sweet '  to 
'  bright '  (ed.  1827)  in  1.  61  is  one  of  a  large  number  of  instances  of 
Wordsworth's  expulsion  of  that  insinuating  epithet. 

P.  197.  XXX.  VAUDBACOUB  AND  JULIA.  1804 : — Dated  by  Words- 
worth 1805,  but  written,  as  he  says,  '  as  an  episode  '  in  the  work  after- 
wards called  The  Prelude.  Book  ix.  of  The  Prelude,  to  which  part  it 
belonged  (cp.  Prelude,  ix.  553,  where  the  first  four  lines  of  Vaudracour 
and  Julia  are  quoted),  was  apparently  written  in  the  winter  of  1804. 
Cp.  Prof.  Knight's  introductory  note  to  The  Prelude,  Eversley  Words- 
worth, vol.  in.  pp.  123-127.  (In  that  note  on  p.  124,  1.  9,  for  1805  read 
1804  :  and  correct  p.  125,  fourth  paragraph,  which  wrongly  contradicts 
par.  2.) 

P.  197.  XXXI.  THE  IDIOT  BOY  :— '  Alfoxden,  1798.  The  last  stanza, 
"The  cocks  did  crow  to-whoo,  to-whoo,  And  the  sun  did  shine  so  cold," 
was  the  foundation  of  the  whole.  The  words  were  reported  to  me  by  my 
dear  friend  Thomas  Poole ;  but  I  have  since  heard  the  same  repeated  of 
other  idiots.  Let  me  add,  that  this  long  poem  was  composed  in  the  groves 
of  Alfoxden,  almost  extempore ;  not  a  word,  I  believe,  being  corrected, 
though  one  stanza  was  omitted.  I  mention  this  in  gratitude  to  those 
happy  moments,  for,  in  truth,  I  never  wrote  anything  with  so  much  glee.' 
— I.  F.  No  poem  of  Wordsworth  excited  so  much  scorn  as  this :  the 
best  known  expression  of  such  scorn  being  Byron's  lines  in  his  English 
Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers.  In  spite  of  many  touches  of  imaginative 
genius,  and  in  spite  of  its  psychological  insight  and  fidelity  to  nature, 
the  poem  is  undoubtedly  marred  for  many  sympathetic  readers  by  the 
garrulousness  and  the  clumsy  attempt  at  gaiety  which  pervades  it. 
Coleridge  (Biog.  Lit.,  ch.  xvii.)  further  points  out  acutely  how  the  picture 
of  the  mother  detracts  from  the  interest  of  the  situation — a  point  seized 
by  Byron  when  he  wrote,  '  The  idiot  mother  of  an  idiot  boy.'  Coleridge 
says  :  '  The  two  following  charges  seem  to  me  not  wholly  groundless  ;  at 
least,  they  are  the  only  plausible  objections  which  I  have  heard  to  that 
fine  poem.  The  one  is,  that  the  author  has  not,  in  the  poem  itself, 
taken  sufficient  care  to  preclude  from  the  reader's  fancy  the  disgusting 
images  of  ordinary,  morbid  idiocy,  which  yet  it  was  by  no  means  his 


NOTES  509 

intention  to  represent.  He  has  even  by  the  "  burr,  burr,  burr,"  un- 
counteracted  by  any  preceding  description  of  the  boy's  beauty,  assisted 
in  recalling  them.  The  other  is,  that  the  idiocy  of  the  boy  is  so  evenly 
balanced  by  the  folly  of  the  mother,  as  to  present  to  the  general  reader 
rather  a  laughable  burlesque  on  the  blindness  of  senile  dotage,  than  an 
analytic  display  of  maternal  affection  in  its  ordinary  workings.'  The 
former  of  these  objections  was  urged  in  a  letter  to  Wordsworth  in  1802 
by  John  Wilson  (Christopher  North),  then  a  lad  of  seventeen,  and 
evoked  a  reply,  containing  an  exposition  of  Wordsworth's  point  of  view 
with  regard  to  idiocy  in  a  noble  passage  which  is  perhaps  more  effective 
than  the  poem  itself.  There  is  only  space  here  for  one  paragraph,  but 
the  whole  letter  should  be  read  in  Wordsworth's  Prose  Works  or  in  the 
Memoirs,  edited  by  Chr.  Wordsworth.  'I  have  often  applied  to  idiots, 
in  my  own  mind,  that  sublime  expression  of  Scripture  that '  their  life  is 
hidden  with  God.'  They  are  worshipped,  probably  from  a  feeling  of  this 
sort,  in  several  parts  of  the  East.  Among  the  Alps,  where  they  are 
numerous,  they  are  considered,  I  believe,  as  a  blessing  to  the  family 
to  which  they  belong.  I  have,  indeed,  often  looked  upon  the  conduct  of 
fathers  and  mothers  of  the  lower  classes  of  society  towards  idiots  as  a  great 
triumph  of  the  human  heart.  It  is  there  that  we  see  the  strength, 
disinterestedness,  and  grandeur  of  love ;  nor  have  I  ever  been  able  to 
contemplate  an  object  that  calls  out  so  many  excellent  and  virtuous 
sentiments  without  finding  it  hallowed  thereby,  and  having  something 
in  me  which  bears  down  before  it,  like  a  deluge,  every  feeble  sensation 
of  disgust  and  aversion.'  In  the  same  letter  Wordsworth  says  that  a 
friend  (probably  Coleridge  :  see  quot.  above)  had  advised  him  '  to  add  a 
stanza  describing  the  person  of  the  Boy,  entirely  to  separate  him  in  the 
imagination  of  my  readers  from  that  class  of  idiots  who  are  disgusting  in 
their  persons  ;  but  the  narration  in  the  poem  is  so  rapid  and  impas- 
sioned, that  I  could  not  find  a  place  in  which  to  insert  the  stanza  without 
checking  the  progress  of  it,  and  [so  leaving]  a  deadness  upon  the  feeling.' 
Except  the  omission  of  two  stanzas  near  the  beginning,  the  alterations 
in  The  Idiot  Boy  are  comparatively  few  and  unimportant. 

P.  198.  1.  39.  This  line  originally  stood  :  '  Has  up  upon  the  saddle 
set.'  In  a  letter  to  Barren  Field  in  1828  Wordsworth  writes  (whether  re- 
ferring to  a  suggestion  of  Field  or  not,  is  uncertain):  ' "  Across  the  saddle" 
is  much  better.  So  "up  towards,"  instead  of  "up  upon"  in  Michael 
(1.  456).'  Neither  of  these  emendations,  however,  occur  in  the  published 
texts.  This  line  in  The  Idiot  Boy  was  altered  to  its  present  form  in  ed. 
1836,  and  so  was  1.  456  in  Michael. 

P.  209.  XXXII.  MICHAEL  :  A  PASTORAL  POEM,  1.  2.  Greenhead 
Ghyll  is  '  a  steep,  narrow  valley,  with  a  stream  running  through  it '  (see 
note  to  The  Idle  Shepherd  Boys),  coming  down  from  the  Fairfield  at  the 
north-east  of  the  vale  of  Grasmere.  The  ruins  of  a  sheepfold,  possibly 
that  referred  to  in  the  poem,  may  still  be  seen,  some  considerable  way 


510  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

up  the  valley.  In  the  Fenwick  note  Wordsworth  says  :  '  The  sheepfold, 
on  which  so  much  of  the  poem  turns,  remains,  or  rather  the  ruins  of  it.' 

P.  212,  1.  139.  '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  (Dove  Cottage).  .  .  .  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.  In  a  letter  to  his  friend  Tom 
Poole,  Wordsworth  said  that  in  the  character  of  Michael  he  had  Poole's 
character  often  before  his  eyes.  Thomas  Poole  and  his  Friends,  by  Mrs. 
Sandford,  vol.  ii.  p.  56. 

P.  213,  1.  192.  This  and  the  following  lines  to  '  daily  hope '  (192-206) 
were,  by  an  extraordinary  error,  omitted  from  the  first  ed.  (1800),  half 
a  page  being  left  blank.  The  omission  was  repaired  by  the  issue  of  a  list 
of  errata  early  in  1801. 

P.  214,  1.  258.  Richard  Bateman  : — 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.  The 
chapel  was  an  old  one  which  Richard  Bateman  rebuilt  in  1743.  Cp. 
The  Topographical  Dictionary  of  England,  by  Samuel  Lewis,  vol.  u., 
referred  to  by  Prof.  Knight. 

P.  219.  1.  482.  Some  interesting  fragments,  partly  used  and  partly 
discarded  in  the  making  of  this  poem,  are  given  from  Dorothy  Words- 
worth's Grasmere  Journals  by  Prof.  Knight,  Eversley  Wordsworth,  vol. 
vin.  pp.  223  foil. 

P.  220.  XXXIII.  THE  WIDOW  ON  WINDERMERE  SIDE.  1837  :— This 
date  was  given  by  the  Rev.  R.  P.  Graves,  who,  when  curate  at  Bowness, 
supplied  Wordsworth  with  the  facts  recorded  in  the  poem.  — Prof.  Knight. 

P.  222.  XXXIV.  THE  ARMENIAN  LADY'S  LOVE,  1.  52.  Ne'er  assoil  my 
cobwebb'd  shield : — This  use  of  the  word  '  assoil '  is,  so  far  as  I  know, 
without  parallel.  It  seems  doubtful  whether  Wordsworth  meant  '  set 
free  from  the  cobwebs '  or  '  absolve  from  the  excommunication,  as  it 
were,  of  disuse.'  There  is  no  similar  use  quoted  in  the  New  Eng.  Diet. 

P.  227.  XXXVI.  FAREWELL  LINES  : — '  These  lines  were  designed  as 
a  farewell  to  Charles  Lamb  and  his  sister,  who  had  retired  from  the 
throngs  of  London  to  comparative  solitude  in  the  village  of  Enfield.' — 
I.  F.  Lamb  retired  to  Enfield  in  1825,  and  died  in  1834.  From  a  letter 
of  his  to  the  Rev.  H.  F.  Gary  and  from  Crabb  Robinson's  diary  we 
gather  that  Wordsworth  was  in  London  in  May  and  June  1828,  in 
which  latter  month  he  also  went  for  a  short  tour  on  the  Continent. 

L.  1.  High  bliss  is  only  for  a  higher  state: — Cp.  Thomson,  To  the  .Rev. 
Patrick  Murdoch,  1.  10. — Prof.  Knight. 

P.  228.  XXXVII.  THE  RKDBREAST.  (Suggested  in  a  Westmoreland 
Cottage),  1.  31.  Hers:  —  In  the  original  edition  (1835)  Wordsworth 


NOTES  511 

printed  ' his,'  and  similarly  in  the  following  lines.  In  his  latest  edition 
(1845)  he  replaced  the  masculine  by  the  feminine.  The  invalid  in  his 
mind  was  not  really  a  'child,'  as  in  1.  38,  hut  his  sister  Dorothy,  in 
whose  sick-room  one  of  the  redbreasts,  which  frequented  Wordsworth's 
house  and  garden,  took  up  its  abode,  as  the  Fenwick  note  tells  us. 

P.  229,  1.  70.  Wordsworth  italicised  lilt  as  used,  not  in  its  ordinary 
meaning  of  '  sing  with  a  merry  swing,'  but  in  its  north-dialect  use  of 
'  move  with  a  merry  swing.'  Cp.  New.  Eng.  Diet. 

P.  230.  XXXVIII.  HER  EYES  ARE  WILD.  The  title  of  this  poem,  as 
it  originally  appeared  in  Lyrical  Ballads,  was  The  Mad  Mother.  Prof. 
Knight  quotes  Coleridge  (letter  to  Godwin,  Dec.  9,  1800)  :  '  For  myself 
I  would  rather  have  written  The  Mad  Mother  than  all  the  works  of  all  the 
Bolingbrokes  and  Sheridans,  those  brilliant  meteors,  that  have  been 
exhaled  from  the  morasses  of  human  depravity  since  the  loss  of  Paradise.' 
Mr.  Hutchinson  points  out  the  strong  influence  of  the  beautiful  ballad, 
Lady  BothwelCs  Lament  (fBalow,  my  babe,  ly  still  and  sleipe,'  etc., 
Percy's  Reliques,  orig.  ed.,  vol.  n.  p.  194,  also  in  the  Oxford  Book  of 
English  Verse  and  other  anthologies),  upon  Wordsworth,  and  refers  to 
Wordsworth's  remark  in  the  Essay,  supplementary  to  the  Preface  of 
1800 :  '  I  do  not  think  that  there  is  an  able  writer  in  verse  of  the  present 
day  who  would  not  be  proud  to  acknowledge  his  obligations  to  the 
Reliques ;  I  know  that  it  is  so  with  my  friends ;  and,  for  myself,  1  am 
happy  in  this  occasion  to  make  a  public  avowal  of  my  own.' 

POEMS  ON  THE  NAMING  OF  PLACES 

P.  233.  I.  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. 

P.  234,  1.  39.  Emma: — Pseudonym  for  Dora,  i.e.  Dorothy  Words- 
worth, as  Emmeline,  in  To  a  Butterfly,  above,  p.  115. 

P.  234.  II.  To  JOANNA  : — Joanna  Hutchinson,  sister  of  the  poet's 
wife.  '  The  effect  of  her  laugh  is  an  extravagance '  (I.  F. ),  and,  accord- 
ing to  Mr.  Hutchinson,  the  opening  lines  too,  if  rightly  understood,  are 
'  merry  banter.' 

P.  236.  III.,  1.  1.  Eminence: — called  Stone- Arthur.  It  could  not 
be  seen,  as  is  stated  in  1.  3  of  this  poem,  from  the  orchard  of  Dove  Cottage. 

P.  237.  IV.,  1.  5.  Of  Grasmere  safe  in  its  own  privacy: — The  character 
of  the  eastern  shore  of  Grasmere  was  altered,  in  Wordsworth's  lifetime, 
by  the  high  road  being  carried  along  it. 

P.  238.  V.  To  M.  H.  : — Mary  Hutchinson,  afterwards  the  poet's  wife. 
P.  239,  1.  7.  The  pool  alluded  to  is  in  Rydal  Upper  Park.— I.  F. 


512  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

P.  241.  V.  1802  :— Dated  1802  in  edd.  1815,  1820  ;  1805  in  ed.  1836  and 
later  editions.  The  original  draft  probably  dates  from  1800,  and  is  spoken 
of  in  Dorothy  Wordsworth's  Journal.  The  poem  was  perhaps  retouched 
in  1805,  the  year  of  John  Wordsworth's  death.  It  was  published  in 
1815. 

P.  242.  VII.,  1.  9.  Two  adventurous  Sisters: — Mrs.  Wordsworth  and 
Sarah  Hutchinson.  The  '  two  heath-clad  Rocks '  are  on  the  left  of  the 
lower  road  from  Grasmere  to  Rydal,  where  it  turns  eastwards  along  the 
course  of  the  Rotha. 

L.  18.  Sarah  Hutchinson  died  in  1835. 

POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY 

P.  243.  I.  A  MORNING  EXERCISE,  1.  16,  Footnote  : — This  well-known 
book  was  published  in  1825,  reviewed  by  Sydney  Smith  in  the  Edinburgh 
Review,  and  reached  a  second  edition  in  1828.  Cp.  Diet.  Nat.  Biog. 

P.  244,  11.  43-48.  This  stanza  was  originally  part  of  the  poem  To  a 
Skylark  (cp.  above,  p.  353),  with  which  Wordsworth  said  he  '  could  wish 
the  last  five  stanzas  of  this  poem  to  be  read.' — I.  F. 

L.  52.  I.e.  in  open,  bare  country.  That  this  is  Wordsworth's  mean- 
ing is  clear  from  the  reading  of  ed.  1832 :  '  Where  earth  resembles 
most  his  blank  domain  ! ' 

L.  60.  Prof.  Knight  compares  Addison's  Hymn  ('The  spacious 
firmament  on  high '),  last  couplet : 

For  ever  singing  as  they  shine, 
'  The  Hand  that  made  us  is  divine  ! ' 

The  collocation  of  words  may  have  been  present  to  Wordsworth's  con- 
sciousness or  sub-consciousness  ;  but  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  point  out 
that  the  use  to  which  he  puts  them  is  quite  different. 

P.  244.  II.  A  FLOWER  GARDEN.  At  Coleorton  Hall,  Leicestershire: — 
Sir  George  Beaumont's  place,  where  Wordsworth  helped  to  lay  out  the 
garden. 

P.  246.  III.  11.  21-22.  These  lines  originally  (till  ed.  1815)  stood  : 
And  all  those  leaves  that  jump  and  spring, 
Were  each  a  joyous,  living  thing. 
And  the  poem  closed  with  the  following  lines : 

'  Oh  !  grant  me,  Heaven,  a  heart  at  ease, 
That  I  may  never  cease  to  find, 
Even  in  appearances  like  these, 
Enough  to  nourish  and  to  stir  my  mind  !' 

P.  247.  IV.  THE  WATERFALL  AND  THE  EGLANTINE,  1.  15.  Prof.  Knight 
compares  Coleridge's  Ancient  Mariner : 

And  now  the  storm-blast  came,  and  he 

Was  tyrannous  and  strong  : 
of  which  line  Wordsworth's  phrase  was  probably  an  unconscious  echo. 


NOTES  513 

P.  248.  V.  THE  OAK  AND  THE  BROOM  :  a  Pastoral: — Both  this  poem 
and  the  preceding  are  connected  with  the  mountain  path  that  leads  from 
Rydal  to  Grasmere  under  Nab  Scar.  They  are  well  illustrated  by 
Dorothy  Wordsworth's  Journal  for  Apr.  23, 1802,  quoted  by  Prof.  Knight 
(Eversley  Wordsworth,  vol.  u.  p.  172) — the  passage  which  contains  the 
phrase,  ' We  left  William  sitting  on  the  stones,  feasting  with  silence.' 

P.  252.  VII.  To  THE  DAISY.  G.  Wither:— The  Shepherd's  Hunting, 
Eclogue,  iv.  366-378.  In  1.  3  Wordsworth  misquoted  'instruction'  for 
'invention/  in  1.  4  'the'  for  'her.'  The  extract  was  first  prefixed  to  this 
poem  in  ed.  1815,  being  perhaps  suggested  by  Charles  Lamb,  with  whom 
The  Shepherd's  Hunting  was  '  prime  favourite '  amongst  Wither's  poems. 
— Prof.  Knight,  quoting  Dykes  Campbell. 

P.  254,  11.  73-80.  In  ed.  1815  this  stanza  stood  as  follows  : 
Child  of  the  year  !  that  round  dost  run 
Thy  course,  bold  lover  of  the  sun, 
And  cheerful  when  the  day 's  begun 

As  morning  Leveret, 
Thy  long-lost  praise  thou  shalt  regain  ; 
Dear  shalt  thou  be  to  future  men 
As  in  old  time ;  thou  not  in  vain 
Art  Nature's  Favourite. 

P.  256.  IX.  THE  GREEN  LINNET,  1.  40.  The  first  and  last  stanzas  of 
this  poem,  one  of  the  most  perfect  of  Wordsworth's  shorter  pieces — '  an 
elegant  poem,  as  this  is  generally  allowed  to  be,'  as  he  calls  it  in  a  letter 
to  Barren  Field  in  1828 — were,  in  their  original  forms,  severely  handled 
by  Jeffrey  (Edinburgh  Review,  vol.  xi.),  and  by  the  author  of  The  Simpli- 
ciad,  an  anonymous  satire,  possibly,  according  to  Mr.  Hutchinson's  acute 
suggestion,  to  be  attributed  to  a  certain  Mr.  French  referred  to  by 
Southey  (Knight's  Life,  n.  (x.)  98.  Hutchinson's  edition  of  Poems  in  Two 
Volumes,  i.  xviii.).  The  first  stanza  was  originally  : 

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. 

This  was  rewritten  in  1815  in  its  final  form,  except  that  'flowers'  and 
'  birds '  were  transposed  in  ed.  1827.     The  last  stanza  stood  originally  : 

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  : 

As  if  it  pleas'd  him  to  disdain 
l-KK 


514  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

And  mock  the  Form  which  he  did  feign, 

While  he  was  dancing  with  the  train 
Of  Leaves  among  the  bushes. 
In  ed.  1820  the  last  line  but  two  became  : 

The  voiceless  Form  he  chose  to  feign. 
In  ed.  1827  the  stanza  was  rewritten : 

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  ; 

As  if  by  that  exulting  strain 

He  mocked  and  treated  with  disdain 

The  voiceless  Form  he  chose  to  feign, 
While  fluttering  in  the  bushes. 

In  the  letter  referred  to  above  (Knight's  Life,  in.  (xi.),  153),  Wordsworth 
writes  :  '  The  stanza,  as  you  have  been  accustomed  to  quote  it,  is  very 
faulty.  "Forth  he  teems"  is  a  provincialism:  Dr.  Johnson  says  "a 
low  word,  when  used  in  this  sense."  But  my  main  motive  for  altering 
this  stanza  was  the  wholly  unjustifiable  use  of  the  word  "train,"  as 
applied  to  leaves  "attached  "  to  a  tree.  A  train  of  "  withered  "  leaves, 
driven  in  the  wind  along  the  gravel,  as  I  have  often  seen  them,  sparkling 
in  April  sunshine,  might  be  said.  "Did  feign"  is  also  an  awkward 
expletive  for  an  elegant  poem,  as  this  is  generally  allowed  to  be.' 
Wordsworth's  treatment  of  this  poem  is  typical  of  his  readiness  to  benefit 
by  criticism ;  on  which  subject  Mr.  Hutchinson  has  some  excellent 
remarks  in  his  Introduction  to  Poems  in  Two  Volumes. 

P.  257.  X.  To  A  SKYLARK.  1805:— 1805  was  the  date  assigned  by 
Wordsworth,  and  as  there  is  no  proof  to  the  contrary  I  have  thought  it 
best  to  leave  it.  In  the  original  edition  (1807)  the  poem  was  the  second 
of  a  group  of  five,  labelled  Poems,  composed  during  a  tour,  mostly  on  foot, 
three  of  which  (Beggars,  Alice  Fell,  Resolution  and  Independence)  were 
certainly  composed  at  Grasmere  in  1802  ;  the  other,  With  how  Sad  Steps, 
probably  belongs  to  about  the  same  date.  The  '  tour '  of  the  title  seems 
to  have  been  purely  imaginary,  or  to  refer  solely  to  rambles  at  home. 
The  poem  originally  ended  (from  1.  25)  : 

Joy  and  jollity  be  with  us  both  ! 

Hearing  thee,  or  else  some  other, 
As  merry  a  Brother, 

I  on  the  earth  will  go  plodding  on, 

By  myself,  chearfully,  till  the  day  is  done. 

The  Simpliciad  ridiculed  the  'Brother,'  along  with  similar  ' fraternal 
overtures  to  beast  and  bird '  (Mr.  Hutchinson,  Poems  in  Two  Volumes, 
p.  170),  on  the  part  of  Coleridge  (Address  to  a  Young  Jackass)  and  Words- 
worth. In  ed.  1820  Wordsworth  substituted  a  new  stanza,  almost  in 
its  final  form,  for  the  last  four  lines  of  the  original,  and  in  ed.  1827 


NOTES  515 

omitted  the  bulk  of  the  rest  (11.  8-25),  writing  to  Barren  Field  in  1828 
(Knight's  Life,  in.  (xi.),  154) :  ( After  having  succeeded  so  well  in 
the  second  Skylark,  and  in  the  conclusion  of  the  poem  entitled  A 
Morning  Exercise,  in  my  notice  of  this  Bird,  I  became  indifferent  to 
this  poem,  which  Coleridge  used  severely  to  condemn,  and  to  treat  con- 
temptuously. I  like,  however,  the  beginning  of  it  so  well,  that  for  the 
sake  of  that  I  tacked  to  it  the  respectably-tame  conclusion.  I  have  no 
objection,  as  you  have  been  pleased  with  it,  to  restore  the  whole  piece. 
Could  you  improve  it  a  little  ? '  It  is  perhaps  worth  noticing  that  the 
'  respectably-tame  conclusion'  of  1820  distinctly  suggests  in  style  and 
rhythm  the  '  successful '  Skylark  of  1825. 

P.  260.  XII.  To  THE  SAME  FLOWER,  11.  41-48.  This  stanza,  in  the  form 
which  follows,  appeared  first  in  the  1836  ed.  of  the  previous  poem,  and 
was  transferred  to  its  present  place  in  the  ed.  of  1845  : 
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  seasons  multiplied  ? 

L.  50.   '  Beneath  our  shoon ' : — cp.  Milton's  Comus,  ii.  634-635  : 
Unknown,  and  like  esteemed,  and  the  dull  swain 
Treads  on  it  daily  with  his  clouted  shoon. — Knight. 
LI.  51-53  stood  originally  : 

Let,  as  old  Magellan  did, 
Others  roam  about  the  sea ; 
Build  who  will  a  pyramid. 
In  1828  Wordsworth  promised  Barron  Field  to  restore  '  Old  Magellan.' 

P.  260.  XIII.  THE  SEVEN  SISTERS;  or,  The  Solitude  of  Binnorie : — The 
story  of  this  poem  is  from  the  German  of  Frederica  Brun. — W.  Cp.  '  The 
Cruel  Sisters '  in  Sir  Walter  Scott's  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border. 

P.  262.  1800:— Dated  by  Wordsworth  1804,  but  almost  certainly 
referred  to  in  Dorothy  Wordsworth's  Journal  under  the  date  August  17, 
1800. 

P.  263.  XV.  THE  REDBREAST  CHASING  THE  BUTTERFLY.  1802 : — Mis- 
dated by  Wordsworth  1806.  The  correct  date  is  gathered  from  Dorothy 
Wordsworth's  Journal. 

P.  264.  XVII.  HINT  FROM  THE  MOUNTAINS  for  certain  Political 
Pretenders: — 'The  verses  were  written  in  1817,  but  the  application  is 
for  all  times  and  places. ' — I.  F.  Wordsworth's  letters  about  this  time 
are  largely  devoted  to  politics,  and  are  full  of  his  growing  fear  of  reform  ; 


516  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

his  '  poetic  work  during1  the  years  1816  and  1817  was  mainly  inspired  by 
the  political  events  of  the  hour  '  (Knight's  Life,  n.  (x.),  284). 

P.  265.  XVIII.  ON  SEEING  A  NEEDLECASE  IN  THE  FORM  OP  A  HARP. 
The  work  of  E.  M.  S. : — Edith  May  Southey,  daughter  of  the  poet. 

L.  10.  Arachne: — A  mortal  maiden  who  challenged  Athena  to  a  trial  of 
skill  with  the  needle ;  for  which  insolence  she  was  changed  into  a  spider. 

P.  268.  XX.  1842:— 'A  MS.  copy  of  this  fragment  in  Wordsworth's 
handwriting,  31st  Dec.  1842,  fixes  the  date  approximately.' — Knight, 
Eversley  ed.  vm.  154. 

P.  269.  XXI.  THE  CONTRAST.  The  Parrot  and  the  Wren,  1.  46. 
Darkling : — This  word  seems  to  be  of  Wordsworth's  own  coinage.  His 
use  of  it  has  escaped  the  notice  of  the  compilers  of  the  New  Eng.  Diet., 
which  gives  :  e  Darkling :  sb.  nonce-wd.  [i.e.  word  used  for  the  nonce],  A 
child  of  darkness ;  one  dark  in  nature  or  character '  :  with  two  quotations 
from  a  MS.  poem  by  J.  Ross,  called  Fratricide  (1773). 

r  P.  269.  XXII.  THE  DANISH  BOY.  A  Fragment:— It  was  entirely  a 
fancy  ;  but  intended  as  a  prelude  to  a  ballad-poem  never  written.  —  I.F. 
The  similarity  of  this  poem  in  rhythm  and  metre  to  The  Thorn]  is  notice- 
able, the  only  difference  in  metre  being  the  absence  of  rhyme  in  11.  1  and 
3  of  the  stanza  in  The  Thorn.  There  is  a  similarity  of  style  too,  if  we 
allow  for  the  very  different  motives  of  the  two  poems,  especially  in  the 
following  stanza,  which  stood  last  but  one  in  ed.  1800,  but  was  not 
republished : 

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. 

P.  272.  XXIV.  STRAY  PLEASURES,  1.  34.  Each  leaf,  that  and  this,  his 
neighbour  will  kiss : — Prof.  Knight  and  Mr.  Hutchinson  quote  Drayton, 
The  Muse's  Elysium,  nymphal  vi.  4-7  : 

The  wind  had  no  more  strength  than  this, 

That  leisurely  it  blew, 

To  make  one  leaf  the  next  to  kiss, 

That  closely  by  it  grew. 

Drayton  was  one  of  the  '  older  writers '  whom  Wordsworth  especially 
admired  ;  cp.  the  note  to  At  the  Grave  of  Burns,  vol.  11.  p.  483. 


NOTES  517 

P.  277.  XXVIII.  LOVE  LIES  BLEEDING,  1.  1.  Amaranthus :  of  which  one 
variety  is  Amaranthus  melancholicus  ruber. 

Published  1842  : — This  poem  was  originally  written,  in  sonnet  form, 
in  1833.  It  was  probably  altered  to  its  present  form  in  1842.  The 
sonnet  is  printed  in  Prof.  Knight's  Eversley  ed.,  vol.  vm.  p.  150. 

P.  281.  XXXI.  THE  KITTEN  AND  FALLING  LEAVES,  1.  104.  Dora: — 
Dora  Wordsworth,  born  1804,  died  1847.  In  editions  previous  to  that 
of  1849  the  pseudonym  Laura  stood  for  Dora  here. 

P.   282.    XXXII.     ADDRESS  TO  MY  INFANT  DAUGHTER,  DORA,  1.   15. 

'  Heaven's  eternal  year' : — Cp.  Dryden,  To  the  pious  memory  of  the  accom- 
plished young  lady,  Mrs.  Anne  Killigrew,  1.  15. — Prof.  Knight. 

P.  284.  XXXIII.  THE  WAGGONER.  Motto  /—Thomson,  The  Seasons: 
'  Summer/  11.  977-979.  Part  of  Charles  Lamb's  reply  to  Wordsworth's 
dedication  may  be  quoted  :  '  You  cannot  imagine  how  proud  we  are  here 
of  the  dedication.  We  read  it  twice  for  once  that  we  do  the  poem.  I 
mean  all  through  ;  yet  ''Benjamin"  is  no  common  favourite  ;  there  is  a 
spirit  of  beautiful  tolerance  in  it.  ...  I  do  not  know  which  I  like  best, 
the  Prologue  (the  latter  part  specially)  to  P.  Bell,  or  the  Epilogue  to 
Benjamin.  Yes,  I  tell  stories ;  I  do  know.  I  like  the  last  best ;  and 
the  Waggoner  altogether  is  a  pleasanter  remembrance  to  me  than  the 
Itinerant.  If  it  were  not,  the  page  before  the  first  page  would  and 
ought  to  make  it  so.'  (Letter  to  Wordsworth,  June  7,  1819.)  The 
text  of  The  Waggoner  was  considerably  altered,  especially  in  the 
earlier  half,  for  ed.  1836,  but  a  good  many  of  the  alterations  were  can- 
celled in  ed.  1845.  It  was  a  favourite  poem  with  its  author,  though 
regarded,  justly,  as  a  less  ambitious  work  than  Peter  Bell,  with  which 
indeed  it  has,  in  motive,  nothing  in  common.  After  hovering,  in  different 
editions,  between  the  '  Poems  of  the  Fancy '  and  those  of  '  the  Affections,' 
it  found  its  place  at  the  end  of  the  former,  just  as  Peter  Bell  closed  the 
*  Poems  of  the  Imagination.' 

Canto  First,  1.  3.  When  the  poem  was  first  written,  the  note  of  the  bird 
was  thus  described : 

The  Night-hawk  is  singing  his  frog-like  tune, 
Twisting  his  watchman's  rattle  about — 

but  from  unwillingness  to  startle  the  reader  at  the  outset  by  so  bold  a 
mode  of  expression,  the  passage  was  altered  as  it  now  stands. — W. 

Dorhawk: — The  goat-sucker  or  nightjar  ;  so-called,  perhaps  from  its 
pursuit  of  buzzing  flies  and  beetles,  for  which  the  onomatopoeic  word 
'  dorr '  is  an  old  generic  name,  or  from  its  own  buzzing  sound  referred  to 
by  Wordsworth  here,  and  in  the  poem  Calm  is  the  fragrant  Air,  1.  22  : 
The  busy  dor-hawk  chases  the  white  moth 
With  burring  note. 

P.  286,  11.  58,  59.    Where  the  Dove  and  Olive-bough 

Once  hung,  a  Poet  harbours  now. 
I.e.  at  Dove  Cottage. 


518  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

P.  288,1.  171.  Sage  Sidrophel: — Sidrophel  is  the  name  of  the  astrologer 
and  '  Rosicruciaii '  in  Butler's  Hudibras,  Part  u.  Canto  iii. 

P.  289,  11.  199,  200.  And  somewhere,  as  he  thinks,  by  crashes  Among  the 
rocks: — I.e.  and  astounded  by  crashes  somewhere,  as  he  thinks,  among 
the  rocks.  Before  ed.  1836  11.  197-200  were  somewhat  clearer  in  con- 
struction, though  1.  198  was  not  nearly  so  good  : 

By  peals  of  thunder,  clap  on  clap  ! 
And  many  a  terror-striking  flash  ; — 
And  somewhere,  as  it  seems,  a  crash 
Among  the  rocks ;  etc. 

L.  214.  Tradition  associates  a  cairn  of  stones  by  the  top  of  the  pass  of 
Dunmail  Raise,  at  the  boundary  of  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland,  with 
the  name  of  Dunmail  or  Domhnall,  the  last  king  of  Cumberland,  who 
was  dispossessed  in  945  A.D.,  when,  according  to  the  Anglo-Saxon 
Chronicle,  '  King  Eadmund  harried  over  all  Cumberland,  and  gave  it  all 
up  to  Malcolm  King  of  the  Scots,  on  the  condition  that  he  should  be  his 
ally  by  sea  and  land.'  In  Burn's  Westmoreland  and  Cumberland  a  choice 
of  conjectures  is  given :  '  A  great  heap  or  raise  of  stones  .  .  .  thrown 
together  in  ancient  time,  either  by  Dunmaile,  sometime  king  of  Cum- 
berland, as  a  mark  of  the  utmost  border  of  his  kingdom,  or  by  some 
other  in  remembrance  of  his  name,  for  some  memorable  act  done  by  him 
there,  or  some  victory  obtained  over  him.'  Mr.  W.  G.  Collingwood  in 
the  Victorian  History  of  Cumberland  (i.  291)  remarks  that  the  cairn  cannot 
mark  the  grave  of  Dunmail,  as  he  died  in  Rome  much  later  than  945  ; 
he  adds :  '  The  cairn  seems  to  have  been  opened  long  ago  without  much 
result.' 

P.  291.  Canto  Second,  11.  14,  15.  This  couplet  originally  stood  : 
Proceeding  with  an  easy  mind  ; 
While  he,  who  had  been  left  behind  .  .  . 

'The  old  Familiar  of  the  seas'  was  introduced  in  1836.  This  use  of 
' Familiar'  is  not  quite  the  same  as  the  common  use — ' familiar  spirit,' 
though  the  phrase  may  have  been  suggested  by  Shakespeare,  Henry  VL 
in.  ii.  122,  '1  think  her  old  familiar  is  asleep.'  It  should  have  been 
given  in  New  Eng.  Diet,  as  the  instance  of  the  sense,  'one  intimately 
acquainted  with  a  thing,'  instead  of  Lowell's  obvious  imitation  of  it  in 
his  essay  on  Wordsworth,  '  The  life-long  familiar  of  the  mountains.' 

L.  22.   The  Cherry  Tree :—  Now  a  farmhouse  on  the  Helvellyn  side  of 
the  road.  — Prof.  Knight. 

P.  294,  11.  128-134.  Prof.  Knight  well  compares  Tristram  Shandy  (bk. 
ix.  ch.  xxviii.):  'And  this,  said  he,  is  the  town  of  Namur — and  this  the 
citadel — and  there  lay  the  French — and  here  lay  his  honour  and  myself.' 
P.  295.  Canto  Third,  1.  28.  After  the  line,  Can  any  mortal  clog  come  to 
her?  followed  in  the  MS.  an  incident  which  has  been  kept  back.  Part  of 
the  suppressed  verses  shall  here  be  given  as  a  gratification  of  private 
feeling,  which  the  well-disposed  reader  will  find  no  difficulty  in  excusing. 
They  are  now  printed  for  the  first  time  : 


NOTES  519 

Can  any  mortal  clog  come  to  her  ? 
It  can   ..... 

But  Benjamin,  in  his  vexation 

Possesses  inward  consolation  ; 

He  knows  his  ground  and  hopes  to  find 

A  spot  with  all  things  to  his  mind, 

An  upright  mural  block  of  stone, 

Moist  with  pure  water  trickling  down. 

A  slender  spring,  but  kind  to  man 

It  is,  a  true  Samaritan  ; 

Close  to  the  highway,  pouring  out 

Its  offering  from  a  chink  or  spout ; 

Whence  all,  howe'er  athirst,  or  drooping 

With  toil,  may  drink,  and  without  stooping. 

Cries  Benjamin,  '  Where  is  it,  where  ? 
Voice  it  hath  none,  but  must  be  near.' 
A  star  declining  towards  the  west, 
Upon  the  watery  surface  threw 
Its  image  tremulously  imprest, 
That  just  marked  out  the  object  and  withdrew  : 
Right  welcome  service  ! 

ROCK  OF  NAMES  ! 

Light  is  the  strain,  but  not  unjust 
To  thee  and  thy  memorial-trust, 
That  once  seemed  only  to  express 
Love  that  was  love  in  idleness  ; 
Tokens  as  year  hath  followed  year, 
How  changed,  alas,  in  character  ! 
For  they  were  graven  on  thy  smooth  breast 
By  hands  of  those  my  soul  loved  best ; 
Meek  women,  men  as  true  and  brave 
As  ever  went  to  a  hopeful  grave  : 
Their  hands  and  mine,  when  side  by  side, 
With  kindred  zeal  and  mutual  pride, 
We  worked  until  the  Initials  took 
Shapes  that  defied  a  scornful  look. — 
Long  as  for  us  a  genial  feeling 
Survives,  or  one  in  need  of  healing, 
The  power,  dear  Rock,  around  thee  cast, 
Thy  monumental  power,  shall  last 
For  me  and  mine  !  O  thought  of  pain, 
That  would  impair  it  or  profane  ! 
Take  all  in  kindness  then,  as  said 
With  a  staid  heart  but  playful  head ; 


520  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

And  fail  not  then,  loved  Rock  !  to  keep 
Thy  charge  when  we  are  laid  asleep.  — W. 

The  'rock'  stood  in  a  spot  now  submerged  in Thirlmere,  in  consequence 
of  the  raising  of  the  level  of  that  lake  by  the  Manchester  waterworks. 
It  was  destroyed  in  an  attempt  to  remove  it  to  a  place  higher  up  the 
hillside.  The  '  names '  were  those  of  Wordsworth,  his  wife,  his  sister, 
his  brother  John,  Coleridge,  and  Sarah  Hutchinson. 

P.  298.  Canto  Fourth,  1.  17.  The  Greta  issues  from  the  north-west  end 
of  Thirlmere,  near  Raven-crag. 

L.  21.  Ghimmer-crag : — There  is  no  rock  in  the  district  now  called  by 
this  name.  The  rock  referred  to  by  Wordsworth  is  probably  that  called 
Fisher-crag. — Prof.  Knight. 

P.  299,  1.  37.  Nathdale  Fell:— Between  the  valley  of  the  Naddle 
(Nathdale)  beck  and  that  of  St.  John. 

L.  46.  Blencathara: — The  mountain  better  known  as  Saddleback, 
near  Skiddaw.  For  the  allusion  to  Sir  Lancelot  Threlkeld,  see  the 
Song  at  the  Feast  of  Brougham  Castle,  above,  p.  345. 

L.  61.  Castrigg  or  Castlerigg  is  the  ridge  between  the  Naddle  valley 
and  Keswick. 

LI.  75-82  were  added  in  ed.  1836,  almost  in  their  present  form,  which 
actually  dates  from  ed.  1845. 

P.  304,  1.  269.  Several  years  after  the  event  that  forms  the  subject  of 
the  poem,  in  company  with  my  friend,  the  late  Mr.  Coleridge,  I  happened 
to  fall  in  with  the  person  to  whom  the  name  of  Benjamin  is  given.  Upon 
our  expressing  regret  that  we  had  not,  for  a  long  time,  seen  upon  the 
road  either  him  or  his  waggon,  he  said :  '  They  could  not  do  without 
me ;  and  as  to  the  man  who  was  put  in  my  place,  no  good  could  come 
out  of  him  ;  he  was  a  man  of  no  ideas.'  The  fact  of  my  discarded  hero's 
getting  the  horses  out  of  a  great  difficulty  with  a  word,  as  related  in  the 
poem,  was  told  me  by  an  eye-witness. — W.  The  epilogue,  addressed  to 
Charles  Lamb,  was  doubtless  added  in  1819. 

POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION 

P.  305.  I.  THERE  WAS  A  BOY  : — These  lines  were  afterwards  incorporated 
in  The  Prelude,  bk.  v.  364-397.  There  is  no  record  of  the  name  of  the  boy 
referred  to  by  Wordsworth,  though  one  of  his  schoolfellows,  William 
Raincock  of  Rayrigg,  is  mentioned  in  the  Fenwick  note  to  this  poem  as 
having  taken  the  lead  in  the  act  referred  to  in  1.  7  and  foil.  William 
Raincock,  however,  did  not  die  in  childhood,,  but  proceeded  from  Hawks- 
head  to  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge,  like  Wordsworth  himself. 

L.  25.  In  a  letter  written  by  Coleridge  on  the  receipt  of  this  poem 
(Dec.  10,  1798),  we  read  : 

'.  .  .  that  uncertain  heaven  received 
Into  the  bosom  of  the  steady  lake, 
I  should  have  recognised  anywhere ;  and  had  I  met  these  lines,  running 


NOTES  521 

wild  in  the  deserts  of  Arabia,  I  should  have  instantly  screamed  out, 
"  Wordsworth  ! " ' 

L.  28.  The  vale  of  Esthwaite,  with  its  village  of  Hawkshead,  in  which 
the  churchyard  is  as  here  described. 

P.  306.  II.  To  THE  CUCKOO.  LI.  5-8.  This  stanza  originally  stood  : 
While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass, 

I  hear  thy  restless  shout ; 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass 

About  and  all  about ! 
In  ed.  1815,  evidently  to  displace  ' shout' : 

Thy  loud  note  smites  my  ear  ! — 

From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 
At  once  far  off  and  near  ! 
In  1820 : 

It  seems  to  fill  the  whole  air's  space 

replaced  the  third  line,  Wordsworth  desiring  to  emphasise  the  mysterious 
ubiquity  of  the  sound.  This  he  attempted  to  push  still  further  in  ed. 
1827  by  writing : 

Thy  twofold  shout  I  hear, 

That  seems  to  fill  the  whole  air's  space, 
As  loud  far  off  as  near. 

Here  he  fortunately  recovers  e  shout,'  and  gives  1.  2  ease  of  movement. 
Barren  Field  objected  to  '  As  loud  far  off  as  near,'  and  Wordsworth, 
while  saying  that  he  had  written  it  '  in  consequence  of  my  noticing  one 
day  that  the  voice  of  a  cuckoo,  which  I  had  heard  from  a  tree  at  a 
great  distance,  did  not  seem  any  louder  when  I  approached  the  tree,' 
restored  the  previous  reading,  at  the  same  time  purging  the  stanza  of 
the  ugly  third  line. 

1802:— Dated  by  Wordsworth  1804,  but  the  real  date  is  fixed  by 
Dorothy  Wordsworth's  Journal,  March  28-26,  1802.  As  Mr.  Hutchin- 
son  notes,  '  these  stanzas  are  clearly  modelled  on  Logan's  address  To  the 
Cuckoo ' ;  about  two  months  after  their  composition  D.  W.  notes,  June  3  : 
'  The  cuckoo  sang  in  Easedale  ;  after  dinner  we  read  the  life  and  some 
of  the  writings  of  poor  Logan.' 

P.  307.  HI.  A  NIGHT-PIECE  :— As  Prof.  Knight  notices  '  The  in- 
debtedness of  the  poet  to  his  sister  is  nowhere  more  conspicuous  than 
in  this  poem.  In  Dorothy  Wordsworth's  Alfoxden  Journal  the  following 
occurs,  under  date  25th  Jan.  1798 :  "  Went  to  Poole's  after  tea. 
The  sky  spread  over  with  one  continuous  cloud,  whitened  by  the  light 
of  the  moon,  which,  though  her  dim  shape  was  seen,  did  not  throw  forth 
so  strong  a  light  as  to  chequer  the  earth  with  shadows.  At  once  the 
clouds  seemed  to  cleave  asunder,  and  left  her  in  the  centre  of  a  black- 
blue  vault.  She  sailed  along,  followed  by  multitudes  of  stars,  small, 
and  bright,  and  sharp.  Their  brightness  seemed  concentrated  (half- 
moon)."' 


522  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

P.  307.  IV.  AIREY- FORCE  VALLEY.  Airey- Force: — The  waterfall 
commonly,  and  elsewhere  by  Wordsworth,  called  Aira  Force,  is  near 
the  western  shore  of  Ullswater,  rather  more  than  two  miles  from  the 
head  of  the  lake. 

P.  308.  V.  YEW  TREES  : — The  Lorton  Yew-tree  has  long  been  a  mere 
wreck,  and,  since  a  great  storm  on  Dec.  11,  1883,  the  four  Borrowdale 
Yews  have  been  in  the  same  plight. 

LI.  25-28.  Professor  Dowden  suggests  that  Wordsworth  had  in  mind 
the  description  of  the  ' ghostly  shapes'  at  the  ( vestibule  of  Hell'  in 
Virgil's  JEneid,  vi.  273  foil. 

P.  310.  VII.  THE  SIMPLON  PASS,  1.  20.  Extracted  from  The  Prelude,  bk. 
vi.  11.  621-640.  Dated  by  Wordsworth  1799  (date  of  beginning  of  The 
Prelude),  but  bk.  vi.,  as  a  whole,  was  written  in  1804.  There  seems, 
however,  no  reason  to  doubt  but  that  these  lines,  like  Nutting,  were 
composed  by  themselves,  and  only  subsequently,  like  There  was  a  Boy, 
but  unlike  Nutting,  incorporated  in  The  Prelude. 

P.  310.  VIII.,  1.  1.  She:— Refers  to  Wordsworth's  wife.  Cp.  Intro- 
duction, p.  xxix,  and  The  Prelude,  bk.  xiv.,  11.  268-270. 

P.  311,  1.  22.  It  is  true,  as  Prof.  Knight  remarks,  that  '  the  progress 
of  mechanical  industry  .  .  .  has  given  a  more  limited,  and  purely 
technical  meaning  to  the  word,  than  it  bore  when  Wordsworth  used  it' ; 
and  he  well  compares  Hamlet,  n.  ii.  124,  '  Thine  evermore,  most  dear 
lady,  whilst  this  machine  is  to  him.'  He  also  quotes  from  the  Epilogue 
to  The  Waggoner,  but  there  the  'machine'  is  the  waggon  itself;  and 
this,  i.e.  a  vehicle,  was  the  most  ordinary  meaning  of  the  word  in  the 
eighteenth  century.  The  New  Eng.  Diet,  gives  us  better  illustrations  in 
Garth's  Dispensary,  v.  54 : 

And  shall  so  useful  a  machin  as  I 
Engage  in  civil  Broyls,  I  know  not  why  ? 

And  Addison,  Spectator,  No.  387 :  '  Cheerfulness  ...  is  the  best  Pro- 
moter of  Health.  Repiuings  .  .  .  wear  out  the  Machine  insensibly. 
There  is  no  doubt,  however,  that  Wordsworth  risked  something  for  the 
sake  of  the  analogy  between  the  intimate  knowledge  which  the  engineer 
obtains  of  his  machine,  as  compared  with  the  more  superficial  acquaintance 
of  the  outsider,  and  his  own  growth  in  intimate  knowledge  of  his  wife. 

P.    311.  IX.,  1.  2.  'Fiery  heart' :— King  Henry  VI.,  III.  i.  iv.  87  : 
What,  hath  thy  fiery  heart  so  parch'd  thine  entrails 
That  not  a  tear  can  fall  for  Rutland's  death  ? — Prof.  Knight. 
In  the  original  ed.  (1807)  '  fiery  heart '  was  not  between  inverted  commas. 
The  epithet  was  ridiculed  in  The  Simpliciad  (1808),  and   in   ed.    1815 
Wordsworth  wrote  'a   creature  of  ebullient  heart.'     Fortunately,  he 
returned  to  the  original  reading  in  1820,  adding,  however,  the  quotation 
marks.     (From  Mr.  Hutchinson's  reprint  of  Poems  in  Two  Volumes,  vol.  n. 
p.  188.) 


NOTES  523 

1807 :— Dated  by  Wordsworth  1806,  but  Mrs.  Wordsworth  added  to 
the  Fenwick  note  'at  Coleorton/  where  the  Wordsworths  lived  from 
Nov.  1806  to  the  summer  of  1807. 

P.  313.  XI.  1799: — This  poem  originally  appeared  in  the  Lyrical  Ballads 
of  1800,  together  with  the  two  other  'Lucy'  poems,  Strange  fits  of  passion, 
and  She  dwelt  among  th'  untrodden  ways.  The  preceding  poem,  Three 
years  she  grew  also  appeared  in  the  Lyrical  Ballads  of  1800,  but  not  in 
the  same  group.  The  fifth  poem  of  the  set,  I  travelled  among  unknown 
men,  though  dated  by  Wordsworth  1799,  did  not  appear  till  the  Poems  of 
1807. 

P.  313.  XII.,  11.  21,  22.  This  couplet: 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude, 

was  written  by  Wordsworth's  wife.     He  called  them  'the  two  best  lines.' 
—From  I.  F. 

P.  317.  XVI.  WRITTEN  IN  MARCH,  while  resting  on  the  Bridge  at  the 
foot  of  Brother  s  Water: — Brother's  Water  lies  at  the  foot  of  the  Kirkstone 
Pass  at  the  head  of  Patterdale.  These  lines  were  really  written  on 
April  16th  (Good  Friday),  in  the  course  of  a  walk  with  Dorothy 
Wordsworth,  described  in  her  Journal. 

P.  318.  XVIII.  BEGGARS,  1.  18.  'A  weed  of  glorious  feature ' : — From 
Spenser's  Muiopot mos,  stanza  27. — Prof.  Knight. 

P.  319,  1.  48.  This  poem  underwent  considerable  alterations  in  ed. 
1827,  and  subsequently.  Cp.  Wordsworth's  letter  to  Barron  Field  in 
Prof.  Knight's  Life  (in.  (xi.)  p.  150),  in  which  he  explains  his  alterations 
of  ed.  1827. 

P.  319.  XIX.  SEQUEL  TO  THE  FOREGOING.  Composed  Many  Years  After. 
L.  2.  Daedal  earth: — This  expression,  somewhat  unlike  Wordsworth's  usual 
diction,  is  an  instance  of  that  traditional  '  poetic  diction '  which  he  had 
once  too  sweepingly  condemned.  It  occurs  in  Spenser,  Faerie  Queene,  iv. 
x.  45,  and  elsewhere,  and  is  transferred  from  Lucretius,  i.  7,  dcedala  tellus, 
'  the  various  earth,'  '  earth  with  all  its  variety  of  shows,'  etc. 

P.  321.  XX.  GIPSIES,  1.  28.    There  is  a  well-known  criticism  of  this 
poem  in  Coleridge's  Biographia  Literaria,  ch.  xxii.,  which  was  based  on 
the  original  ed.  of  1807,  and  especially  on  the  closing  lines,  which, 
instead  of  11.  21-28  in  the  ultimate  ed.,  were  : 
Oh,  better  wrong  and  strife, 
Better  vain  deeds  and  evil  than  such  life  ! 
The  silent  Heavens  have  goings  on  ; 
The  stars  have  tasks— but  these  have  none. 

The  four  concluding  lines  of  the  text  were  added  in  1820.  Wordsworth 
promised  Barron  Field  in  1828  to  cancel  them  (Prof.  Knight's  Life,  HI. 
(xi.)  p.  154). 


524  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

P.  321.  XXI.  RUTH,  11.  13-18.  This  stanza  was  added  in  ed.  1802,  in 
which  edition  there  were  several  alterations,  and  some  large  additions. 
In  subsequent  editions  there  were  a  good  many  changes  and  sometimes 
reversions  to  the  original  text. 

P.  322,  1.  19.  The  description  of  Georgia  in  this  poem  is  taken  from 
Bartram's  Travels  through  North  and  South  Carolina,  Georgia,  etc.  (1791). 
The  frontispiece  of  that  work  was  a  portrait  of  an  Indian  chief,  wearing 
feathers  such  as  the  youth  is  rather  strangely  represented  as  wearing  in 
Ruth's  Somersetshire  home.  Cp.  note  of  Mr.  Ernest  Coleridge  in  Prof. 
Knight's  Eversley  ed.  vol.  n.  p.  108. 
P.  326,  11.  196-198.  Originally  : 

And  there,  exulting  in  her  wrongs, 

Among  the  music  of  her  songs 

She  fearfully  carouz'd. 

Writing  to  Barron  Field  in  1828,  Wordsworth  says :  '  This  was  altered 
[ed.  1820  : 

And  there  she  sang  tumultuous  songs, 

By  recollection  of  her  wrongs 

To  fearful  passion  roused], 

Lamb  having  observed  that  it  was  not  English.  I  liked  it  better  myself; 
but  certainly  to  "carouse  cups" — that  is,  to  empty  them — is  the  genuine 
English.'  Modern  lexicography  discloses  that  the  transitive  and  intran- 
sitive uses  of '  carouse '  are  equally  genuine  English.  Cp.  New  Eng.  Diet. 
Lamb  was  probably  thinking  of  Othello,  n.  iii.  55,  where  Roderigo 

To  Desdemona  hath  to-night  carrows'd 

Potations,  pottle-deep. 

L.  214.  Banks  of  Tone : — In  Somersetshire.  The  poem  was  written 
during  Wordsworth's  sojourn  in  Germany,  after  he  had  been  living  at 
Alfoxden. 

P.  328.  XXII.  RESOLUTION  AND  INDEPENDENCE  : — This  poem,  always 
spoken  of  by  Dorothy  Wordsworth  as  The  Leech-Gatherer,  was  com- 
posed May  3-7,  1802,  worked  over  again  on  May  9,  and  'finished'  again 
on  July  4.  The  entries  in  Dorothy  Wordsworth's  Journal  for  those 
dates  are  good  examples  of  the  fatigue  to  which  composition  often  sub- 
jected the  poet  even  in  some  of  his  most  inspired  and  felicitous  work. 
Coleridge,  in  the  Biog.  Lit.  (1817),  ch.  xxii.,  after  criticising  the  'in- 
constancy' or  'disharmony'  of  certain  passages  in  which  exaggerated 
'  matter-of-factness '  went  side  by  side  with  striking  language  or  images, 
writes  :  '  Indeed  this  fine  poem  is  especially  characteristic  of  the  author. 
There  is  scarce  a  defect  or  excellence  in  his  writings  of  which  it  would 
not  present  a  specimen.'  After  stanza  viii.  came  originally  the  follow- 
ing, which  was  one  passage  criticised  by  Coleridge,  and  was  omitted  in 
ed.  1820 : 

My  course  I  stopped  as  soon  as  I  espied 

The  old  Man  in  that  naked  wilderness : 


NOTES  525 

Close  by  a  Pond,  upon  the  further  side, 
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. 

Similarly  after  stanza  xi.  there  stood  in  the  MS.  copy  which  Wordsworth 
sent  to  Coleridge  the  following,  which  was  never  published  : 
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. 

There  are  some  interesting  remarks  of  Wordsworth  on  this  poem  in  a 
letter  given  in  the  Memoirs  by  his  nephew  (i.  172-173),  quoted  by  Knight, 
Eversley  Wordsworth,  ii.  322. 

P.  329,  1.  45.  Him  who  walked  in  glory  and  in  joy  : — Robert  Burns. 
P.  330,  11.  90-91.     Originally  : 

He  answer'd  me  with  pleasure  and  surprise  ; 
And  there  was,  while  he  spake,  a  fire  about  his  eyes. 
The  fine  change  was  made  in  ed.  1820 : 

He  answer'd,  while  a  flash  of  mild  surprise 
Broke  from  the  sable  orbs  of  his  yet-vivid  eyes. 

P.  332.  XXIII.  THE  THORN  :— It  is  probable,  as  Prof.  Knight  suggests 
(vol.  i.  p.  334,  Eversley  ed. ),  that  this  poem  owes  something  to  Burger's 
Pfarrer's  Tochter,  a  translation  of  which  by  William  Taylor,  called  The 
Lass  of  Fair  Wone,  appeared  in  the  Monthly  Magazine  (1796).  The 
parson's  daughter  in  that  poem  being  betrayed  by  a  lover  of  higher  rank, 
murders  her  babe,  and  buries  him  beside  'the  pond  of  toads,'  beside 
which  she  is  herself  hanged.  The  actual  stimulus  to  composition  was, 
however,  given  by  a  thorn  and  a  '  little  muddy  pond '  on  the  hill  above 
Alfoxden.  Cp.  Dorothy  Wordsworth's  Journal  for  Mar.  19,  1798.  In 
the  Advertisement  to  the  Lyrical  Ballads  Wordsworth  wrote:  'The  poem 
of  The  Thorn,  as  the  reader  will  soon  discover,  is  not  supposed  to  be 
spoken  in  the  author's  own  person :  the  character  of  the  loquacious 
narrator  will  sufficiently  show  itself  in  the  course  of  the  story.'  In  a 
note  to  ed.  1800  he  suggests  a  retired  '  captain  of  a  small  trading  vessel  * 
as  the  kind  of  person  who  becomes  'credulous  and  talkative  from  indo- 
lence.' From  the  very  first  it  has  been  pointed  out,  by  friend  and  foe 
alike,  that  the  'retired  captain'  is  a  mere  shadow,  and  his  loquacity  only 
another  name  for  the  weakness  of  parts  of  a  poem  which  is  in  imaginative 
power  and  in  occasional  felicities  a  very  fine  poem.  Mr.  Hutchinson  in 
his  reprint  of  Lyrical  Ballads  (pp.  238,  foil.),  quotes  the  interesting 
criticisms  of  Coleridge  (Biog.  Lit.  ch.  xvii.)  and  of  Swinburne  (in  the 


526  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Nineteenth  Century  for  April  and  May  1884),  and  enforces  them  with 
interesting  remarks  of  his  own,  noticing  especially  that  the  changes 
which  Wordsworth  made  in  the  text  'consist  with  few  exceptions  in 
the  substitution  of  refined  and  poetical,  and  therefore  dramatically 
incongruous  lines  or  phrases,  for  phrases  rude  and  prosaic  indeed,  but 
for  that  very  reason  dramatically  true  and  proper.' 

LI.  32-33.  These  two  lines  were  substituted  in  ed.  1820  for  the  follow- 
ing, which  had  been  severely  criticised,  but  which  were  certainly  suitable 
enough  to  the  supposed  narrator,  the  loquacious  mariner : 
I  've  measured  it  from  side  to  side  : 
Tis  three  feet  long,  and  two  feet  wide. 

P.  334,  1.  103.  In  edd.  1798-1815  there  followed  eleven  lines  of 
loquacious  directions  which  were  omitted  in  ed.  1820,  two  stanzas  being 
rolled  into  one. 

L.  105.  Martha  Ray  was  the  name  of  the  mother  of  Wordsworth's  friend, 
Basil  Montagu ;  and  Basil  Montagu  was  with  Wordsworth  on  the  walk 
when  Wordsworth  noticed  the  thorn.  It  seems,  therefore,  impossible  to 
suppose  that  Wordsworth  happened  upon  the  name  either  by  accident 
or  in  forgetfulness  of  its  connection  with  his  friend.  The  real  Martha 
Ray  was  mistress  of  the  fourth  Earl  of  Sandwich,  and  was  shot  by  a  dis- 
appointed lover,  the  Rev.  James  Hackman. 

P.  338.  XXIV.  HART-LEAP  WELL.  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  awk- 
ward 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. — I.  F. 

P.  339,  1.  40.  Until  ed.  1820  this  line  stood  : 

And  foaming  like  a  mountain  cataract. 

The  change,  obviously  to  a  more  appropriate  image,  necessitated  the 
unimportant  change,  but  also  a  change  for  the  better,  of  fact'  into 
'feat'  inl.  38. 

P.  341,  1.  97.  Moving  Accident: — Obviously  an  allusion  to  Othello, 
i.  iii.  135  : 

Of  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field. 

P.  343,  1.  168.  Till  ed.  1815 : 

For  them  the  quiet  creatures  whom  he  loves. 

P.  343.  XXV.  SONG  AT  THE  FEAST  OF  BROUGHAM  CASTLE,  upon  the 
restoration  of  Lord  Clifford,  the  Shepherd,  to  the  estates  and  honours  of  hit 
ancestors : — Cp.  The  White  Doe  of  Rylstone,  canto  i.,  with  this  poem,  both 
for  matter  and  manner.  Prof.  Knight,  Eversley  Wordsworth,  vol.  iv. 
pp.  91-97,  gives  full  historical  and  topographical  notes. 

LI.  9-10.  Prof.  Knight  and  Mr.  Hutchinson  compare  Hudibras,  part  n. 
canto  i.  567-568  : 

That  shall  infuse  eternal  spring 
And  everlasting  nourishing. 


NOTES  527 

P.  344,  1.  27.  Earth  fielped  him  with  the  cry  of  Hood : — This  line  is  from 
The  Battle  of  Bosworth  Field,  by  Sir  John  Beaumont  (brother  of  the 
dramatist). — W. 

The  line  is  : 

The  earth  assists  thee  with  the  cry  of  blood. 

L.  46.  She  that  keepeth  watch  and  ward : — Appleby  Castle. 

P.  345,  1.  73.   Carrock-foll,  in  Cumberland. 

L.  90.  Blencathara : — Otherwise  known  as  Saddleback,  close  to  Skid- 
daw.  Mosedale  and  the  river  Glenderamakin  are  on  the  north  side  of 
Blencathara. 

L.  95.  Sir  Lancelot  Threlkeld: — Father-in-law  of  Henry,  Lord  Clifford, 
the  hero  of  the  poem. 

P.  346,  1.  123.  Bowscale-tarn : — In  one  of  the  hollows  of  Blencathara. 
Allusion  is  made  to  a  local  superstition. 

LI.  142,  143.  The  martial  character  of  the  Cliffords  is  well  known  to 
the  readers  of  English  history  ;  but  it  may  not  be  improper  here  to  say, 
by  way  of  comment  on  these  lines  and  what  follows,  that  besides  several 
others,  who  perished  in  the  same  manner,  the  four  immediate  progenitors 
of  the  person,  in  whose  hearing  this  is  supposed  to  be  spoken,  all  died 
in  the  field.— W. 

P.  347.  XXVI.  LINES,  composed  a  few  miles  above  Tintern  Abbey,  on 
revisiting  the  banks  of  the  Wye  during  a  tour,  July  13,  1798  : — 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. 

P.  350,  1.  106.  The  line  occurs  in  Night  Thoughts,  vi.  427  (ed.  Gil- 
fillan,  1853) :  ( And  half-create  the  wondrous  world  they  see.' 

P.  351.  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. — I.  F. 

P.  351.  XXVII  : — Prof.  Dowden  compares  the  latter  part  of  this  poem 
with  the  lines  '  If  thou  indeed  derive  thy  light  from  heaven,'  written 
more  than  ten  years  later.  Cp.  above,  p.  Ixxii. 

P.  351.  XXVIII.  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.  As  it  appeared  to  enthusiasts 
at  its  commencement.  Reprinted  from  '  The  Friend ' : — See  The  Prelude, 
bk.  xi.  11.  105-144. 

P.  352,  XXIX.  1.  4.  In  the  original  ed.  (1807)  there  followed  :— 
Whence  the  Voice  ?  from  air  or  earth  ? 
This  the  Cuckoo  cannot  tell ; 
But  a  startling  sound  had  birth, 
As  the  Bird  must  know  full  well ; 


528  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

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

P.  353.  XXX.  To  A  SKYLARK  : — This  poem  originally  consisted  of  three 
stanzas,  the  second  of  which,  '  To  the  last  point  of  vision  and  beyond/ 
etc.,  was  transferred  in  ed.  1845  to  the  poem  called  A  Morning  Exercise. 
See  above,  pp.  244  and  512. 

P.  353.  XXXI.  LAODAMIA.  Laodamia  (1814)  was  a  new  departure  for 
Wordsworth ;  and  it  is  curious  that  on  the  one  hand  it  was  in  itself  so  great 
a  success,  and,  on  the  other,  it  was  followed  by  no  other  important  poem 
definitely  inspired  by  classical  antiquity  except  Dion  (1816).  Charles 
Lamb  very  naturally  wrote  (1815)  :  'Laodamia  is  a  very  original  poem  ; 
I  mean  original  with  reference  to  your  own  manner.  You  have  nothing 
like  it.  I  should  have  seen  it  in  a  strange  place,  and  greatly  admired 
it,  but  not  suspected  its  derivation.'  The  influence  of  classical  literature 
on  Wordsworth  is  perceived  on  close  acquaintance  to  be  much  greater 
than  a  superficial  view  of  his  poetry  would  lead  one  to  suspect ;  but 
about  these  years  (1814-1820)  the  education  of  his  eldest  son,  John,  led 
Wordsworth  to  refresh  his  memory  of  the  classics,  especially  Virgil :  and 
one  result  of  this  was  that  he  translated  the  first  three  books  of  the  ^Eneid 
into  English  rhymed  heroic  verse,  part  of  one  book  of  which  was  pub- 
lished in  The  Philological  Museum  (vol.  i.  p.  382),  see  below,  vol.  in.  p.  427. 
Laodamia  is  full  of  imitations  and  adaptations  of  classical  phrase  and 
allusion,  drawn  especially  from  the  sixth  book  of  the  JEneid,  but  also 
from  Ovid,  Metamorphoses,  and  Euripides,  Iphigenia  in  Aulis.  These  are 
all  fully  explained  in  an  extremely  interesting  note  contributed  by  Mr. 
Heard  to  Prof.  Knight's  Eversley  Wordsworth,  vol.  vi.  pp.  10  foil.  ;  but, 
as  Mr.  Heard  points  out,  the  poem,  containing  Virgil's  conception  of 
pietas,  i.e.  love  of  God  and  man  issuing  in  dutifulness,  with  fthe  Platonic 
repudiation  of  sensuous  and  material  life'  (which  also  inspired  Virgil),  '  is 
notable,  not  so  much  for  the  assimilation  of  details,  as  for  natural  affinity 
to  the  spirituality  of  antiquity,  of  which  Virgil  is  the  purest  exponent.' 
Laodamia  was  at  first  placed  among  the  '  Poems  founded  on  the  Affec- 
tions/ and  was  transferred,  with  Ruth  and  some  others,  to  the  '  Poems 
of  the  Imagination '  to  supply  the  gap  made  by  the  collection  of  the 
Scottish  poems  into  one  group.  Cp.  letter  to  Crabb  Robinson,  1826. 
Knight's  Life,  xi.  (iii.)  p.  129.  Wordsworth  said  of  the  poem  :  '  It  cost 
me  more  trouble  than  almost  anything  of  equal  length  I  have  ever 
written.' — I.  F.  The  text  was  little  altered  after  publication,  except 
the  important  change  at  the  end. 

P.  356,  11.  101,  102.  Originally  11.  101,  102  stood  : 
Spake,  as  a  witness,  of  a  second  birth 
For  all  that  is  most  perfect  upon  earth. 

Landor  criticised  the  expression  '  second  birth '  as  the  language  of  the 
conventicle  ;  and,  although  Wordsworth  defended  himself  in  a  letter  to 


NOTES  529 

Landor  in  1824  (Knight's  Life,  xi.  (iii.)  95),  the  text  was  changed,  much 
for  the  better,  in  ed.  1827. 

P.  357,  1.  132.  This  touch  is  from  Homer's  Iliad,  n.  700  : 
TOV  8e  Acai  d/j<£>t8pu</>^?  aXo^of  ^vXaicrj  eXeXetTrro 

KOI     fiofJLOS    T]fJLlT€\r)S. 

where,  however,  SO/AOS  r/jxirfX^s  probably  does  not  refer  to  '  unfinished 

towers,'  but  to  the  incompleteness  of  his  married  life,  being  without 

children. 

LI.  158-163.  This  stanza  was  originally  of  a  contrary  and  less  austere 

purport : 

Ah,  judge  her  gently,  who  so  deeply  loved 
Her,  who,  in  reason's  spite,  yet  without  crime, 
Was  in  a  trance  of  passion  thus  removed  ; 
Delivered  from  the  galling  yoke  of  time 
And  these  frail  elements — to  gather  flowers 
Of  blissful  quiet  'mid  unfading  bowers. 
The  change  of  purport  was  made  in  ed.   1827,  when  the  stanza  ran 

thus  : 

By  no  weak  pity  might  the  Gods  be  moved ; 
She  who  thus  perished  not  without  the  crime 
Of  Lovers  that  in  Reason's  spite  have  loved, 
Was  doomed  to  wander  in  a  grosser  clime, 
Apart  from  happy  Ghosts — that  gather  flowers 
Of  blissful  quiet,  'mid  unfading  bowers. 
In  ed.  1832  '  wander  in  a  grosser  clime  '  gave  place  to  '  wear  out  her 

appointed  time/  the  notion  of  a  period  of  purgatory  being  thus  definitely 

introduced,  quite  in  harmony  with  the  general  conception  of  the  sixth 

jEneid. 

P.  358.  XXXII.  DION.  (See  Plutarch):— Wordsworth's  treatment  of  the 
story  as  told  by  Plutarch  is  fully  explained  by  Mr.  Heard  in  the  Eversley 
Wordsworth,  vol.  vi.  pp.  125  foil.  Wordsworth  not  only  derives  his  subject 
from  Plutarch,  but  adopts  several  touches  in  detail  from  him ;  but,  as 
Mr.  Heard  says,  '  Plutarch's  biography  deals  mainly  with  the  external 
conditions,  and  is  orerlaid  with  so  much  historical  detail  that  the  per- 
sonality of  Dion  stands  out  in  insufficient  relief.  Wordsworth  gives  us  a 
study  of  the  internal  struggle,  showing  us  the  failure  of  an  ideal,  not  in 
its  external  aspect,  but  as  closing  the  aspirations,  and  desolating  the 
conscience,  of  a  truly  noble  mind.' 

The  poem  originally,  and  until  ed.    1837,  began  with  the  following 
stanza,  which  was  displaced  '  on  account  of  its  detaining  the  reader  too 
long  from  the  subject,  and  as  rather  precluding  than  preparing  for  the 
due  effect  of  the  allusion  to  the  genius  of  Plato.' — W.  : 
Fair  is  the  Swan,  whose  majesty,  prevailing 
O'er  breezeless  water,  on  Locarno's  lake, 
Bears  him  on  while  proudly  sailing 
He  leaves  behind  a  moon-illumined  wake  : 
i— LL 


530  WILLIAM  WORDSAVORTH 

Behold  !  the  mantling  spirit  of  reserve 

Fashions  his  neck  into  a  goodly  curve  ; 

An  arch  thrown  back  between  luxuriant  wings 

Of  whitest  garniture,  like  fir-tree  boughs 

To  which,  on  some  unruffled  morning,  clings 

A  flaky  weight  of  winter's  purest  snows  ! 

— Behold  ! — as  with  a  gushing  impulse  heaves 

That  downy  prow,  and  softly  cleaves 

The  mirror  of  the  crystal  flood, 

Vanish  inverted  hill,  and  shadowy  wood, 

And  pendent  rocks,  where'er,  in  gliding  state, 

Winds  the  Mute  Creature  without  visible  Mate 

Or  Rival,  save  the  Queen  of  night 

Showering  down  a  silver  light, 

From  heaven,  upon  her  chosen  Favourite  ! 

Besides  the  excision  of  this  passage,  which  Wordsworth  refused  to 
restore  in  spite  of  the  request  of  some  of  his  friends  (I.  F.)  the  changes 
in  the  published  text  of  Dion  were  few  and  slight.  Prof.  Knight  quotes 
a  large  number  of  variants  existing  in  MS.,  showing  that  this  poem,  like 
Laodamia,  was  composed  with  much  anxious  labour.  Dion  was  originally 
included  in  the  '  Poems  of  Sentiment  and  Reflection.' 

P.  362.  THE  PASS  OF  KIRKSTONE,  1.  19.  Raised: — Professor  Knight 
(Eversley  Wordsworth)  and  Mr.  Hutchinson  (Oxford  Wordsworth)  print 
'  razed/  which  first  appeared  in  ed.  1857,  according  to  Prof.  Knight's 
note.  There  does  not  seem  to  be  sufficient  reason  for  the  alteration. 
There  is  no  more  difficulty  in  the  expression  to  raise  one's  camp  than  in 
that  of  raising  a  siege.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  though  Wordsworth  was 
not  the  man  to  pay  attention  to  such  a  matter,  the  words  ' raise'  and 
'  raze,'  as  is  usual  in  such  cases,  show  a  considerable  interaction  in  their 
use  by  earlier  writers.  Cp.  New  Eng.  Diet. 

P.  365.  XX XIV.  To  ENTERPRISE,  1.  94.  Calentured : — Wordsworth  ap- 
pears to  use  this  word,  which  is  extremely  rare  as  a  verb,  and  only  found 
elsewhere  in  the  sense  of  '  inflame '  or  '  be  inflamed,'  to  mean  '  imaged  as 
to  a  man  in  a  calenture.'  The  peculiarity  of  the  delirious  fever  known  as 
the  calenture  is  that  the  patient  imagines  the  sea  to  be  green  fields  and 
desires  to  tread  upon  it ;  there  is  therefore  a  certain  appropriateness, 
though  hardly  a  strict  propriety,  in  Wordsworth's  use  of  the  expression. 

Stanza  in. : — This  stanza  was  added  in  ed.  1827. 

P.  366,  1.  116. 

.  .  .  awhile  the  living  hill 

Heaved  with  convulsive  throes,  and  all  was  still. 

Dr.  Darwin  describing  the  destruction  of  the  army  of  Cambyses. — W. 
The  lines  are  from  The  Botanic  Garden,  Part  i.  The  Economy  of  Vegetation, 
canto  ii.  11.  497,  498. 

P.  367.  Between  1820  and  1822  : — Wordsworth  tells  us  that  this  poem. 


NOTES  531 

published  in  1822,  arose  out  of  The  Italian  Itinerant,  written  in  1820. 
Cp  vol.  H.  p.  98. 

P.  367.  XXXV.  To .  On  her  first  ascent  to  the  summit  ofHelvellyn  :— 

The  lady  was  Miss  Blackett,  then  residing  with  Mr.  Montagu  Burgoyne 
at  Fox-Ghyll.— I.  F. 

P.  368,  1.  25.  Choral:— In  ed.  1832  and  subsequent  edd.  the  word 
was  printed  '  coral ' :  evidently  a  misprint.  Prof.  Dowden  first  restored 
the  correct  reading  of  edd.  1820  and  1827. 

L.  30.  Paradise  Lost,  iii.  736  foil. 

P.  368.  XXXVI.  To  A  YOUNG  LADY,  Who  had  been  reproached  for  taking 
Long  Walks  in  the  Country : — Cp.  Louisa,  above,  p.  65  and  note,  p.  504. 

P.  369.  XXXVII.  WATER  FOWL  :— Dated  1812  by  Wordsworth. 
First  published  in  the  fourth  ed.  (1823)  of  his  Description  of  the  Scenery  of 
the  Lakes,  etc.  (originally  prefixed  to  Wilkinson's  Select  Views,  etc. )  one 
of  several  additions  to  that  volume  made  after  its  first  separate  appear- 
ance in  1822.  The  lines  form  part  of  The  Recluse,  Book  i.,  the  in- 
complete beginning  of  the  great  work  of  which  The  Excursion  was  to 
have  been  the  second  and  middle  part.  Wordsworth  was  at  work  on  the 
part  of  The  Recluse  to  which  these  lines  belong  as  early  as  1800,  and  his 
date  1812  may  be  a  mistake,  of  himself  or  of  the  press,  in  ed.  1849. 

P.  371.  XXXIX.  THE  HAUNTED  TREE.  To  :— Prof.  Knight  con- 
jectures that  this  poem  was  inscribed  to  the  poet's  daughter  Dora,  who 
would  be  about  fifteen  years  old  at  the  time  of  its  composition. 

P.  372.  XL.  THE  TRIAD,  1.  13.  Mount  Ida's  triple  lustre  .-—Wordsworth 
refers  to  the  contest  for  the  prize  of  beauty  between  the  three  goddesses, 
Hera,  Pallas,  and  Aphrodite,  adjudged  by  the  Shepherd  Paris  on  Mount 
Ida,  near  Troy. 

L.  18.  The  three  Sisters  in  the  bond  of  love,  were  Edith  Southey 
(born  May  1,  1804),  Dora  Wordsworth  (born  Aug.  16,  1804),  and  Sara 
Coleridge  (born  Dec.  22,  1802),  and  they  are  summoned  in  that  order. 
There  is  an  extremely  interesting  criticism  of  the  poem  in  Sara  Cole- 
ridge's Memoirs,  vol.  n.  p.  410. 

L.  21.  Fair  progeny  of  Jove: — I.e.  the  Three  Graces  who  are  almost 
always  represented  in  ancient  poetry  and  works  of  art  as  dancing  with 
their  hands  or  arms  '  interweaved. ' 

P.  374,  1.  117.  Flower  of  the  winds: — The  anemone  or  wind-flower. 

P.  375,  1.  137.  ' .  .  .  A  most  unintelligible  allusion  to  a  likeness  dis- 
covered in  dear  Dora's  contour  of  countenance  to  the  great  Memnon  head 
in  the  British  Museum,  with  its  overflowing  lips  and  width  of  mouth,  which 
seems  to  be  typical  of  the  ocean.' — Sara  Coleridge,  Memoirs,  ii.  410. 

P.  377.  XLI.  THE  WISHING-GATE.  Introductory  Note: — Having  been 
told,  upon  what  I  thought  good  authority,  that  this  gate  had  been 


532  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

destroyed,  and  the  opening,  where  it  hung,  walled  up,  I  gave  vent 
immediately  to  my  feelings  in  these  stanzas.  But  going  to  the  place 
some  time  after,  I  found,  with  much  delight,  my  old  favourite  un- 
molested.— W.  The  Wishing-gate,  or  rather  its  successor,  still  stands. 

P.  380.  XLII.  THE  WISHING-GATE  DESTROYED.  Published  1842:— 
We  have  no  means  of  dating  the  composition  of  this  poem ;  but  it 
seems  likely  to  have  been  written  after  the  edition  of  1832  was  brought 
out,  as  the  preceding  poem  appeared  in  that  edition,  and  there  is  no 
obvious  reason  why  this  poem  should  have  been  left  out  if  it  already 
existed.  Prof.  Knight  dates  it,  no  doubt  by  inadvertence,  1828. 

P.  380.  XLIII.  THE  PRIMROSE  OF  THE  ROCK  : — The  rock  stands  on  the 
right  hand  a  little  way  up  the  middle  road  leading  from  Rydal  to  Gras- 
mere.  We  have  been  in  the  habit  of  calling  it  the  glow-worm  rock  from 
the  number  of  glow-worms  we  have  often  seen  hanging  on  it  as  described. 
-(I.  F.). 

P.  387.  XLVI.  DEVOTIONAL  INCITEMENTS.  Motto: — Paradise  Lout, 
v.  78-80 : 

.  .  .  not  to  Earth  confined, 
But  sometimes  in  the  Air,  as  we ;  sometimes 
Ascend  to  Heaven. 

P.  390.  XLVII.  THE  CUCKOO-CLOCK,!.  33.  Wandering: — Italicised  by 
Wordsworth  with  reference  to  his  own  expression  in  To  the  Cuckoo : 

O  Cuckoo  !  shall  I  call  thee  bird, 

Or  but  a  wandering  Voice  ? 

'  In  connection  with  this  stanza  it  may  be  noted  that  the  cuckoo-clock 
was  not  stopped  during  Wordsworth's  last  illness.  He  died  "just," 
Mrs.  Cookson  said,  "when  the  cuckoo-clock  was  singing  noon. " — Knight's 
Life,  in.  (xi.)  439.' — Prof.  Dowden.  The  clock  was  a  gift  of  Miss  Fen- 
wick,  as  we  learn  from  the  Fenwick  note. 

P.  391.  XLVIII.  To  THE  CLOUDS,  1.  55.  A  little  hoary  line  and  faintly 
traced : — Prof.  Knight  cps.  '  When  to  the  attraction  of  the  busy  world,' 
1.  48  (see  above,  p.  239),  '  A  hoary  pathway  traced  between  the  trees. ' 

P.  392,  1.  77.  The  Cyclades  are  the  group  of  islands  in  the  ./Egean 
which  surround  Delos.  The  expression  'a,  Cyclades'  is  Wordsworth's 
own  coinage,  and  only  less  strange  than  '  a  Pleiades '  would  be  because 
the  Cyclades  are  less  familiar  than  the  Pleiades  to  English  ears. 

L.  82.    Worshipped  us  the  god  of  verse: — Le.  as  Apollo. 

P.  392.  XLIX.  SUGGESTED  BY  A  PICTURE  OF  THE  BIRD  OF  PARADISE, 
1.  9.  'Glendoveer'  was  Southey's  adaptation  of  Grandouver,  the  name 
for  a  beautiful  kind  of  spiritual  being  (such  as  the  Sylphs)  in  Sonnerat's 
Voyage  aujc  Indes  (1782).  So  in  The  Curse  of  Kehama,  vi.  ii.  : 

The  Glendoveer, 
The  loveliest  race  of  all  of  heavenly  birth. 


NOTES  533 

The  word  can  scarcely  be  said  to  have  had  a  life,  but  it  was  extinguished 
by  the  parody  in  the  Rejected  Addresses,  beginning : 
I  am  a  blessed  Glendoveer. 

P.  395.  LI.  ON  THE  POWER  OF  SOUND,  1.  27.  Wordsworth  doubtless 
refers  to  the  bell-bird  of  Brazil,  the  Campanero  (Procnias  carunculata). 
There  is  also  an  Australian  bell-bird  (Myzantha  melanophrys).  See 
New  Eng.  Diet.,  which  curiously  quotes  no  use  of  the  word  earlier  than 
Bishop  Stanley,  1848. 

P.  396,  1.  73.  Pageant: — Italicised  by  Wordsworth,  probably  to  show 
at  once  that  he  means  mimic  war. 

P.  398, 1. 121.  Cp.  Upon  the  same  occasion  (Sept.  1819),  11.  31  foil.,  vol. 
ii.,  p.  361. 

L.  126.  Hell  to  the  lyre  bowed  low: — Referring  to  the  recovery  of 
Eurydice  by  Orpheus  by  the  power  of  his  lyre. 

LI.  129-131.  Amphion  was  supposed  to  have  charmed  the  stones  by  his 
music  into  building  the  city  of  Thebes  by  themselves. 

L.  144.  Referring  to  the  constellation  of  the  Dolphin. 

L.  146.  Mcenalian : — i.e.  Arcadian. 

L.  153.  This  somewhat  emphatic  injunction  is  addressed  to  the  reader 
merely  as  a  transition :  cp.  Argument  at  the  beginning  of  the  poem. 
The  want  of  spontaneity  and  organic  unity  is  only  rather  more  apparent 
here  than  elsewhere  in  this  ode. 

L.  159.  '  The  vain  distress-gun ' : — This  quotation  has  not,  so  far  as  I 
know,  been  traced.  A  similar  expression  occurs  in  a  poem  by  Milman, 
The  Loss  of  the  Royal  George,  contributed  to  a  volume  edited  in  1823  by 
Joanna  Baillie,  stanza  10  : 

Was  heard  on  Denmark's  wintry  shore 

The  drear  distress-gun  moaning. 

I  owe  this  quotation  to  the  New  Eng.  Diet.,  where,  however,  it  is  attri- 
buted to  Joanna  Baillie. 

P.  399,  1.  179.  Sages:— i.e.  the  Pythagoreans. 

P.  400, 1.  218.  An  echo  of  Ode — Intimations  of  Immortality,  etc.,  1.  153 : 

.  .  .  power  to  make 

Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence. 

1828-1829  :— Dated  1828  by  Wordsworth  ;  but  in  the  Fenwick  note  he 
tells  us  that  the  lines  beginning  'Then  to  be  heard,  lone  eagle  !'  (199  foil.), 
were  suggested  near  the  Giant's  Causeway  in  the  course  of  his  carriage 
tour  with  Mr.  J.  Marshall.  This  tour  took  place  in  the  late  summer 
and  autumn  of  1829. 

PETER  BELL 
A  TALE 

'  What's  in  a  Name?' — Romeo  and  Juliet,  n.  ii. 

'  Brutus  will  start  a  Spirit  as  soon  as  Caesar: — Julius  Ctesar,  i.  ii. 


534  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

P.  405,  1.  164.  The  White  Pine  (Pinus  strobus)  which  grows  mainly  in 
Canada,  from  which  it  is  greatly  exported  as  timber  for  indoor  use.  It 
does  well  in  the  south  of  England  in  light  soil.  Probably  there  was  one 
in  the  grounds  at  Alfoxden,  where  Peter  Bell  was  written.  It  is  rather 
curious  (cp.  1. 156  above)  that  in  The  Prelude  (iv.  47)  Wordsworth  speaks  of 

.  .  .  the  sunny  seat 

Round  the  stone  table  under  the  dark  pine 

in  the  garden  of  the  cottage  at  Hawkshead  where  he  lived  in  his  school- 
days. 

P.  406,  1.  195.  The  alterations  in  the  text  of  Peter  Bell  are  few,  con- 
sidering the  length  of  the  poem.  For  the  most  interesting  one  see  the 
next  note  but  one.  The  opening  of  Part  First  was  altered  in  ed.  1820 
with  a  view  to  toning  down  its  realism.  In  ed.  1819  it  stood  : 

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  ! ' 

'  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  ! ' 

The  Squire  said,  '  Sure  as  paradise 
Was  lost  to  man  by  Adam's  sinning, 
This  leap  is  for  us  all  too  bold ; 
Who  Peter  was,  let  that  be  told, 
And  start  from  the  beginning.' 

In  first  altering  the  passage  Wordsworth  went  to  the  opposite  extreme. 
Omitting  the  second  of  these  stanzas,  and  altering  the  first  to  its  final 
form,  he  ran  on  the  sense  of  it  with  exaggerated  language,  perhaps 
intended  to  be  mock-heroic,  but  evidently  felt  afterwards  to  be  infelici- 
tous. The  stanzas  stood  thus  : 

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. 

Like  winds  that  lash  the  waves,  or  smite 

The  woods,  the  autumnal  foliage  thinning — 

'  Hold  ! '  said  the  Squire,  '  I  pray  you  hold  ! '  etc. 

The  final  text  was  reached  in  ed.  1836.  There  are  one  or  two  alterations 
with  the  same  purpose  in  other  parts  of  the  poem. 


NOTES  535 

P.  413,  1.  450.   In  the  original  edition  the  first  stanza  of  Part  First  was 
repeated  here  (see  last  note)  with  the  following  stanza  added  : 
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  ! 

The  former  stanza  was  omitted  in  ed.  1820.  The  final  text  was  reached 
in  ed.  1836. 

P.  414,  1.  515.  In  the  two  earliest  editions  (both  1819)  there  followed 
this  stanza : 

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  ! 

Shelley  prefixed  this  stanza  to  his  Peter  Bell  the  Third.  Wordsworth 
told  Barron  Field  (letter  of  1828):  '  This  stanza  I  omitted— though  one  of 
the  most  imaginative  in  the  whole  piece — not  to  offend  the  pious.'  Prof. 
Knight,  by  an  unfortunate  slip,  says  that  '  Crabb  Robinson  remonstrated 
with  him  against  its  exclusion.'  The  reverse  is  true.  On  first  reading 
Peter  Bell  (in  MS.)  in  1812,  Robinson  wrote  in  his  diary  (Knight's 
Life,  ii.  (x.),  p.  200):  f  Peter  Bell  contains  one  passage,  so  very  ex- 
ceptionable, that  I  ventured  to  beg  him  to  expunge  it.  ...  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  sitting 
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.' 

P.  416,  1.  572.  Resigned  to: — 'given  up  to';  a  use  of  the  Lake 
District,  according  to  Prof.  Knight  (Life,  i.  (ix.)  p.  311),  commenting  on  a 
passage  in  Dorothy  Wordsworth's  Journals. 

P.  426,  11.  973,  974.  The  notion  is  very  general  that  the  cross  on  the 
back  and  shoulders  of  this  animal  has  the  origin  here  alluded  to. — W. 

LI.  976-980.  This  and  the  previous  stanza  were  omitted  from  ed.  1827, 
but  restored  in  ed.  1832.  In  a  note  (1820)  Wordsworth  says  that  the 
line  '  By  an  immeasurable  stream '  was  suggested  by  Haydon's  '  Picture  of 
Christ's  Entry  into  Jerusalem ' ;  in  which  picture  Haydon  introduced 
Wordsworth's  portrait. — Prof.  Knight. 

MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS 

P.  431.  DEDICATION  TO  : — Possibly  his  wife,  possibly  his  sister. 

We  have  no  means  of  deciding  the  question.  In  the  Fenwick  note 
Wordsworth  says  that  he  was  first  fired  to  write  sonnets  in  1801,  when, 


536  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

one  afternoon  at  Dove  Cottage,  his  sister  read  to  him  the  sonnets  of 
Milton.  Prof.  Knight  (Eversley  Wordsworth,  iv.  29)  shows  that  in  this, 
as  in  many  other  chronological  details,  Wordsworth's  memory  played 
him  false.  It  was  in  1802  that  he  was  fired  to  write  sonnets  by  hearing 
Milton's  sonnets  read,  and  he  had  written  a  certain  number  of  sonnets 
long  before,  besides  the  '  irregular  one,'  which  in  the  Fenwick  note  is 
the  only  one  he  remembers  as  written  previously  to  1801. 

L.  14.   (  Something  less  than  joy,  but  more  than  dull  content.' 

Countess  of  Winchilsea. — W. 

Published  1827  : — This  dedication  was  probably  written  at  the  end  of 
1826  or  beginning  of  1827,  as  the  edition  of  1827  was  sent  to  the  printer 
in  January  of  that  year. 

P.  431.  PART  I.  I.  Published  1807  :— Probably  written  not  long  before 
the  Poems  in  Two  Volumes  were  published,  as  a  '  Prefatory  Sonnet '  to  the 
collection  of  sonnets  included  in  that  edition.  The  Poems  in  Two  Volumes 
were  in  the  press  in  Nov.  1806.  The  last  line  but  one  reminds  one  of 
the  Ode  to  Duty,  which  was  written  in  1805. 

P.  433.  IV.  AT  APPLETHWAITE,  NEAR  KESWICK,  1.  14.  This  sonnet  was 
first  published  in  the  vol.  of  1842,  where  it  immediately  precedes  the 
Epistle  to  Sir  G.  Beaumont.  Cp.  vol.  n.  p.  397.  Sir  George  Beaumont, 
after  staying  at  Greta  Hall,  the  residence  of  Southey  and  Coleridge,  near 
Keswick,  in  1803,  before  he  knew  Wordsworth  personally,  bought  for 
him  a  small  property  at  Applethwaite,  about  three  miles  from  Greta 
Hall,  in  order  that  he  might  be  near  Coleridge.  The  plan  came  to 
nothing,  owing  partly  to  Coleridge's  unsettled  life  ;  and  soon  after  his 
daughter  Dora's  birth,  Wordsworth  settled  the  property  on  her. 

P.  433.  V. ,  1.  5.  Cp.  Spenser,  Virgil's  Gnat  (translation  of  the  Culex)t 
stanza  iii. 

Or  whereas  Mount  Parnasse,  the  Muses'  brood, 
Doth  his  broad  forehead  like  two  horns  divide, 
And  the  sweet  waves  of  sounding  Castaly 
With  liquid  foot  doth  slide  down  easily. 

P.  433.  VI.,  1.  1.  This  rill  trickles  down  the  hillside  into  Windermere, 
near  Lowwood. — I.  F. 

P.  434,  1.  10.  Faithful  Emma  .-—Dorothy  Wordsworth. 
Published  1820: — Written  originally  perhaps  in  1801.     Prof.  Knight 
quotes  from  a  MS.  copy  : 

For  on  that  day,  now  seven  years  gone,  when  first 
Two  glad  foot-travellers,  through  sun  and  shower 
My  Love  and  I  came  hither,  etc. 

This  might  refer  either  to  the  poet's  walking  tour  with  Dorothy  in  1794 
(cp.  Prof.  Knight's  Life,  i.  (ix.)  88),  or  to  their  arrival  to  take  up  their 
abode  at  Grasmere  in  1799. 


NOTES  537 

P.  434.  VIII.,  1.  14.  Suggested  at  Hackett,  which  is  on  the  craggy 
ridge  that  rises  between  the  two  Langdales,  and  looks  towards  Winder- 
mere. — I.  F. 

P.  435.  XI.,  1.  2.  A  projecting  point  of  Loughrigg,  nearly  in  front  of 
Rydal  Mount.  .   .  .  Vulgarly  called  Holme-Scar. — I.  F. 
L.  4.  '  With  lingering  farewell'  till  ed.  1837. 

P.  438.  XVII.  To  THE  POET,  JOHN  DYER,  1.  14.  John  Dyer,  author  of 
Grongar  Hill  (published  1726),  The  Fleece  (1757)  etc.,  was  born  at  Aber- 
glasney  in  Caermarthenshire,  in,  or  shortly  before,  1700,  and  died  in 
1758.  The  quotation  in  11.  5,  6  above  is  from  The  Fleece,  bk.  HI.  11.  437, 
438.  Wordsworth  more  than  once  expressed  admiration  for  Dyer,  as 
the  only  lover  of  natural  scenery,  except  Thomson,  among  the  poets  of 
the  eighteenth  century.  Cp.  above,  p.  438. 

P.  439.  XIX.,  1.  14.  Mantling: — It  is  difficult  to  attach  a  precise  mean- 
ing to  the  word  '  mantling,'  even  after  an  examination  of  the  materials 
collected  for  the  Oxford  Dictionary,  which  Mr.  H.  Bradley  kindly  placed 
at  my  disposal.  The  more  or  less  unconscious  associations  which  led  to 
its  use  here  were  probably  those  (1)  of  its  use  to  express  the  frothing  of 
fermented  liquors,  and  of  metaphors  drawn  from  this  use,  such  as  Pope, 
Imitation  of  Horace's  Satires,  H.  ii.  8,  'And  the  brain  dances  to  the 
mantling  bowl,'  and  Goldsmith,  Deserted  Village,  1.  248,  'To  see  the 
mantling  bliss  go  round,'  and  Wordsworth  himself,  The  River  Duddon, 
xiii.  12,  '  While  the  warm  hearth  exalts  the  mantling  ale ' ;  (2)  of  such 
a  phrase  as  Milton,  Paradise  Lost,  vii.  439  : 

The  swan  with  arched  neck 

Between  her  white  wings  mantling  proudly,  rows 

Her  state  with  oary  feet, — 

in  which  there  seems  to  be  a  reference,  not  bearing  strict  analysis,  to  the 
use  of  the  word  in  falconry  (cp.  the  cancelled  first  stanza  of  Dion,  above, 
p.  530).  The  sense  in  which  a  blush  is  said  to  mantle  is  nearly  allied 
to  the  former  of  these  uses,  but  carries  a  more  direct  reminiscence  of 
the  original  meaning  of  the  word,  to  cover  as  a  mantle  ;  as  also  does  the 
phrase  of  Milton,  Comus,  1.  294,  'The  mantling  vine.'  Cp.  An  Evening 
Walk,  1.  231,  where  the  word  is  probably  suggested  by  Milton's  swan, 
but  is  used  in  the  sense  of  '  covering.'  In  Wordsworth's  second  poem 
To  the  Celandine,  11.  23,  24  : 

With  the  proudest  thou  art  there 
Mantling  in  the  tiny  square 

(above,  p.  259),  there  is  a  similar  somewhat  vague  use  of  the  word,  in 
which  the  sense  of  spreading  over  a  certain  surface  is  combined  with  a 
notion  of  pride. 

Published  1819 : — Cp.  the  following  sonnet,  and  the  Song  for  the  Spinning 
Wheel  (above,  p.  264),  which  was  written  for  Sarah  Hutchinson  in  1812. 
Some  cancelled  lines  of  this  sonnet,  given  by  Prof.  Knight  from  MS., 


538  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

very  distinctly  recall  the  Song,  and  suggest  the  inference  that  the  two 
were  written  at  no  long  interval.     The  lines  in  question  are  : 
And  fancy  prized  the  murmuring  spinning-wheel 
In  sympathies  inexplicably  fine, 
Instilled  a  confidence,  how  sweet  to  feel ! 
That  ever,  in  the  night  calm,  when  the  sheep 
Upon  their  grassy  beds  lay  couched  in  sleep, 
The  quickening  spindle  drew  a  trustier  line. 

P.  439.  XX.  To  S.  H.  : — Sarah  Hutchinson,  the  poet's  sister-in-law. 
L.  7.    Who  toils  to  spin  our  vital  thread: — Lachesis,  one  of  the  three 
Fates. 

P.  440.  XXIII.  COMPOSED  ON  THE  EVE  OF  THE  MARRIAGE  OP  A  FRIEND 
IN  THE  VALE  OF  GRASMERE,  1812: — The  poet's  brother-in-law,  Thomas 
Hutchinson,  who  married  Mary  Monkhouse. 

P.  441.  XXIV.  FROM  THE  ITALIAN  OF  MICHAEL  ANGELO  : — Translations 
from  Michael  Angelo  done  at  the  request  of  Mr.  Duppa,  whose  acquaint- 
ance I  made  through  Mr.  Southey.  Mr.  Duppa  was  engaged  in  writing 
the  life  of  Michael  Angelo,  and  applied  to  Mr.  Southey  and  myself  to 
furnish  some  specimens  of  his  poetic  genius. — I.  F.  The  first  sonnet  is 
a  translation  of  Sonnet  LX.  {Ben  pub  talor  col  mio  ardente  desio),  the 
second  of  Sonnet  LII.  (non  vider  gli  occhi  miei  cosa  mortale),  the  third  of 
LXXXIX.  {Ben  sarien  dolce  le  preghiere  mie).  These  references  are  to  Le 
Rime  di  Michelangelo  Buonarroti,  ed.  from  the  autograph  MSS.  by  Cesare 
Guasti  (1863).  Wordsworth's  translations  were  made  from  the  rifa- 
cimento  of  Michael  Angelo's  nephew,  in  Wordsworth's  time  the  only 
known  versions  of  these  poems. 

L.  14.  The  curiously  irregular  arrangement  of  the  rhymes  in  this 
sonnet,  which  of  course  has  no  counterpart  in  the  original,  is  best  ex- 
plained by  Wordsworth's  letter  to  Sir  G.  Beaumont  (Prof.  Knight,  Life, 
ii.  (x.)  p.  67):  '  I  mentioned  Michael  Augelo's  poetry  some  time  ago  ;  it  is 
the  most  difficult  to  construe  I  ever  met  with,  but  just  what  you  would 
expect  from  such  a  man,  showing  abundantly  how  conversant  his  soul 
was  with  great  things.  ...  I  can  translate,  and  have  translated,  two 
books  of  Ariosto,  at  the  rate,  nearly,  of  one  hundred  lines  a  day  ;  but  so 
much  meaning  has  been  put  by  Michael  Angelo  into  so  little  room,  and 
that  meaning  sometimes  so  excellent  in  itself,  that  I  found  the  difficulty 
of  translating  him  insurmountable.  I  attempted,  at  least,  fifteen  of  the 
sonnets,  but  could  not  anywhere  succeed.' 

P.  442.  XXVII.,  1.  3.  Thee  .-—Catherine  Wordsworth;  see  p.  117, 
Characteristics  of  a  Child,  etc.  She  died  June  14,  1812. 

P.  443.  XXVIII. : — The  latter  part  of  this  sonnet  was  a  great  favourite 
with  my  sister,  S.  H.  When  I  saw  her  lying  in  death  I  could  not  resist 
the  impulse  to  compose  the  sonnet  that  follows  it. — I.  F.  This  explains 


NOTES  539 

the  relation  between  these  two  sonnets,  written  many  years  apart,  but 
numbered  i.  n.,  as  closely  connected.  The  Fenwick  note  is,  however, 
obscure,  as  Sarah  Hutchinson  died  on  June  23,  1835,  whereas  the  sonnet 
referred  to  is  dated  by  Wordsworth  Nov.  1836. 

P.  444.  XXX.,  1.  9.  Dear  Child  .-—Possibly  Dorothy  Wordsworth, 
who  was  with  Wordsworth  at  Calais  when  this  sonnet  was  written  ;  but 
more  probably  a  girl  named  Caroline,  of  whom  nothing  further  is 
known  than  that  she  and  '  Annette '  used  to  walk  with  Wordsworth  and 
his  sister  on  the  shore  of  an  evening,  and  that  her  '  delight '  at  the 
spectacle  of  the  boats  going  out  of  the  harbour  in  the  sunset  is  recorded 
in  Dorothy  Wordsworth's  Journal. 

P.  444.  XXXIL,  11.  5-8.  From  a  passage  in  Skelton.— W.  (1807).  Cp. 
Skelton,  Bowge  of  Courts,  stanza  6  : 

Methoughte  I  sawe  a  shyppe,  goodly  of  sayle, 
Come  saylynge  forth  into  that  hauen  brood, 
Her  takelynge  ryche  and  of  hye  apparayle. 

P.  445.  XXXIII.  There  are  two  reminiscences  of  Spenser's  Colin 
Clout's  come  Home  againe  in  this  sonnet.  With  1.  11  cp.  1.  283  of  that 
poem,  '  A  goodly  pleasant  lea',;  with  1.  14  cp.  1.  245, 'Triton,  blowing 
loud  his  wreathed  horn.'  Cp.  too  Paradise  Lost,  iii.  603-604  : 

.  .  .  and  call  up  unbound 
In  various  shapes  old  Proteus  from  the  sea. 

P.  445.  XXXIV.,  1.  3.   '  Coignes  of  vantage'  .-—Macbeth,  i.  vi.  7. 

As  published  in  1823  11.  4-9  were  almost  entirely  different  from  the 
ultimate  text.  That  text  was  first  published  in  1827,  and  remained 
unaltered  in  subsequent  editions. 

P.  446.  XXXVI.  To  THE  MEMORY  OP  RAISLEY  CALVERT: — See  Intro- 
duction, p.  xxxvii. 

P.  447.  PART  II.  III.  To  B.  R.  HAYDON  :— Benjamin  Robert  Hay  don 
painted  the  well-known  picture  of  Wordsworth  on  Helvellyn.  He  was 
born  in  1786,  and  died  by  his  own  hand  in  1846. 

P.  447.  IV.,  1.  3.  Gillies:— Nephew  of  Lord  Gillies,  the  Scotch  judge, 
and  also  of  the  historian  of  Greece  .  .  .  cousin  to  Miss  Margaret  Gillies, 
who  painted  so  many  portraits  with  success  in  our  house. — I.  F.  He 
was  a  writer  of  much  versatility  and  talent,  but  generally  in  a  hopeless 
condition  of  insolvency.  He  was  a  friend  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  and  other 
literary  men,  and  he  contributed  to  Blackwood's  Magazine,  especially 
translations  from  the  German.  His  best  known  work  was  Memoirs  of  a 
Literary  Veteran  (3  vols.,  1851).  Cp.  Diet.  Nat.  Biog. 

L.  5.  Bellerophon : — The  Corinthian  hero,  best  known  for  his  exploit, 
when,  mounted  on  Pegasus,  he  slew  the  Chimaera.  Wordsworth  alludes 
to  the  story,  first  found  in  Pindar,  but  better  known  from  the  allusion 


540  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

of  Horace  (Odes,  iv.  xi.  26),  that  on  Bellerophon  attempting  to  ride  Pegasus 
up  to  heaven  the  winged  steed  threw  him  to  earth  hy  the  will  of  Zeus. 

P.  448,  1.  12.  Roslin's  faded  grove: — The  village  of  Roslin  is  about  six 
miles  from  Edinburgh,  close  to  Hawthornden. 

P.  449.  VII.,  1.  11.  Cp.  especially  Phcedo,  84  E,  foil,  and  108  D,  foil. 

P.  449.  VIII.  RETIREMENT,  1.  6  : — The  text  of  this  curiously  ungram- 
matical  sonnet  was  never  altered.  '  Her '  refers  apparently  to  the  mind 
or  the  soul ;  this  being  gathered  from  the  expressions,  '  the  whole  weight 
of  what  we  think  and  feel,'  and  ' thought  and  feeling.'  The  last  three 
lines  of  the  sonnet  are  also,  to  say  the  least,  awkwardly  expressed  ;  but 
one  may  safely  say  that  Wordsworth  had  in  his  mind  Milton's  '  They  also 
serve  who  only  stand  and  wait.' 

P.  450.  X.  1.  2.  Yon  cold  grey  Stone : — This  stone  is  still  visible  in  the 
grounds  of  Lancrigg,  at  the  foot  of  Helm  Crag.  It  was  on  a  terrace  on 
the  hillside  hard  by  that  Wordsworth  composed  a  great  portion  of  The 
Prelude  and  many  other  verses. 

P.  450.  XI.  COMPOSED  AFTER  A  JOURNEY  ACROSS  THE  HAMBLETON  HILLS, 
YORKSHIRE  : — Among  other  alterations  made  from  time  to  time  in  this 
sonnet  the  following  is  of  special  interest.     LI.  5-12  originally  stood  : 
The  western  sky  did  recompense  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,  sight  that  might  well  repay 
All  disappointment !     And,  as  such,  the  eye 
Delighted  in  them. 

The  great  improvement  in  11.  9-12  is  obvious.  LI.  5-8  were  perhaps 
altered  partly  to  avoid  the  doubt  whether  '  Grecian '  should  qualify  all 
the  three  following  substantives  or  not,  partly  because  the  expression  '  and 
Bower'  seemed  weak.  The  result  of  the  change  was  to  produce  one 
of  the  abnormal  forms  of  the  octave  (the  same  as  in  Miscellaneous 
Sonnets,  Part  in.,  Sonnet  xlvi.),  which  Wordsworth  freely  admitted. 

October  4,  1802 : — Wordsworth  says  in  the  Fenwick  note  that  this 
sonnet  was  written  on  his  wedding  day.  The  language  of  a  great  part  of 
it  corresponds  so  closely  with  Dorothy  Wordsworth's  Journal  that  editors 
think  that  Wordsworth  is,  as  so  often,  forgetful  of  the  true  date,  and 
wrote  the  sonnet  later,  according  to  his  frequent  practice,  with  the 
Journal  before  him.  It  seems  possible,  however,  that  the  language 
common  to  both  sonnet  and  Journal  may  represent  the  conversation 
which  the  scene  actually  evoked  at  the  time.  Cp.  the  opening  of  the 
following  sonnet. 

P.  451.  XIII.  SEPTEMBER,  1815, 1.  9.  For  me,  who  under  kindlier  laws  : — 


NOTES  541 

This  conclusion  has  more  than  once,  to  my  great  regret,  excited  pain- 
fully sad  feelings  in  the  hearts  of  young  persons  fond  of  poetry  and 
poetic  composition,  by  contrast  of  their  feeble  and  declining  health  with 
that  state  of  robust  constitution  which  prompted  me  to  rejoice  in  a 
season  of  frost  and  snow  as  more  favourable  to  the  Muses  than  summer 
itself.— I.  F. 

P.  452.  XVII.  To  THE  LADY  MARY  LOWTHER.  With  a  selection  from 
the  Poems  of  Anne,  Countess  of  Winchilsea ;  and  extracts  of  similar  char- 
acter from  other  writers;  transcribed  by  a  female  friend : — The  selection 
here  referred  to  came  to  light  in  1905  while  the  present  edition  of 
Wordsworth  was  going  through  the  press.  It  has  since  been  edited  for 
the  Clarendon  Press  by  Prof.  Littledale.  The  '  female  friend '  who 
transcribed  the  extracts  was  Sarah  Hutchinson.  A  note  in  the  hand- 
writing of  the  Lady  Mary  Lowther  (afterwards  Bentinck)  settles  the  date 
of  this  sonnet,  which  was  prefixed  to  the  volume  of  selections  and  signed 
by  Wordsworth  in  autograph. 

P.  453.  XVIII.  To  LADY  BEAUMONT  :— From  Oct.  1806  to  Aug.  1807 
the  Wordsworths  occupied  a  farmhouse  close  to  Coleorton  Hall,  lent 
them  by  Sir  George  Beaumont.  They  busied  themselves  much  in  laying 
out  the  winter  garden  of  the  Hall,  which  was  being  enlarged  at  the  time. 
Landscape-gardening  was  a  hobby  of  Wordsworth,  in  which  he  was  pro- 
ficient, and  his  correspondence  with  Sir  George  Beaumont  and  others 
contains  much  criticism  on  the  subject. 

P.  453.  XIX.  1.  2.  Which  only  Poets  know :— Cowper,  The  Task,  u.  285. 

P.  454.  XXL,  1.  11.  Emathian: — I.e.  Macedonian.  In  the  following 
line  the  reference  is  to  the  Sacred  Band  of  three  hundred  Thebans  which 
formed  the  flower  of  the  army  of  Thebes,  and  was  said  to  have  been  un- 
defeated until  it  was  annihilated  at  the  battle  with  Philip  of  Macedon  at 
Chaeronea  in  338  B.C. 

Published  1820  : — According  to  Wordsworth,  composed  a  few  days  after 
Sonnet  xvi.  above,  To  a  Snowdrop.  Probably  it  was  not  finished  in  time 
for  publication  in  1819 ;  or  Wordsworth  may  not  have  become  reconciled 
to  its  artificiality  at  once. 

P.  455.  XXIII.,  11.  1,  2.  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  Astrophel  and  Stella,  xxxi. 

Perhaps  1802  : — This  poem  was  first  published  as  a  poem  of  fifteen  lines 
in  the  Poems  in  Two  Volumes  of  1807,  as  one,  with  Beggars,  To  a  Skylark, 
Alice  Fell,  and  Resolution  and  Independence,  of  Poems  composed  during 
a  Tour,  chiefly  on  Foot.  Three  of  these  were  certainly,  and  the  Skylark 
was  perhaps,  written  in  1802,  in  the  February  of  which  year  also 
appeared  in  the  Morning  Post  (besides  the  verses  beginning  '  Dear  Child 
of  Nature,  let  them  rail,'  and  (  Calm  is  all  Nature  as  a  resting  wheel ')  an 
anonymous  poem,  like  this  one,  of  fifteen  lines,  and,  like  this  one, 
addressed  to  the  moon :  see  Written  in  a  Grotto,  vol.  in.  p.  424.  Mr. 


542  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Hutchinson,  therefore,  reasonably  supposes  that  this  poem  and  the 
anonymous  one  were  both  experiments  in  a  new  metrical  form  '  made 
at  the  period  (1802),  when,  after  an  interval  of  ten  years,  the  poet 
resumed  his  essays  in  sonnet-form.' — Poems  in  Two  Volumes,  ed.  1897, 
vol.  i.  p.  187.  This  poem  was  reduced  to  a  sonnet  in  ed.  1820. 

P.  455.  XXIV.,  1.  3.  Sullenly:— In  all  the  collective  edd.  from  1827 
onwards  the  word  is  misprinted  'suddenly.'  In  the  original  ed.  (1815), 
in  ed.  1820,  and  in  the  vol.  of  Sonnets  (1838),  the  text  is  correct.  A 
close  parallel  from  Wordsworth's  letter  to  The  Friend  in  reply  to 
Mathetes,  written  in  1810  (pointed  out  by  Rev.  W.  A.  Harrison  in  Prof. 
Knight's  ed.)  suggests  that  this  sonnet  was  written  about  the  same  date. 

P.  457.  XXVIII.  ST.  CATHERINE  OF  LEDBURY.  Published  1835  :— 
Written  on  a  journey  from  Brinsop  Court,  Herefordshire. — I.  F.  Prof. 
Knight  (Life,  in.  (xi.)  p.  254)  thinks  that  Wordsworth  spent  some  time 
at  Brinsop  Court  with  his  relatives  the  Hutchinsons  in  the  autumn  of 
1835,  and  refers  this  sonnet  and  Part  in.  Nos.  xv.  and  xx.  to  this  visit. 
They  were,  however,  all  published  in  1835,  in  the  vol.  Yarrow  Revisited 
and  other  Poems,  which  is  evidently  referred  to  as  already  published  in  a 
letter  of  Aubrey  de  Vere  of  Sept.  10  of  that  year  (quoted  by  Prof. 
Knight  on  the  page  referred  to  above). 

P.  457.  XXIX.  Motto  : — Midsummer's  Night's  Dream,  v.  i.  16. 

LI.  9-14.  Both  these  superstitions  are  prevalent  in  the  midland 
counties  of  England  :  that  of  '  Gabriel's  Hounds '  appears  to  be  very 
general  over  Europe;  being  the  same  as  the  one  upon  which  the  German 
poet,  Burger,  has  founded  his  ballad  of  the  Wild  Huntsman — W. 

P.  458.  XXX.,  1.  10.  The  Fenwick  note  informs  us  that  this  sonnet 
was  suggested  by  the  first  view  of  the  Lake  country  on  the  road  between 
Preston  and  Lancaster. 

P.  458.  XXXI.  Published  1815  :— Dated  by  Mr.  Hutchinson  1806 ; 
according  to  Prof.  Dowden,  'date  uncertain.'  Prof.  Knight  dates  it 
doubtfully  1806,  apparently  because  of  its  similarity  to  the  sonnet 
'There- is  a  little  unpretending  Rill'  (above,  Part  i.  No.  vi.),  which 
he  dates  1806. 

P.  458.  XXXII.  COMPOSED  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  A  ROCKY  STREAM,  1.  1. 
Dogmatic  Teachers,  of  the  snow-white  fur : — The  reminiscence  of  Milton  is 
obvious  :  Comus,  1.  708,  'To  those  budge  doctors  of  the  Stoick  Fur.' 

P.  460.  XXXVI.  COMPOSED  UPON  WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE,  Sept.  3,  1802: 
— The  real  date  was  July  31,  1802.  Wordsworth  tells  us  in  the  Fenwick 
note  that  the  sonnet  was  '  written  on  the  roof  of  a  coach,  on  my  way  to 
France,' and  he  and  Dorothy  left  London  on  July  31.  Reference  is  made 
to  the  scene  in  Dorothy  Wordsworth's  Journal. 


NOTES  543 

P.  460.  XXXVII.  CONCLUSION.  To .-—There  is  no  evidence  with 

regard  to  the  person  addressed. 

L.  3.  Cp.  Poems  dedicated  to  National  Independence  and  Liberty,  vol.  n. 
p.  40. 

P.  462.  PART  III.  III.  OXFORD,  May  30, 1820, 1.  10.  I.e. ,  if  fancy  is  to 
transport  me,  as  in  the  preceding  sonnet,  to  the  life  of  an  undergraduate  at 
Oxford,  it  must  perform  even  greater  wonders,  and  enable  me  to  imagine 
another  person  young  again  and  taking  part  in  this  dream  of  a  youth 
different  to  that  which  she  and  I  really  experienced.  The  other  person 
is  either  Wordsworth's  wife  or  his  sister ;  they  were  both  with  him  at 
Oxford  on  this  occasion.  The  contrast  which  is  here  drawn  between 
the  man's  roving  fancy  and  the  woman's  fidelity  to  past  experience  will 
have  come  under  the  observation  of  many  readers. 

P.  462.  IV.  RECOLLECTION  OF  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  KING  HENRY  THE 
EIGHTH,  TRINITY  LODGE,  CAMBRIDGE.  Published  1827  : — Probably  written 
after  Wordsworth's  visit  to  Cambridge  in  May  1824,  the  ed.  of  1827 
being  the  next  ed.  after  that  date. 

P.    462.    V.     ON    THE    DEATH    OF    HIS  'MAJESTY    (GEORGE    THE    THIRD)  : 

George  in.  died  Jan.  29,  1820. 

P.  463.  VI.  June  1820.  Cp.  the  reference  to  Thomson  at  Richmond 
in  Remembrance  of  Collins,  above,  p.  12. 

P.  463.  VII.  A  PARSONAGE  IN  OXFORDSHIRE  :— Cp.  Ecclesiastical 
Sonnets,  Part  in.  Sonnet  xviii.  The  Parsonage  (of  Souldern,  between 
Bicester  and  Banbury)  was  occupied  by  Wordsworth's  friend  Robert 
Jones.  See  above,  p.  12. 

P.  464.  VIII.  COMPOSED  AMONG  THE  RUINS  OF  A  CASTLE  IN  NORTH 
WALES.  Probably  1824 : — Wordsworth  visited  Carnarvon  Castle  in 
Sept.  1824. 

P.  464.  IX.  To  THE  LADY  E.  B.  AND  THE  HON.  Miss  P.  :— The  cele- 
brated pair  of  friends,  Lady  Eleanor  Butler  and  the  Hon.  Miss  Ponsonby, 
who  lived  together  at  Plass  Newidd. 

P.  465.  X.  To  THE  TORRENT  AT  THE  DEVIL'S  BRIDGE,  NORTH  WALES, 
1824,  1.  4.  Pindus: — The  principal  mountain  chain  of  Northern  Greece. 
At  the  date  of  this  sonnet  the  Greek  War  of  Independence,  which  began 
in  1821,  was  still  in  a  critical  condition,  and  remained  so  until  the  battle 
of  Navarino  in  1827. 

L.  7.  That  young  Stream : — The  Rhine.  Cp.  Descriptive  Sketches,  1.  162, 
above,  p.  17. 

P.  465.    XII.,  1.  1.    Philoctetes,  to  whom  the  dying  Heracles  had 


544  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

bequeathed  his  bow  and  arrows,  was  left  on  Lemnos,  while  the  Greeks 
attacked  Troy,  on  account  of  his  foot  being  sorely  wounded. 

P.  466.  XIII.,  1.  1.  Anna: — Miss  Jewsbury,  to  whom,  as  Mrs. 
Fletcher,  the  poem  called  Liberty  (vol.  u.,  p.  406)  was  addressed. 

P.  467.  XV.  To :— Miss  Loveday  Walker,  daughter  of  the  Rector 

of  Brinsop  in  Herefordshire. — Prof.  Knight.  I  am  not  able  to  trace  the 
source  of  the  quotation  at  the  head  of  this  sonnet.  The  lines  may 
possibly  be  Wordsworth's  own. 

P.  467.   XVI.    THE  INFANT  M M : — Mary  Monkhouse,  the 

only  daughter  of  my  friend  and  cousin  Thomas  Monkhouse. — I.  F. 

P.  468.  XVII.  To ,  IN  HER  SEVENTIETH  YEAR  : — Lady  Fitzgerald, 

as  described  to  me  by  Lady  Beaumont. — I.  F. 

P.  468.  XVIII.  To  ROTHA  Q :— Rotha  Quillinan,  grand-daughter 

of  the  poet. 

P.  470.  XXIII.  FILIAL  PIETY  :— Dated  Feb.  5, 1828  in  Edith  Southey's 
Album. — Prof.  Dowden.  The  fact  celebrated  by  Wordsworth  has  been 
placed  on  record  by  Mr.  James  Bromley,  whose  wife's  grandfather  was 
the  '  son '  of  the  sonnet.  '  The  tradition  handed  down  in  the  family  is 
this.  One  Thomas  Scarisbrick  was  killed  by  a  flash  of  lightning  whilst 
building  his  turf-stack  in  1779.  His  son  James  Scarisbrick,  who  was 
then  thirty  years  old,  completed  the  stack,  and  ever  after  during  his  life 
reverently  kept  it  in  repair  as  a  memorial  of  his  father.  James  died  in 
1824,  consequently  for  forty-five  years  he  had  tended  this  rude  monu- 
ment, and  to  further  perpetuate  the  remembrance  of  it  he  left  to  his 
grandchildren  sets  of  goblets  and  decanters,  on  each  of  which  are  incised 
his  own  and  his  wife's  monogram  and  a  representation  of  the  turf-stack 
between  two  trees.'  The  farm  was  about  a  mile  from  Ormskirk,  on  the 
way  to  Preston. — The  Athenceum,  May  17,  1890. 

P.  471.  XXIV.  To  THE  AUTHOR'S  PORTRAIT  : — The  last  six  lines  of  this 
sonnet  are  not  written  for  poetical  effect,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact,  which, 
in  more  than  one  instance,  could  not  escape  my  notice  in  the  servants  of 
the  house. — I.  F. 

Probably  1832  :— The  date  of  the  portrait. 

P.  471.  XXV.,  11.  11-14.  In  the  month  of  January,  when  Dora  and  I 
were  walking  from  Town-End,  Grasmere,  across  the  vale,  snow  being  on 
the  ground,  she  espied,  in  the  thick  though  leafless  hedge,  a  bird's  nest 
half-filled  with  snow.  Out  of  this  comfortless  appearance  arose  this 
sonnet,  which  was,  in  fact,  written  without  the  least  reference  to  any 
individual  object,  but  merely  to  prove  to  myself  that  I  could,  if  I  thought 
fit,  write  in  a  strain  that  poets  have  been  fond  of. — I.  F. 

Published  1835  .-—Composed  1832  or  1833.— Mr.  Hutchinson. 


NOTES  54,5 

P.  472.  XXVII.  1.  1.  A  Poet : — There  is  no  reference  to  any  particular 
person  in  this  sonnet ;  it  is  an  outburst  of  protest  against  a  certain  sort 
of  critical  writing  of  Wordsworth's  day,  and,  in  particular,  as  Words- 
worth told  Miss  Fenwick,  a  use  of  the  word  'artistical.' 

P.  473.  XXX.  COMPOSED  ON  A  MAY  MORNING,  1838  :— Prof.  Knight 
(Eversley  ed.  vol.  viu.  p.  97)  prints  a  very  large  number  of  '  tentative 
efforts  in  the  construction  of  this  sonnet,'  as  well  as  of  the  sonnet  begin- 
ning, '  If  with  old  love  of  you,  dear  Hills  ! '  (vol.  JL,  p.  138),  and  A  Plea 
for  Authors  (No.  xxxviii.  of  this  series),  all  of  which  were  written  in 
May  1838. 

P.  474.  XXXII.  To  A  PAINTER:— Miss  M.  Gillies.  She  painted  minia- 
ture portraits  of  Wordsworth  and  his  wife.  Cp.  last  note  but  one  on 
p.  539. 

P.  475.  XXXVI.  1.  10.  Both:— I.e.  both  she  and  the  children.  Mr. 
Hutchinson  would  read  '  both  do  live  and  move,'  thinking  '  to '  an  un- 
corrected  printer's  error.  No  doubt  the  sense  becomes  clearer,  but  it  is 
possible  to  supply  '  are  privileged '  from  the  preceding  line. 

L.  14.  This  sonnet  refers  to  Mrs.  Southey.  — From  I.  F. 

P.  476.  XXXVIII.  A  PLEA  FOR  AUTHORS,  MAY  1838  :— About  this  time 
Wordsworth  was  very  much  interested  in  the  question  of  copyright, 
corresponding  with  many  leading  men  on  the  subject,  and  himself 
presenting  a  petition  to  Parliament,  which  is  given  in  Prof.  Knight's 
Life,  vol.  in.  (xi.)  p.  320. 

P.  477.  XL.  To  THE  REV.  CHRISTOPHER  WORDSWORTH,  D.  D.,  MASTER 
OP  HARROW  SCHOOL: — Author  of  the  Memoirs  of  Wordsworth,  and  after- 
wards Bishop  of  Lincoln. 

P.  480.  XLVII.  AT FURNESS ABBEY,  1.  14.  Cavendish: — Furness Abbey 
is  the  property  of  the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  whose  family  name  is 
Cavendish. — Prof.  Knight. 

Probably  1845 : — The  date  attached  by  Wordsworth  to  the  following 
sonnet  was  probably  meant  to  refer  also  to  this  one. 


1— MM 


ADDENDA 

(1)  AT  the  very  last  moment  before  publication,  Mr.  Hutchinson  has 
placed  me  under  a  fresh  obligation,  by  pointing  out  to  me  the  following 
sonnet,  signed  W.  W.,  in  the  Morning  Post  for  February  13,  1798.  I 
was  at  first  strongly  inclined  to  reject  it,  on  obvious  grounds  of  style  ; 
and  no  one,  I  imagine,  would  be  sorry  to  learn  that  it  was  not  written 
by  the  '  real '  W.  W.  But  Mr.  Hutchinson  has  convinced  me  that  it 
would  be  rash  to  deny  the  probability  of  its  authenticity  in  the  face  of 
the  circumstantial  evidence.  If  it  be  Wordsworth's  it  must  belong  to 
earlier  years  than  1798.  It  recalls  his  earliest  attempts  at  sonnet-writing, 
and  the  inclination  which  he  avowed  towards  voluptuous  love-poetry : 
the  language  has  considerable  resemblance  to  that  of  Descriptive  Sketches 
(original  version),  11.  94-101,  148-157  (see  vol.  iii.  pp.  465-6).  In  1798 
Coleridge  had  just  lately  begun  to  contribute  to  the  Morning  Post,  and 
he  and  Wordsworth  wanted  whatever  money  they  could  get  for  their 
proposed  visit  to  Germany.  As  Mr.  Hutchinson  points  out,  Coleridge 
was  content  to  send  any  rubbish  he  could  lay  hands  on,  of  his  own  or 
his  friends,  for  Stuart  to  publish  in  the  Morning  Post :  he  may  even  have 
sent  this  sonnet  without  Wordsworth's  knowledge.  On  the  whole, 
there  is  enough  evidence  to  make  it  necessary  to  reprint  the  sonnet  as 
probably  one  of  Wordsworth's  Juvenilia.  Not  quite  the  same  can  be 
said  of  the  poem  The  Old  Man  of  the  Alps  which  appeared  in  the  Morning 
Post  about  three  weeks  later  (March  8,  1798)  over  the  signature  Nicias 
Erythraeus.  This  signature,  borrowed  from  Tristram  Shandy  (chap, 
clxiii.  ad.  fin.,  note),  was  employed  by  Coleridge  for  his  own  poem 
Lewti,  published  in  the  Morning  Post,  April  13,  1798.  Presumably, 
therefore,  Coleridge  claimed  the  authorship  of  The  Old  Man  of  the  Alps, 
which  is  included  in  the  Pickering-Macmillan  edition  of  his  poems 
(4  vols.  1877-1880),  but  was  omitted  by  Dykes  Campbell  from  his 
edition  (Macmillan,  1893).  But  as  Mr.  Hutchinson,  to  whom  I  owe  all 
these  facts,  very  truly  says,  '  it  really  smacks  strongly  of  Wordsworth  ' ; 
it  reads  in  fact  like  an  '  overflow  '  from  the  Descriptive  Sketches.  Either 
it  is  work  of  Wordsworth's  slightly  rehandled  by  Coleridge,  or  perhaps, 
more  probably,  it  is  simply  imitation  of  Wordsworth  by  Coleridge. 

646 


ADDENDA  547 

SONNET 

If  grief  dismiss  me  not  to  them  that  rest 

'Till  age,  thou  lovely  maid  !  those  starry  fires 
Unwatch'd  extinguish,  and  the  young  desires 

Forget  those  vermil  lips,  that  rising  breast, 

And  those  bright  locks,  that  on  thy  shoulders  play 
At  will ;  and  from  thy  forehead  time  displace 
The  vernal  garland,  with' ring  ev'ry  grace 

Which  bids  concealment  on  my  spirit  prey  ; 

Haply  my  bolder  tongue  may  then  reveal 
The  prison  annals  of  a  life  of  tears  ! 
And  if  the  chill  time  on  the  softer  joys 
Smile  not,  a  broken  heart  perchance  may  feel 
Sad  solace  from  the  unforbidden  sighs, 
Heav'd  for  the  fruitless  lapse  of  vernal  years. 

W.  W. 
Mornitig  Post,  Feb.  13,  1798. 

(2)  The  following  lines  were  written  by  Wordsworth  on  the  fly-leaf  of 
a  volume  of  his  poems  presented  by  him  to  Miss  Letitia  Taylor,  daughter 
of  Colonel  Taylor,  of  Leamington.     They  were  first  published  in  the 
Pall  Mall  Magazine,  vol.  ix.  p.  572. 

Not  loth  to  thank  each  moment  for  its  boon 
Of  pure  delight,  come  whencesoe'er  it  may, 
Peace  let  us  seek,  to  steadfast  things  attune 
Calm  expectations,  leaving,  to  the  gay 
And  volatile,  their  love  of  transient  bowers 
The  House  that  cannot  pass  away  be  ours. 

WM.  WORDSWORTH. 

LEAMINGTON, 
All  Saints'  Day,  1844. 

(3)  Since  my  preface  was  printed,  Professor  Knight  has  brought  out 
Letters  of  the  Wordsworth  Family  (Ginn  and  Co.,  3  vols.),  which  comprise 
some  hitherto  unpublished  letters  of  Wordsworth. 


Vol.  i.  p.  bud,  note,  last  line:  for  'ix. '  read  'xi.' 

Vol.  n.  p.  530,  note  to  p.  370,  1.  23  for  'expect'  read  'suspect.' 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  CONSTABLE,  Printers  to  His  Majesty 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 


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