SCENE--A wood on the edge of the Waste
Enter OSWALD and a Forester.
FORESTER He leaned upon the bridge that spans the glen,
And down into the bottom cast his eye,
That fastened there, as it would check the current.
OSWALD He listened too; did you not say he listened?
FORESTER As if there came such moaning from the flood
As is heard often after stormy nights.
OSWALD But did he utter nothing?
FORESTER See him there!
[MARMADUKE appearing.]
MARMADUKE Buzz, buzz, ye black and winged freebooters;
That is no substance which ye settle on!
FORESTER His senses play him false; and see, his arms
Outspread, as if to save himself from falling!--
Some terrible phantom I believe is now
Passing before him, such as God will not
Permit to visit any but a man
Who has been guilty of some horrid crime.
[MARMADUKE disappears.]
OSWALD The game is up!--
FORESTER If it be needful, Sir,
I will assist you to lay hands upon him.
OSWALD No, no, my Friend, you may pursue your business--
'Tis a poor wretch of an unsettled mind,
Who has a trick of straying from his keepers;
We must be gentle. Leave him to my care.
[Exit Forester.]
If his own eyes play false with him, these freaks
Of fancy shall be quickly tamed by mine;
The goal is reached. My Master shall become
A shadow of myself--made by myself.
SCENE--The edge of the Moor.
MARMADUKE and ELDRED enter from opposite sides.
MARMADUKE (raising his eyes and perceiving ELDRED)
In any corner of this savage Waste,
Have you, good Peasant, seen a blind old Man?
ELDRED I heard--
MARMADUKE You heard him, where? when heard him?
ELDRED As you know
The first hours of last night were rough with storm:
I had been out in search of a stray heifer;
Returning late, I heard a moaning sound;
Then, thinking that my fancy had deceived me,
I hurried on, when straight a second moan,
A human voice distinct, struck on my ear.
So guided, distant a few steps, I found
An aged Man, and such as you describe.
MARMADUKE You heard!--he called you to him? Of all men
The best and kindest!--but where is he? guide me,
That I may see him.
ELDRED On a ridge of rocks
A lonesome Chapel stands, deserted now:
The bell is left, which no one dares remove;
And, when the stormy wind blows o'er the peak,
It rings, as if a human hand were there
To pull the cord. I guess he must have heard it;
And it had led him towards the precipice,
To climb up to the spot whence the sound came;
But he had failed through weakness. From his hand
His staff had dropped, and close upon the brink
Of a small pool of water he was laid,
As if he had stooped to drink, and so remained
Without the strength to rise.
MARMADUKE Well, well, he lives,
And all is safe: what said he?
ELDRED But few words:
He only spake to me of a dear Daughter,
Who, so he feared, would never see him more;
And of a Stranger to him, One by whom
He had been sore misused; but he forgave
The wrong and the wrong-doer. You are troubled--
Perhaps you are his son?
MARMADUKE The All-seeing knows,
I did not think he had a living Child.--
But whither did you carry him?
ELDRED He was torn,
His head was bruised, and there was blood about him--
MARMADUKE That was no work of mine.
ELDRED Nor was it mine.
MARMADUKE But had he strength to walk? I could have borne him
A thousand miles.
ELDRED I am in poverty,
And know how busy are the tongues of men;
My heart was willing, Sir, but I am one
Whose good deeds will not stand by their own light;
And, though it smote me more than words can tell,
I left him.
MARMADUKE I believe that there are phantoms,
That in the shape of man do cross our path
On evil instigation, to make sport
Of our distress--and thou art one of them!
But things substantial have so pressed on me--
ELDRED My wife and children came into my mind.
MARMADUKE Oh Monster! Monster! there are three of us,
And we shall howl together.
[After a pause and in a feeble voice.]
I am deserted
At my worst need, my crimes have in a net
(Pointing to ELDRED) Entangled this poor man.--
Where was it? where?
[Dragging him along.]
ELDRED 'Tis needless; spare your violence. His Daughter--
MARMADUKE Ay, in the word a thousand scorpions lodge:
This old man _had_ a Daughter.
ELDRED To the spot
I hurried back with her.--Oh save me, Sir,
From such a journey!--there was a black tree,
A single tree; she thought it was her Father.--
Oh Sir, I would not see that hour again
For twenty lives. The daylight dawned, and now--
Nay; hear my tale, 'tis fit that you should hear it--
As we approached, a solitary crow
Rose from the spot;--the Daughter clapped her hands,
And then I heard a shriek so terrible
[MARMADUKE shrinks back.]
The startled bird quivered upon the wing.
MARMADUKE Dead, dead!--
ELDRED (after a pause)
A dismal matter, Sir, for me,
And seems the like for you; if 'tis your wish,
I'll lead you to his Daughter; but 'twere best
That she should be prepared; I'll go before.
MARMADUKE There will be need of preparation.
[ELDRED goes off.]
ELEANOR (enters)
Master!
Your limbs sink under you, shall I support you?
MARMADUKE (taking her arm)
Woman, I've lent my body to the service
Which now thou tak'st upon thee. God forbid
That thou shouldst ever meet a like occasion
With such a purpose in thine heart as mine was.
ELEANOR Oh, why have I to do with things like these?
[Exeunt.]
SCENE changes to the door of ELDRED'S cottage--IDONEA seated--enter
ELDRED.
ELDRED Your Father, Lady, from a wilful hand
Has met unkindness; so indeed he told me,
And you remember such was my report:
From what has just befallen me I have cause
To fear the very worst.
IDONEA My Father is dead;
Why dost thou come to me with words like these?
ELDRED A wicked Man should answer for his crimes.
IDONEA Thou seest me what I am.
ELDRED It was most heinous,
And doth call out for vengeance.
IDONEA Do not add,
I prith'ee, to the harm thou'st done already.
ELDRED Hereafter you will thank me for this service.
Hard by, a Man I met, who, from plain proofs
Of interfering Heaven, I have no doubt,
Laid hands upon your Father. Fit it were
You should prepare to meet him.
IDONEA I have nothing
To do with others; help me to my Father--
[She turns and sees MARMADUKE leaning on ELEANOR--throws herself
upon his neck, and after some time,]
In joy I met thee, but a few hours past;
And thus we meet again; one human stay
Is left me still in thee. Nay, shake not so.
MARMADUKE In such a wilderness--to see no thing,
No, not the pitying moon!
IDONEA And perish so.
MARMADUKE Without a dog to moan for him.
IDONEA Think not of it,
But enter there and see him how he sleeps,
Tranquil as he had died in his own bed.
MARMADUKE Tranquil--why not?
IDONEA Oh, peace!
MARMADUKE He is at peace;
His body is at rest: there was a plot,
A hideous plot, against the soul of man:
It took effect--and yet I baffled it,
In _some_ degree.
IDONEA Between us stood, I thought,
A cup of consolation, filled from Heaven
For both our needs; must I, and in thy presence,
Alone partake of it?--Beloved Marmaduke!
MARMADUKE Give me a reason why the wisest thing
That the earth owns shall never choose to die,
But some one must be near to count his groans.
The wounded deer retires to solitude,
And dies in solitude: all things but man,
All die in solitude.
[Moving towards the cottage door.]
Mysterious God,
If she had never lived I had not done it!--
IDONEA Alas! the thought of such a cruel death
Has overwhelmed him.--I must follow.
ELDRED Lady!
You will do well; (she goes) unjust suspicion may
Cleave to this Stranger: if, upon his entering,
The dead Man heave a groan, or from his side
Uplift his hand--that would be evidence.
ELEANOR Shame! Eldred, shame!
MARMADUKE (both returning)
The dead have but one face.
(To himself.)
And such a Man--so meek and unoffending--
Helpless and harmless as a babe: a Man,
By obvious signal to the world's protection,
Solemnly dedicated--to decoy him!--
IDONEA Oh, had you seen him living!--
MARMADUKE I (so filled
With horror is this world) am unto thee
The thing most precious, that it now contains:
Therefore through me alone must be revealed
By whom thy Parent was destroyed, Idonea!
I have the proofs!--
IDONEA O miserable Father!
Thou didst command me to bless all mankind;
Nor to this moment, have I ever wished
Evil to any living thing; but hear me,
Hear me, ye Heavens!--
(kneeling) --may vengeance haunt the fiend
For this most cruel murder: let him live
And move in terror of the elements;
The thunder send him on his knees to prayer
In the open streets, and let him think he sees,
If e'er he entereth the house of God,
The roof, self-moved, unsettling o'er his head;
And let him, when he would lie down at night,
Point to his wife the blood-drops on his pillow!
MARMADUKE My voice was silent, but my heart hath joined thee.
IDONEA (leaning on MARMADUKE)
Left to the mercy of that savage Man!
How could he call upon his Child!--O Friend!
[Turns to MARMADUKE.]
My faithful true and only Comforter.
MARMADUKE Ay, come to me and weep. (He kisses her.)
(To ELDRED.) Yes, Varlet, look,
The devils at such sights do clap their hands.
[ELDRED retires alarmed.]
IDONEA Thy vest is torn, thy cheek is deadly pale;
Hast thou pursued the monster?
MARMADUKE I have found him.--
Oh! would that thou hadst perished in the flames!
IDONEA Here art thou, then can I be desolate?--
MARMADUKE There was a time, when this protecting hand
Availed against the mighty; never more
Shall blessings wait upon a deed of mine.
IDONEA Wild words for me to hear, for me, an orphan,
Committed to thy guardianship by Heaven;
And, if thou hast forgiven me, let me hope,
In this deep sorrow, trust, that I am thine
For closer care;--here, is no malady.
[Taking his arm.]
MARMADUKE There, _is_ a malady--
(Striking his heart and forehead.) And here, and here,
A mortal malady.--I am accurst:
All nature curses me, and in my heart
_Thy_ curse is fixed; the truth must be laid bare.
It must be told, and borne. I am the man,
(Abused, betrayed, but how it matters not)
Presumptuous above all that ever breathed,
Who, casting as I thought a guilty Person
Upon Heaven's righteous judgment, did become
An instrument of Fiends. Through me, through me,
Thy Father perished.
IDONEA Perished--by what mischance?
MARMADUKE Belovèd!--if I dared, so would I call thee--
Conflict must cease, and, in thy frozen heart,
The extremes of suffering meet in absolute peace.
[He gives her a letter.]
IDONEA (reads)
"Be not surprised if you hear that some signal judgment
has befallen the man who calls himself your father; he is
now with me, as his signature will shew: abstain from
conjecture till you see me.
"HERBERT.
"MARMADUKE."
The writing Oswald's; the signature my Father's:
(Looks steadily at the paper.)
And here is yours,--or do my eyes deceive me?
You have then seen my Father?
MARMADUKE He has leaned
Upon this arm.
IDONEA You led him towards the Convent?
MARMADUKE That Convent was Stone-Arthur Castle. Thither
We were his guides. I on that night resolved
That he should wait thy coming till the day
Of resurrection.
IDONEA Miserable Woman,
Too quickly moved, too easily giving way,
I put denial on thy suit, and hence,
With the disastrous issue of last night,
Thy perturbation, and these frantic words.
Be calm, I pray thee!
MARMADUKE Oswald--
IDONEA Name him not.
[Enter Female Beggar.]
BEGGAR And he is dead!--that Moor--how shall I cross it?
By night, by day, never shall I be able
To travel half a mile alone.--Good Lady!
Forgive me!--Saints forgive me. Had I thought
It would have come to this!--
IDONEA What brings you hither? speak!
BEGGAR (pointing to MARMADUKE)
This innocent Gentleman. Sweet heavens! I told him
Such tales of your dead Father!--God is my judge,
I thought there was no harm: but that bad Man,
He bribed me with his gold, and looked so fierce.
Mercy! I said I know not what--oh pity me--
I said, sweet Lady, you were not his Daughter--
Pity me, I am haunted;--thrice this day
My conscience made me wish to be struck blind;
And then I would have prayed, and had no voice.
IDONEA (to MARMADUKE)
Was it my Father?--no, no, no, for he
Was meek and patient, feeble, old and blind,
Helpless, and loved me dearer than his life
--But hear me. For _one_ question, I have a heart
That will sustain me. Did you murder him?
MARMADUKE No, not by stroke of arm. But learn the process:
Proof after proof was pressed upon me; guilt
Made evident, as seemed, by blacker guilt,
Whose impious folds enwrapped even thee; and truth
And innocence, embodied in his looks,
His words and tones and gestures, did but serve
With me to aggravate his crimes, and heaped
Ruin upon the cause for which they pleaded.
Then pity crossed the path of my resolve:
Confounded, I looked up to Heaven, and cast,
Idonea! thy blind Father, on the Ordeal
Of the bleak Waste--left him--and so he died!--
[IDONEA sinks senseless; Beggar, ELEANOR, etc., crowd round, and bear
her off.]
Why may we speak these things, and do no more;
Why should a thrust of the arm have such a power,
And words that tell these things be heard in vain?
_She_ is not dead. Why!--if I loved this Woman,
I would take care she never woke again;
But she WILL wake, and she will weep for me,
And say, no blame was mine--and so, poor fool,
Will waste her curses on another name.
[He walks about distractedly.]
[Enter OSWALD.]
OSWALD (to himself)
Strong to o'erturn, strong also to build up.
[To MARMADUKE.]
The starts and sallies of our last encounter
Were natural enough; but that, I trust,
Is all gone by. You have cast off the chains
That fettered your nobility of mind--
Delivered heart and head!
Let us to Palestine;
This is a paltry field for enterprise.
MARMADUKE Ay, what shall we encounter next? This issue--
'Twas nothing more than darkness deepening darkness,
And weakness crowned with the impotence of death!--
Your pupil is, you see, an apt proficient.
(ironically)
Start not!--Here is another face hard by;
Come, let us take a peep at both together,
And, with a voice at which the dead will quake,
Resound the praise of your morality--
Of this too much.
[Drawing OSWALD towards the Cottage--stops short at the door.]
Men are there, millions, Oswald,
Who with bare hands would have plucked out thy heart
And flung it to the dogs: but I am raised
Above, or sunk below, all further sense
Of provocation. Leave me, with the weight
Of that old Man's forgiveness on thy heart,
Pressing as heavily as it doth on mine.
Coward I have been; know, there lies not now
Within the compass of a mortal thought,
A deed that I would shrink from;--but to endure,
That is my destiny. May it be thine:
Thy office, thy ambition, be henceforth
To feed remorse, to welcome every sting
Of penitential anguish, yea with tears.
When seas and continents shall lie between us--
The wider space the better--we may find
In such a course fit links of sympathy,
An incommunicable rivalship
Maintained, for peaceful ends beyond our view.
[Confused voices--several of the Band enter--rush upon OSWALD and
seize him.]
ONE OF THEM I would have dogged him to the jaws of hell--
OSWALD Ha! is it so!--That vagrant Hag!--this comes
Of having left a thing like her alive! [Aside.]
SEVERAL VOICES
Despatch him!
OSWALD If I pass beneath a rock
And shout, and, with the echo of my voice,
Bring down a heap of rubbish, and it crush me,
I die without dishonour. Famished, starved,
A Fool and Coward blended to my wish!
[Smiles scornfully and exultingly at MARMADUKE.]
WALLACE 'Tis done! (Stabs him.)
ANOTHER OF THE BAND
The ruthless traitor!
MARMADUKE A rash deed!--
With that reproof I do resign a station
Of which I have been proud.
WILFRED (approaching MARMADUKE)
O my poor Master!
MARMADUKE Discerning Monitor, my faithful Wilfred,
Why art thou here?
[Turning to WALLACE.]
Wallace, upon these Borders,
Many there be whose eyes will not want cause
To weep that I am gone. Brothers in arms!
Raise on that dreary Waste a monument
That may record my story: nor let words--
Few must they be, and delicate in their touch
As light itself--be there withheld from Her
Who, through most wicked arts, was made an orphan
By One who would have died a thousand times,
To shield her from a moment's harm. To you,
Wallace and Wilfred, I commend the Lady,
By lowly nature reared, as if to make her
In all things worthier of that noble birth,
Whose long-suspended rights are now on the eve
Of restoration: with your tenderest care
Watch over her, I pray--sustain her--
SEVERAL OF THE BAND (eagerly)
Captain!
MARMADUKE No more of that; in silence hear my doom:
A hermitage has furnished fit relief
To some offenders; other penitents,
Less patient in their wretchedness, have fallen,
Like the old Roman, on their own sword's point.
They had their choice: a wanderer _must I_ go,
The Spectre of that innocent Man, my guide.
No human ear shall ever hear me speak;
No human dwelling ever give me food,
Or sleep, or rest: but, over waste and wild,
In search of nothing, that this earth can give,
But expiation, will I wander on--
A Man by pain and thought compelled to live,
Yet loathing life--till anger is appeased
In Heaven, and Mercy gives me leave to die.
* * * * *
In June 1797 Coleridge wrote to his friend Cottle:
"W. has written a tragedy himself. I speak with heart-felt sincerity,
and, I think, unblinded judgment, when I tell you that I feel myself a
little man by his side, and yet I do not think myself a less man than
I formerly thought myself. His drama is absolutely wonderful. You know
I do not commonly speak in such abrupt and unmingled phrases, and
therefore will the more readily believe me. There are in the piece
those profound touches of the human heart which I find three or four
times in the 'Robbers' of Schiller, and often in Shakspeare; but in W.
there are no inequalities."
On August 6, 1800, Charles Lamb wrote to Coleridge:
"I would pay five-and-forty thousand carriages to read W.'s tragedy,
of which I have heard so much and seen so little." Shortly afterwards,
August 26, he wrote to Coleridge: "I have a sort of a recollection
that somebody, I think _you_, promised me a sight of Wordsworth's
tragedy. I shall be very glad of it just now, for I have got Manning
with me, and should like to read it _with him_. But this, I confess,
is a refinement. Under any circumstances, alone, in Cold-Bath Prison,
or in the desert island, just when Prospero and his crew had set off,
with Caliban in a cage, to Milan, it would be a treat to me to read
that play. Manning has read it, so has Lloyd, and all Lloyd's family;
but I could not get him to betray his trust by giving me a sight of
it. Lloyd is sadly deficient in some of those virtuous vices."--Ed.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1845.
... female ... 1842.]
[Variant 2:
1845.
Ha! ... 1842.]
[Variant 3:
1849.
With whom you parted? 1842.]
[Variant 4:
1845.
... o'er ... 1842.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: He doubtless refers to the lines (Act iii. l. 405) "Action
is transitory--a step, a blow," etc., which followed the Dedication of
'The White Doe of Rylstone' in the edition of 1836.--Ed.]
[Footnote B: Note prefixed to the edition of 1842.--Ed.]
[Footnote C: Note appended to the edition of 1842.--Ed.]
* * * * *
THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN
Composed 1797.--Published 1800.
[Written 1801 or 1802. This arose out of my observations of the
affecting music of these birds, hanging in this way in the London
streets during the freshness and stillness of the spring morning.--I.
F.]
Placed by Wordsworth among his "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed.
The preceding Fenwick note to this poem is manifestly inaccurate as to
date, since the poem is printed in the "Lyrical Ballads" of 1800. In the
edition of 1836 the date of composition is given as 1797, and this date
is followed by Mr. Carter, the editor of 1857. Miss Wordsworth's Journal
gives no date; and, as the Fenwick note is certainly incorrect--and the
poem must have been written before the edition of 1800 came out--it
seems best to trust to the date sanctioned by Wordsworth himself in
1836, and followed by his literary executor in 1857. I think it probable
that the poem was written during the short visit which Wordsworth and
his sister paid to their brother Richard in London in 1797, when he
tried to get his tragedy, 'The Borderers', brought on the stage. The
title of the poem from 1800 to 1805 was 'Poor Susan'.--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
Hangs a Thrush [1] that sings loud, it has sung for three years:
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.
'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees 5
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views [A] in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; 10
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,
The one only [2] dwelling on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade:
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, 15
And the colours have all passed away from her eyes! [3]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1820.
There's a Thrush ... 1800.]
[Variant 2:
1802.
The only one ... 1800.]
[Variant 3: The following stanza, in the edition of 1800, was omitted in
subsequent ones:
Poor Outcast! return--to receive thee once more
The house of thy Father will open its door,
And thou once again, in thy plain russet gown,
May'st hear the thrush sing from a tree of its own. [i]]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: Wordsworth originally wrote "sees." S.T.C. suggested
"views."--Ed.]
* * * * *
SUB-FOOTNOTE ON VARIANT 3
[Sub-Footnote i:
"Susan stood for the representative of poor '_Rus in urbe_.' There was
quite enough to stamp the moral of the thing never to be forgotten;
'bright volumes of vapour,' etc. The last verse of Susan was to be got
rid of, at all events. It threw a kind of dubiety upon Susan's moral
conduct. Susan is a servant maid. I see her trundling her mop, and
contemplating the whirling phenomenon through blurred optics; but to
term her 'a poor outcast' seems as much as to say that poor Susan was
no better than she should be, which I trust was not what you meant to
express."
Charles Lamb to Wordsworth. See 'The Letters of Charles Lamb', edited by
Alfred Ainger, vol. i., p. 287.--Ed.]
* * * * *
1798
A NIGHT PIECE
Composed 1798.--Published 1815.
[Composed on the road between Nether Stowey and Alfoxden, extempore. I
distinctly recollect the very moment when I was struck, as
described,--'He looks up, the clouds are split,' etc.--I. F.]
Classed by Wordsworth among his "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed.
* * * * *
--The sky is overcast
With a continuous cloud of texture close,
Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon,
Which through that veil is indistinctly seen,
A dull, contracted circle, yielding light 5
So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls,
Chequering the ground--from rock, plant, tree, or tower.
At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam
Startles the pensive traveller while [1] he treads
His lonesome path, with unobserving eye 10
Bent earthwards; he looks up--the clouds are split
Asunder,--and above his head he sees
The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.
There, in a black-blue vault she sails along,
Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small 15
And sharp, and bright, [A] along the dark abyss
Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away,
Yet vanish not!--the wind is in the tree,
But they are silent;--still they roll along
Immeasurably distant; and the vault, 20
Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,
Still deepens its unfathomable depth.
At length the Vision closes; and the mind,
Not undisturbed by the delight it feels,
Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, 25
Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.
* * * * *
VARIANT ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1827
... as ... 1815.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: The indebtedness of the Poet to his Sister is nowhere more
conspicuous than in this Poem. In Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal
the following occurs, under date 25th January 1798:
"Went to Poole's after tea. The sky spread over with one continuous
cloud, whitened by the light of the moon, which, though her dim shape
was seen, did not throw forth so strong a light as to chequer the
earth with shadows. At once the clouds seemed to cleave asunder, and
lift her in the centre of a black-blue vault. She sailed along,
followed by multitudes of stars, small, and bright, and sharp; their
brightness seemed concentrated."
Ed.]
* * * * *
WE ARE SEVEN
Composed 1798.--Published 1798.
[Written at Alfoxden in the spring of 1798, under circumstances
somewhat remarkable. The little girl who is the heroine, I met within
the area of Goodrich Castle in the year 1793. Having left the Isle of
Wight, and crost Salisbury Plain, as mentioned in the preface to
'Guilt and Sorrow', I proceeded by Bristol up the Wye, and so on to N.
Wales to the Vale of Clwydd, where I spent my summer under the roof of
the father of my friend, Robert Jones.
In reference to this poem, I will here mention one of the most
remarkable facts in my own poetic history, and that of Mr. Coleridge.
In the spring of the year 1798, he, my sister, and myself, started
from Alfoxden pretty late in the afternoon, with a view to visit
Linton and the Valley of Stones near it; and as our united funds were
very small, we agreed to defray the expense of the tour by writing a
poem, to be sent to the 'New Monthly Magazine', set up by Philips, the
bookseller, and edited by Dr. Aikin. Accordingly we set off, and
proceeded along the Quantock Hills, towards Watchet; and in the course
of this walk was planned the poem of 'The Ancient Mariner', founded on
a dream, as Mr. Coleridge said, of his friend Mr. Cruikshank. Much the
greatest part of the story was Mr. Coleridge's invention; but certain
parts I myself suggested: for example, some crime was to be committed
which should bring upon the Old Navigator, as Coleridge afterwards
delighted to call him, the spectral persecution, as a consequence of
that crime, and his own wanderings. I had been reading in Shelvocke's
'Voyages', a day or two before, that, while doubling Cape Horn, they
frequently saw albatrosses in that latitude, the largest sort of
sea-fowl, some extending their wings twelve or thirteen feet.
'Suppose,' said I, 'you represent him as having killed one of these
birds on entering the South Sea, and that the tutelary spirits of
these regions take upon them to avenge the crime.' The incident was
thought fit for the purpose, and adopted accordingly. I also suggested
the navigation of the ship by the dead men, but do not recollect that
I had anything more to do with the scheme of the poem. The gloss with
which it was subsequently accompanied was not thought of by either of
us at the time; at least not a hint of it was given to me, and I have
no doubt it was a gratuitous after-thought. We began the composition
together, on that to me memorable evening: I furnished two or three
lines at the beginning of the poem, in particular--
And listen'd like a three years' child;
The Mariner had his will.
These trifling contributions, all but one (which Mr. C. has with
unnecessary scrupulosity recorded), slipt out of his mind, as well
they might. As we endeavoured to proceed conjointly (I speak of the
same evening), our respective manners proved so widely different, that
it would have been quite presumptuous in me to do anything but
separate from an undertaking upon which I could only have been a clog.
We returned after a few days from a delightful tour, of which I have
many pleasant, and some of them droll enough, recollections. We
returned by Dulverton to Alfoxden. 'The Ancient Mariner' grew and grew
till it became too important for our first object, which was limited
to our expectation of five pounds; and we began to talk of a volume
which was to consist, as Mr. Coleridge has told the world, of Poems
chiefly on natural subjects taken from common life, but looked at, as
much as might be, through an imaginative medium. Accordingly I wrote
'The Idiot Boy', 'Her eyes are wild', etc., 'We are Seven', 'The
Thorn', and some others. To return to 'We are Seven', the piece that
called forth this note, I composed it while walking in the grove at
Alfoxden. My friends will not deem it too trifling to relate, that
while walking to and fro I composed the last stanza first, having
begun with the last line. When it was all but finished, I came in and
recited it to Mr. Coleridge and my sister, and said, "A prefatory
stanza must be added, and I should sit down to our little tea-meal
with greater pleasure if my task was finished." I mentioned in
substance what I wished to be expressed, and Coleridge immediately
threw off the stanza, thus;
A little child, dear brother Jem,
I objected to the rhyme, 'dear brother Jem,' as being ludicrous; but
we all enjoyed the joke of hitching in our friend James Tobin's name,
who was familiarly called Jem. He was the brother of the dramatist;
and this reminds me of an anecdote which it may be worth while here to
notice. The said Jem got a sight of the "Lyrical Ballads" as it was
going through the press at Bristol, during which time I was residing
in that city. One evening he came to me with a grave face, and said,
"Wordsworth, I have seen the volume that Coleridge and you are about
to publish. There is one poem in it which I earnestly entreat you will
cancel, for, if published, it will make you everlastingly ridiculous."
I answered, that I felt much obliged by the interest he took in my
good name as a writer, and begged to know what was the unfortunate
piece he alluded to. He said, 'It is called 'We are Seven'.' 'Nay,'
said I, 'that shall take its chance, however'; and he left me in
despair. I have only to add, that in the spring [A] of 1841, I
revisited Goodrich Castle, not having seen that part of the Wye since
I met the little girl there in 1793. It would have given me greater
pleasure to have found in the neighbouring hamlet traces of one who
had interested me so much, but that was impossible, as unfortunately I
did not even know her name. The ruin, from its position and features,
is a most impressive object. I could not but deeply regret that its
solemnity was impaired by a fantastic new Castle set up on a
projection of the same ridge, as if to show how far modern art can go
in surpassing all that could be done by antiquity and nature with
their united graces, remembrances, and associations. I could have
almost wished for power, so much the contrast vexed me, to blow away
Sir----Meyrick's impertinent structure and all the fopperies it
contains.--I. F.]
* * * * *
The "structure" referred to is Goodrich Court, built in 1828 by Sir
Samuel Rush Meyrick--a collector of ancient armour, and a great
authority on the subject--mainly to receive his extensive private
collection. The armour has been removed from Goodrich to the South
Kensington Museum. 'We are Seven' was placed by Wordsworth among his
"Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
--A simple Child, [1]
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death? [B]
I met a little cottage Girl: 5
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad: 10
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
--Her beauty made me glad.
"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said, 15
And wondering looked at me.
"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea. 20
"Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."
"You say that two at Conway dwell, 25
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye [2] are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be."
Then did the little Maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we; 30
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."
"You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid, 35
Then ye are only five."
"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little Maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side. 40
"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them. [3]
"And often after sun-set, Sir, 45
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.
"The first that died was sister Jane; [4]
In bed she moaning lay, 50
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.
"So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry, [5]
Together round her grave we played, 55
My brother John and I.
"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side." 60
"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
Quick was the little Maid's reply, [6]
"O Master! we are seven."
"But they are dead; those two are dead! 65
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1815.
A simple child, dear brother Jim, 1798.]
[Variant 2:
1815.
... you ... 1798.]
[Variant 3:
1836.
I sit and sing to them. 1798.]
[Variant 4:
1836.
... little Jane; 1798.]
[Variant 5:
1827.
And all the summer dry, 1798.]
[Variant 6:
1836.
The little Maiden did reply, 1798.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: It was in June, after leaving Alfoxden finally.--Ed.]
[Footnote B: The whole of this stanza was written by Coleridge. In a MS.
copy of the poem, transcribed by him, after 1806, Wordsworth gave it the
title 'We are Seven, or Death', but afterwards restored the original
title.--Ed.]
* * * * *
ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS
Composed 1798.--Published 1798.
'Retine vim istam, falsa enim dicam, si coges.'
EUSEBIUS. [A]
* * * * *
[This was suggested in front of Alfoxden. The boy was a son of my
friend, Basil Montagu, who had been two or three years under our care.
The name of Kilve is from a village on the Bristol Channel, about a
mile from Alfoxden; and the name of Liswyn Farm was taken from a
beautiful spot on the Wye, where Mr. Coleridge, my sister, and I had
been visiting the famous John Thelwall, who had taken refuge from
politics, after a trial for high treason, with a view to bring up his
family by the profits of agriculture, which proved as unfortunate a
speculation as that he had fled from. Coleridge and he had both been
public lecturers; Coleridge mingling, with his politics, Theology,
from which the other elocutionist abstained, unless it was for the
sake of a sneer. This quondam community of public employment induced
Thelwall to visit Coleridge at Nether Stowey, where he fell in my way.
He really was a man of extraordinary talent, an affectionate husband,
and a good father. Though brought up in the city, on a tailor's board,
he was truly sensible of the beauty of natural objects. I remember
once, when Coleridge, he, and I were seated together upon the turf, on
the brink of a stream in the most beautiful part of the most beautiful
glen of Alfoxden, Coleridge exclaimed, 'This is a place to reconcile
one to all the jarrings and conflicts of the wide world.' 'Nay,' said
Thelwall, 'to make one forget them altogether.' The visit of this man
to Coleridge was, as I believe Coleridge has related, the occasion of
a spy being sent by Government to watch our proceedings; which were, I
can say with truth, such as the world at large would have thought
ludicrously harmless.--I. F.]
* * * * *
In the editions 1798 to 1843 the title of this poem is 'Anecdote for
Fathers, showing how the practice [1] of lying may be taught'. It was
placed among the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
I have a boy of five years old;
His face is fair and fresh to see;
His limbs are cast in beauty's mould,
And dearly he loves me.
One morn we strolled on our dry walk, 5
Our quiet home [2] all full in view,
And held such intermitted talk
As we are wont to do.
My thoughts on former pleasures ran;
I thought of Kilve's delightful shore, 10
Our [3] pleasant home when spring began,
A long, long year before.
A day it was when I could bear
Some fond regrets to entertain; [4]
With so much happiness to spare, 15
I could not feel a pain.
The green earth echoed to the feet
Of lambs that bounded through the glade,
From shade to sunshine, and as fleet
From sunshine back to shade.[5] 20
Birds warbled round me--and each trace
Of inward sadness had its charm;
Kilve, thought I, was a favoured place,[6]
And so is Liswyn farm.
My boy beside me tripped, so slim 25
And graceful in his rustic dress!
And, as we talked, I questioned him, [7]
In very idleness.
"Now tell me, had you rather be,"
I said, and took him by the arm, 30
"On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea,
Or here at Liswyn farm?" [8]
In careless mood he looked at me,
While still I held him by the arm,
And said, "At Kilve I'd rather be 35
Than here at Liswyn farm."
"Now, little Edward, say why so:
My little Edward, tell me why."--
"I cannot tell, I do not know."--
"Why, this is strange," said I; 40
"For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm: [9]
There surely must some reason be
Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm
For Kilve by the green sea."
At this, my boy hung down his head, 45
He blushed with shame, nor made reply; [10]
And three times to the child I said, [11]
"Why, Edward, tell me why?"
His head he raised--there was in sight,
It caught his eye, he saw it plain-- 50
Upon the house-top, glittering bright,
A broad and gilded vane.
Then did the boy his tongue unlock,
And eased his mind with this reply: [12]
"At Kilve there was no weather-cock; 55
And that's the reason why."
O dearest, dearest boy! my heart
For better lore would seldom yearn,
Could I but teach the hundredth part
Of what from thee I learn. [B] 60
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1800.
the art ... 1798.]
[Variant 2:
1802.
... house ... 1798.]
[Variant 3:
1802.
My ... 1798.]
[Variant 4:
1827.
To think, and think, and think again; 1798.]
[Variant 5:
1827.
The young lambs ran a pretty race;
The morning sun shone bright and warm;
"Kilve," said I, "was a pleasant place,
And so is Liswyn farm." 1798.]
[Variant 6:
1836.
...--every trace
Of inward sadness had its charm;
"Kilve," said I, ... 1827.
This verse was introduced in 1827.]
[Variant 7: 1836.
My boy was by my side, so slim
And graceful in his rustic dress!
And oftentimes I talked to him, 1798.
This was stanza v. from 1798 to 1820.
And, as we talked, I questioned him, 1827.]
[Variant 8:
1827.
"My little boy, which like you more,"
I said and took him by the arm--
"Our home by Kilve's delightful shore,
Or here at Liswyn farm?"
"And tell me, had you rather be,"
I said and held him by the arm,
"At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea,
Or here at Liswyn farm?" 1798.
These two stanzas were compressed into one in 1827.]
[Variant 9:
1836.
For, here are woods and green-hills warm; 1798.]
[Variant 10:
1800.
At this, my boy, so fair and slim,
Hung down his head, nor made reply; 1798.]
[Variant 11:
1845.
And five times did I say to him, 1798.
And five times to the child I said, 1800.]
[Variant 12:
1836.
And thus to me he made reply; 1798.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: See Appendix IV.--Ed.]
[Footnote B: Mr. Ernest H. Coleridge writes to me of this poem:
"The Fenwick note is most puzzling.
1. If Coleridge went to visit Thelwall, with Wordsworth and Dorothy in
July 1798, this is the only record; but I suppose that he did.
2. How could the poem have been suggested in front of Alfoxden? The
visit to Liswyn took place after the Wordsworths had left Alfoxden
never to return. If little Montagu ever did compare Kilve and Liswyn
Farm, he must have done so after he left Alfoxden. The scene is laid
at Liswyn, and if the poem was written at Alfoxden, before the party
visited Liswyn, the supposed reply was invented to a supposed question
which might be put to the child when he got to Liswyn. How unlike
Wordsworth.
3. Thelwall came to Alfoxden at the commencement of Wordsworth's
tenancy; and the visit to Wales took place when the tenancy was over,
July 3-10."
Ed.]
* * * * *
"A WHIRL-BLAST FROM BEHIND THE HILL"
Composed March 18, 1798.--Published 1800.
[Observed in the holly-grove at Alfoxden, where these verses were
written in the spring of 1799. [A] I had the pleasure of again seeing,
with dear friends, this grove in unimpaired beauty forty-one years
after. [B]--I. F.]
Classed among the "Poems of the Fancy."--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
A whirl-blast from behind the hill
Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound;
Then--all at once the air was still,
And showers of hailstones pattered round.
Where leafless oaks towered high above, 5
I sat within an undergrove
Of tallest hollies, tall and green;
A fairer bower was never seen.
From year to year the spacious floor
With withered leaves is covered o'er, 10
[1] And all the year the bower is green. [C]
But see! where'er the hailstones drop
The withered leaves all skip and hop;
There's not a breeze--no breath of air--
Yet here, and there, and every where 15
Along the floor, beneath the shade
By those embowering hollies made,
The leaves in myriads jump and spring,
As if with pipes and music rare
Some Robin Good-fellow were there, 20
And all those leaves, in festive glee,
Were dancing to the minstrelsy. [2] [3] [D]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1820.
You could not lay a hair between:
Inserted in the editions 1800-1815.]
[Variant 2:
1815.
And all those leaves, that jump and spring,
Were each a joyous, living thing. 1800.]
[Variant 3: The following additional lines occur in the editions 1800 to
1805:
Oh! grant me Heaven a heart at ease
That I may never cease to find,
Even in appearances like these
Enough to nourish and to stir my mind!]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal gives the date 1798, and in
the spring of 1799 the Wordsworths were not at Alfoxden but in
Germany.--Ed.]
[Footnote B: The friends were Mrs. Wordsworth, Miss Fenwick, Edward and
Dora Quillinan, and William Wordsworth (the poet's son). The date was
May 13, 1841.--Ed.]
[Footnote C: Compare a letter from Wordsworth to Sir George Beaumont,
written in November 1806, and one to Lady Beaumont in December
1806.--Ed.]
[Footnote D:
"March 18, 1708. The Coleridges left us. A cold windy morning. Walked
with them half-way. On our return, sheltered under the hollies during
a hail shower. The withered leaves danced with the hailstones. William
wrote a description of the storm"
(Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal).--Ed.]
* * * * *
THE THORN
Composed March 19, 1798.--Published 1798.
In the editions of 1800-1805, Wordsworth added the following note to
this poem:
"This Poem ought to have been preceded by an introductory Poem, which
I have been prevented from writing by never having felt myself in a
mood when it was probable that I should write it well.--The character
which I have here introduced speaking is sufficiently common. The
Reader will perhaps have a general notion of it, if he has ever known
a man, a Captain of a small trading vessel for example, who being past
the middle age of life, had retired upon an annuity or small
independent income to some village or country town of which he was not
a native, or in which he had not been accustomed to live. Such men
having little to do become credulous and talkative from indolence; and
from the same cause, and other predisposing causes by which it is
probable that such men may have been affected, they are prone to
superstition. On which account it appeared to me proper to select a
character like this to exhibit some of the general laws by which
superstition acts upon the mind. Superstitious men are almost always
men of slow faculties and deep feelings; their minds are not loose but
adhesive; they have a reasonable share of imagination, by which word I
mean the faculty which produces impressive effects out of simple
elements; but they are utterly destitute of fancy, the power by which
pleasure and surprise are excited by sudden varieties of situation and
by accumulated imagery.
"It was my wish in this poem to shew the manner in which such men
cleave to the same ideas; and to follow the turns of passion, always
different, yet not palpably different, by which their conversation is
swayed. I had two objects to attain; first, to represent a picture
which should not be unimpressive yet consistent with the character
that should describe it, secondly, while I adhered to the style in
which such persons describe, to take care that words, which in their
minds are impregnated with passion, should likewise convey passion to
Readers who are not accustomed to sympathize with men feeling in that
manner or using such language. It seemed to me that this might be done
by calling in the assistance of Lyrical and rapid Metre. It was
necessary that the Poem, to be natural, should in reality move slowly;
yet I hoped, that, by the aid of the metre, to those who should at all
enter into the spirit of the Poem, it would appear to move quickly.
The Reader will have the kindness to excuse this note as I am sensible
that an introductory Poem is necessary to give this Poem its full
effect.
"Upon this occasion I will request permission to add a few words
closely connected with 'The Thorn' and many other Poems in these
Volumes. There is a numerous class of readers who imagine that the
same words cannot be repeated without tautology; this is a great
error: virtual tautology is much oftener produced by using different
words when the meaning is exactly the same. Words, a Poet's words more
particularly, ought to be weighed in the balance of feeling and not
measured by the space which they occupy upon paper. For the Reader
cannot be too often reminded that Poetry is passion: it is the history
or science of feelings: now every man must know that an attempt is
rarely made to communicate impassioned feelings without something of
an accompanying consciousness of the inadequateness of our own powers,
or the deficiencies of language. During such efforts there will be a
craving in the mind, and as long as it is unsatisfied the Speaker will
cling to the same words, or words of the same character. There are
also various other reasons why repetition and apparent tautology are
frequently beauties of the highest kind. Among the chief of these
reasons is the interest which the mind attaches to words, not only as
symbols of the passion, but as 'things', active and efficient, which
are of themselves part of the passion. And further, from a spirit of
fondness, exultation, and gratitude, the mind luxuriates in the
repetition of words which appear successfully to communicate its
feelings. The truth of these remarks might be shown by innumerable
passages from the Bible and from the impassioned poetry of every
nation.
Awake, awake, Deborah! awake, awake, utter a song: Arise Barak, and
lead captivity captive, thou Son of Abinoam.
At her feet he bowed, he fell, he lay down: at her feet he bowed, he
fell: where he bowed there he fell down dead.
Why is his Chariot so long in coming? why tarry the Wheels of his
Chariot?
(Judges, chap. v. verses 12th, 27th, and part of 28th.)
See also the whole of that tumultuous and wonderful Poem."
"The poem of 'The Thorn', as the reader will soon discover, is not
supposed to be spoken in the author's own person: the character of the
loquacious narrator will sufficiently shew itself in the course of the
story."
W. W. Advertisement to "Lyrical Ballads," 1798.
* * * * *
[Alfoxden, 1798. Arose out of my observing, on the ridge of Quantock
Hill, on a stormy day, a thorn, which I had often past in calm and
bright weather, without noticing it. I said to myself, "Cannot I by
some invention do as much to make this Thorn permanently as an
impressive object as the storm has made it to my eyes at this moment?"
I began the poem accordingly, and composed it with great rapidity. Sir
George Beaumont painted a picture from it, which Wilkie thought his
best. He gave it me: though when he saw it several times at Rydal
Mount afterwards, he said, 'I could make a better, and would like to
paint the same subject over again.' The sky in this picture is nobly
done, but it reminds one too much of Wilson. The only fault, however,
of any consequence is the female figure, which is too old and decrepit
for one likely to frequent an eminence on such a call.--I. F.]
* * * * *
'The Thorn' was always placed among the "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
I "There is a Thorn--it looks so old,
In truth, you'd find it hard to say
How it could ever have been young,
It looks so old and grey.
Not higher than a two years' child 5
It stands erect, this aged Thorn;
No leaves it has, no prickly [1] points;
It is a mass of knotted joints,
A wretched thing forlorn.
It stands erect, and like a stone 10
With lichens is it overgrown. [2]
II "Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown,
With lichens to the very top,
And hung with heavy tufts of moss,
A melancholy crop: 15
Up from the earth these mosses creep,
And this poor Thorn they clasp it round
So close, you'd say that they are [3] bent
With plain and manifest intent
To drag it to the ground; 20
And all have [4] joined in one endeavour
To bury this poor Thorn for ever.
III "High on a mountain's highest ridge,
Where oft the stormy winter gale
Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds 25
It sweeps from vale to vale;
Not five yards from the mountain path,
This Thorn you on your left espy;
And to the left, three yards beyond,
You see a little muddy pond 30
Of water--never dry
Though but of compass small, and bare
To thirsty suns and parching air. [5] [A]
IV "And, close beside this aged Thorn,
There is a fresh and lovely sight, 35
A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,
Just half a foot in height.
All lovely colours there you see,
All colours that were ever seen;
And mossy network too is there, 40
As if by hand of lady fair
The work had woven been;
And cups, the darlings of the eye,
So deep is their vermilion dye.
V "Ah me! what lovely tints are there 45
Of olive green and scarlet bright,
In spikes, in branches, and in stars,
Green, red, and pearly white!
This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss,
Which close beside the Thorn you see, 50
So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,
Is like an infant's grave in size,
As like as like can be:
But never, never any where,
An infant's grave was half so fair. 55
VI "Now would you see this aged Thorn,
This pond, and beauteous hill of moss,
You must take care and choose your time
The mountain when to cross.
For oft there sits between the heap 60
So like [6] an infant's grave in size,
And that same pond of which I spoke,
A Woman in a scarlet cloak,
And to herself she cries,
'Oh misery! oh misery! 65
Oh woe is me! oh misery!'
VII "At all times of the day and night
This wretched Woman thither goes;
And she is known to every star,
And every wind that blows; 70
And there, beside the Thorn, she sits
When the blue daylight's in the skies,
And when the whirlwind's on the hill,
Or frosty air is keen and still
And to herself she cries, 75
'Oh misery! oh misery!
Oh woe is me! oh misery!'"
VIII "Now wherefore, thus, by day and night,
In rain, in tempest, and in snow,
Thus to the dreary mountain-top 80
Does this poor Woman go?
And why sits she beside the Thorn
When the blue daylight's in the sky,
Or when the whirlwind's on the hill,
Or frosty air is keen and still, 85
And wherefore does she cry?--
O wherefore? wherefore? tell me why
Does she repeat that doleful cry?"
IX "I cannot tell; I wish I could;
For the true reason no one knows: 90
But would you [7] gladly view the spot,
The spot to which she goes;
The hillock like [8] an infant's grave,
The pond--and Thorn, so old and grey;
Pass by her door--'tis seldom shut-- 95
And, if you see her in her hut--
Then to the spot away!
I never heard of such as dare
Approach the spot when she is there."
X "But wherefore to the mountain-top 100
Can this unhappy Woman go,
Whatever star is in the skies,
Whatever wind may blow?" [9]
"Full twenty years are past and gone [10]
Since she (her name is Martha Ray) 105
Gave with a maiden's true good-will
Her company to Stephen Hill;
And she was blithe and gay,
While friends and kindred all approved
Of him whom tenderly she loved. [11] 110
XI "And they had fixed the wedding day,
The morning that must wed them both;
But Stephen to another Maid
Had sworn another oath;
And, with this other Maid, to church 115
Unthinking Stephen went--
Poor Martha! on that woeful day
A pang of pitiless dismay
Into her soul was sent;
A fire was kindled in her breast, 121
Which might not burn itself to rest. [12]
XII "They say, full six months after this,
While yet the summer leaves were green,
She to the mountain-top would go, 125
And there was often seen.
What could she seek?--or wish to hide?
Her state to any eye was plain; [13]
She was with child, and she was mad;
Yet often was she [14] sober sad 130
From her exceeding pain.
O guilty Father--would that death
Had saved him from that breach of faith! [15]
XIII "Sad case for such a brain to hold
Communion with a stirring child! 135
Sad case, as you may think, for one
Who had a brain so wild!
Last Christmas-eve we talked of this,
And grey-haired Wilfred of the glen
Held that the unborn infant wrought [16] 140
About its mother's heart, and brought
Her senses back again:
And, when at last her time drew near,
Her looks were calm, her senses clear.
XIV "More know I not, I wish I did, 145
And it should all be told to you; [17]
For what became of this poor child
No mortal ever knew; [18]
Nay--if a child to her was born
No earthly tongue could ever tell; [19] 150
And if 'twas born alive or dead,
Far less could this with proof be said; [20]
But some remember well,
That Martha Ray about this time
Would up the mountain often climb. 155
XV "And all that winter, when at night
The wind blew from the mountain-peak,
'Twas worth your while, though in the dark,
The churchyard path to seek:
For many a time and oft were heard 160
Cries coming from the mountain head:
Some plainly living voices were;
And others, I've heard many swear,
Were voices of the dead:
I cannot think, whate'er they say, 165
They had to do with Martha Ray.
XVI "But that she goes to this old Thorn,
The Thorn which I described [21] to you,
And there sits in a scarlet cloak,
I will be sworn is true. 170
For one day with my telescope,
To view the ocean wide and bright,
When to this country first I came,
Ere I had heard of Martha's name,
I climbed the mountain's height:-- 175
A storm came on, and I could see
No object higher than my knee.
XVII "'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain:
No screen, no fence could I discover;
And then the wind! in sooth, [22] it was 180
A wind full ten times over.
I looked around, I thought I saw
A jutting crag,--and off I ran,
Head-foremost, through the driving rain,
The shelter of the crag to gain; 185
And, as I am a man,
Instead of jutting crag, I found
A Woman seated on the ground.
XVIII "I did not speak--I saw her face;
Her face!--it was [23] enough for me: 190
I turned about and heard her cry,
'Oh misery! oh misery!'
And there she sits, until the moon
Through half the clear blue sky will go;
And, when the little breezes make 195
The waters of the pond to shake,
As all the country know,
She shudders, and you hear her cry,
'Oh misery! oh misery!'"
XIX "But what's the Thorn? and what the pond? 200
And what the hill of moss to her?
And what the creeping breeze that comes [24]
The little pond to stir?"
"I cannot tell; but some will say
She hanged her baby on the tree; 205
Some say she drowned it in the pond,
Which is a little step beyond:
But all and each agree,
The little Babe was buried there,
Beneath that hill of moss so fair. 210
XX "I've heard, the moss is spotted red [25]
With drops of that poor infant's blood;
But kill a new-born infant thus,
I do not think she could!
Some say, if to the pond you go, 215
And fix on it a steady view,
The shadow of a babe you trace,
A baby and a baby's face,
And that it looks at you;
Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain 220
The baby looks at you again.
XXI "And some had sworn an oath that she
Should be to public justice brought;
And for the little infant's bones
With spades they would have sought. 225
But instantly the hill of moss [26]
Before their eyes began to stir!
And, for full fifty yards around,
The grass--it shook upon the ground!
Yet [27] all do still aver 230
The little Babe lies [28] buried there,
Beneath that hill of moss so fair.
XXII "I cannot tell how this may be
But plain it is the Thorn is bound
With heavy tufts of moss that strive 235
To drag it to the ground;
And this I know, full many a time,
When she was on the mountain high,
By day, and in the silent night,
When all the stars shone clear and bright, 240
That I have heard her cry,
'Oh misery! oh misery!
Oh woe is me! oh misery!'"
* * * * *
Compare 'The Heart of Midlothian' (vol. iii. chap. v. edition of 1818):
"Are ye sure ye ken the way ye are taking us?" said Jeanie, who began
to imagine that she was getting deeper into the woods, and more remote
from the highroad.
"Do I ken the road? Wasna I mony a day living here, and what for
shouldna I ken the road? I might hae forgotten, too, for it was afore
my accident; but there are some things ane can never forget, let them
try it as muckle as they like."
By this time they had gained the deepest part of a patch of woodland.
The trees were a little separated from each other, and at the foot of
one of them, a beautiful poplar, was a hillock of moss, such as the
poet of Grasmere has described in the motto to our chapter. So soon as
she arrived at this spot, Madge Wildfire, joining her hands above her
head, with a loud scream that resembled laughter, flung herself all at
once upon the spot, and remained there lying motionless.
Jeanie's first idea was to take the opportunity of flight; but her
desire to escape yielded for a moment to apprehension for the poor
insane being, who, she thought, might perish for want of relief. With
an effort, which, in her circumstances, might be termed heroic, she
stooped down, spoke in a soothing tone, and tried to raise up the
forlorn creature. She effected this with difficulty, and as she placed
her against the tree in a sitting posture, she observed with surprise,
that her complexion, usually florid, was now deadly pale, and that her
face was bathed in tears. Notwithstanding her own extreme danger,
Jeanie was affected by the situation of her companion; and the rather
that, through the whole train of her wavering and inconsistent state
of mind and line of conduct, she discerned a general colour of
kindness towards herself, for which she felt gratitude.
"Let me alane!--let me alane!" said the poor young woman, as her
paroxysm of sorrow began to abate. "Let me alane; it does me good to
weep. I canna shed tears but maybe anes or twice a-year, and I aye
come to wet this turf with them, that the flowers may grow fair, and
the grass may be green."
"But what is the matter with you?" said Jeanie. "Why do you weep so
bitterly?"
"There's matter enow," replied the lunatic; "mair than ae puir mind
can bear, I trow. Stay a bit, and I'll tell you a' about it; for I
like ye, Jeanie Deans; a'body spoke weel about ye when we lived in the
Pleasaunts. And I mind aye the drink o' milk ye gae me yon day, when I
had been on Arthur's Seat for four-and-twenty hours, looking for the
ship that somebody was sailing in."
Ed.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1836.
... thorny ... 1798.]
[Variant 2:
1836.
... it is overgrown. 1798.]
[Variant 3:
1836.
... were ... 1798.]
[Variant 4:
1836.
... had ... 1798.]
[Variant 5:
1820.
I've measured it from side to side:
'Tis three feet long [i] and two feet wide. 1798.]
[Variant 6:
1827.
That's like ... 1798.]
[Variant 7:
1827.
But if you'd ... 1798.]
[Variant 8:
1827.
The heap that's like ... 1798.]
[Variant 9: In the editions 1798 to 1815.
Nay rack your brain--'tis all in vain,
I'll tell you every thing I know;
But to the thorn, and to the pond
Which is a little step beyond,
I wish that you would go:
Perhaps when you are at the place
You something of her tale may trace.
XI I'll give you the best help I can:
Before you up the mountain go,
Up to the dreary mountain-top,
I'll tell you all I know.]
[Variant 10:
1845.
'Tis now some two and twenty years, 1798.
'Tis known, that twenty years are passed 1820.]
[Variant 11:
1820.
And she was happy, happy still
Whene'er she thought of Stephen Hill. 1798.]
[Variant 12:
1815.
... on that woful day
A cruel, cruel fire, they say,
Into her bones was sent:
It dried her body like a cinder,
And almost turn'd her brain to tinder. 1798.]
[Variant 13:
1836.
'Tis said, a child was in her womb,
As now to any eye was plain; 1798.
'Tis said, her lamentable state
Even to a careless eye was plain; 1820.
Alas! her lamentable state 1827.]
[Variant 14:
1836.
... she was... 1798.]
[Variant 15:
1820.
Oh me! ten thousand times I'd rather
That he had died, that cruel father! 1798.]
[Variant 16:
1820.
Last Christmas when we talked of this,
Old Farmer Simpson did maintain,
That in her womb the infant wrought 1798.]
[Variant 17:
1827.
No more I know, I wish I did,
And I would tell it all to you; 1798.]
[Variant 18:
1827.
There's none that ever knew: 1798.]
[Variant 19:
1827.
And if a child was born or no,
There's no one that could ever tell; 1798.]
[Variant 20:
1827.
There's no one knows, as I have said, 1798.]
[Variant 21:
1827.
... I've described ... 1798.]
[Variant 22:
1845.
... in faith, ... 1798.]
[Variant 23:
1798.
In truth, it was ... 1800.
The edition of 1815 returns to the text of 1798.]
[Variant 24:
1827.
... and what's the pond?
And what's the hill of moss to her?
And what's the ... 1798.]
[Variant 25:
1800.
I've heard the scarlet moss is red 1798.]
[Variant 26:
1845.
But then the beauteous hill of moss 1798.
It might not be--the Hill of moss 1827.
But then the beauteous Hill of moss 1832.
(Returning to the text of 1798.)
But then the speckled hill of moss 1836.]
[Variant 27:
1827.
But ... 1798.]
[Variant 28:
1845.
... is buried ... 1798.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A:
"March 19, 1798. William and Basil and I walked to the hill tops. A
very cold bleak day. William wrote some lines describing a stunted
Thorn" (Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal).--Ed.
"April 20. Walked in the evening up the hill dividing the coombes.
Came home the Crookham way, by the Thorn, and the little muddy pond"
(Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal).--Ed.]
* * * * *
SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE VARIANT
[Sub-Footnote i: Compare in Bürger's 'Pfarrer's Tochter', "drei Spannen
lang," and see Appendix V.--Ed.]
* * * * *
GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL
A TRUE STORY
Composed 1798.--Published 1798.
[Written at Alfoxden. The incident from Dr. Darwin's 'Zoönomia'.--I.
F.]
See Erasmus Darwin's 'Zoönomia', vol. iv. pp. 68-69, ed. 1801. It is the
story of a man named Tullis, narrated by an Italian, Signer L. Storgosi,
in a work called 'Il Narratore Italiano'.
"I received good information of the truth of the following case, which
was published a few years ago in the newspapers. A young farmer in
Warwickshire, finding his hedges broke, and the sticks carried away
during a frosty season, determined to watch for the thief. He lay many
cold hours under a haystack, and at length an old woman, like a witch
in a play, approached, and began to pull up the hedge; he waited till
she had tied up her bundle of sticks, and was carrying them off, that
he might convict her of the theft, and then springing from his
concealment, he seized his prey with violent threats. After some
altercation, in which her load was left upon the ground, she kneeled
upon her bundle of sticks, and raising her arms to Heaven, beneath the
bright moon then at the full, spoke to the farmer, already shivering
with cold, 'Heaven grant that thou mayest never know again the
blessing to be warm.' He complained of cold all the next day, and wore
an upper coat, and in a few days another, and in a fortnight took to
his bed, always saying nothing made him warm; he covered himself with
many blankets, and had a sieve over his face as he lay; and from this
one insane idea he kept his bed above twenty years for fear of the
cold air, till at length he died."
In the "Advertisement" to the first edition of "Lyrical Ballads,"
Wordsworth says, "The tale of 'Goody Blake and Harry Gill' is founded on
a well-authenticated fact which happened in Warwickshire."
The following curious letter appeared in the 'Ipswich Magazine' of April
1799:
"IPSWICH, April 2, 1799.
"To the Editors of the 'Ipswich Magazine'.
"GENTLEMEN--The scarcity of Coal at this time, and the piercing cold
of the weather, cannot fail to be some apology for the depredations
daily committed on the hedges in the neighbourhood. If ever it be
permitted, it ought in the present season. Should there be any Farmer
more rigorous than the rest, let him attend to the poetical story
inserted in page 118 of this Magazine, and tremble at the fate of
Farmer Gill, who was about to prosecute a poor old woman for a similar
offence. The thing is a fact, and told by one of the first physicians
of the present day, as having happened in the south of England, 'and
which has, a short time since', been turned by a _lyric poet_ into
that excellent ballad."
From 1815 to 1843, this poem was classed among those of "the
Imagination." In 1845 it was transferred to the list of "Miscellaneous
Poems."--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter?
What is't that ails young Harry Gill?
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still!
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, 5
Good duffle grey, and flannel fine;
He has a blanket on his back,
And coats enough to smother nine.
In March, December, and in July,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; 10
The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
At night, at morning, and at noon,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, 15
His teeth they chatter, chatter still!
Young Harry was a lusty drover,
And who so stout of limb as he?
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;
His voice was like the voice of three. 20
Old [1] Goody Blake was old and poor;
Ill fed she was, and thinly clad;
And any man who passed her door
Might see how poor a hut she had.
All day she spun in her poor dwelling: 25
And then her three hours' work at night,
Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling,
It would not pay for candle-light.
Remote from sheltered village-green,
On a hill's northern side she dwelt, 30
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,
And hoary dews are slow to melt. [2]
By the same fire to boil their pottage,
Two poor old Dames, as I have known,
Will often live in one small cottage; 35
But she, poor Woman! housed [3] alone.
'Twas well enough when summer came,
The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,
Then at her door the _canty_ Dame
Would sit, as any linnet, gay. 40
But when the ice our streams did fetter,
Oh then how her old bones would shake;
You would have said, if you had met her,
'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake.
Her evenings then were dull and dead: 45
Sad case it was, as you may think,
For very cold to go to bed;
And then for cold not sleep a wink.
O joy for her! whene'er in winter
The winds at night had made a rout; 50
And scattered many a lusty splinter
And many a rotten bough about.
Yet never had she, well or sick,
As every man who knew her says,
A pile beforehand, turf [4] or stick, 55
Enough to warm her for three days.
Now, when the frost was past enduring,
And made her poor old bones to ache,
Could anything be more alluring
Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? 60
And, now and then, it must be said,
When her old bones were cold and chill,
She left her fire, or left her bed,
To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.
Now Harry he had long suspected 65
This trespass of old Goody Blake;
And vowed that she should be detected--
That [5] he on her would vengeance take.
And oft from his warm fire he'd go,
And to the fields his road would take; 70
And there, at night, in frost and snow,
He watched to seize old Goody Blake.
And once, behind a rick of barley,
Thus looking out did Harry stand:
The moon was full and shining clearly, 75
And crisp with frost the stubble land.
--He hears a noise--he's all awake--
Again?--on tip-toe down the hill
He softly creeps--'tis Goody Blake;
She's at the hedge of Harry Gill! 80
Right glad was he when he beheld her:
Stick after stick did Goody pull:
He stood behind a bush of elder,
Till she had filled her apron full.
When with her load she turned about, 85
The by-way [6] back again to take;
He started forward, with a shout,
And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.
And fiercely by the arm he took her,
And by the arm he held her fast, 90
And fiercely by the arm he shook her,
And cried, "I've caught you then at last!"
Then Goody, who had nothing said,
Her bundle from her lap let fall;
And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed 95
To God that is the judge of all.
She prayed, her withered hand uprearing,
While Harry held her by the arm--
"God! who art never out of hearing,
O may he never more be warm!" 100
The cold, cold moon above her head,
Thus on her knees did Goody pray;
Young Harry heard what she had said:
And icy cold he turned away.
He went complaining all the morrow 105
That he was cold and very chill:
His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,
Alas! that day for Harry Gill!
That day he wore a riding-coat,
But not a whit the warmer he: 110
Another was on Thursday brought,
And ere the Sabbath he had three.
'Twas all in vain, a useless matter,
And blankets were about him pinned;
Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, 115
Like a loose casement in the wind.
And Harry's flesh it fell away;
And all who see him say, 'tis plain
That, live as long as live he may,
He never will be warm again. 120
No word to any man he utters,
A-bed or up, to young or old;
But ever to himself he mutters,
"Poor Harry Gill is very cold."
A-bed or up, by night or day; 125
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,
Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill! [A]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1802.
Auld 1798.]
[Variant 2:
1836
--This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire,
Her hut was on a cold hill-side,
And in that country coals are dear,
For they come far by wind and tide. 1798.
Remote from sheltering village green,
Upon a bleak hill-side, she dwelt,
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,
And hoary dews are slow to melt. 1820.
On a hill's northern side she dwelt. 1827.]
[Variant 3.
1820.
... dwelt ... 1798.]
[Variant 4.
1827.
... wood ... 1798]
[Variant 5.
1836.
And ... 1798.]
[Variant 6.
1827.
The bye-road ... 1798.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: Compare the many entries about "gathering sticks" in the
Alfoxden woods, in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal.--Ed.]
* * * * *
HER EYES ARE WILD
Composed 1798.--Published 1798.
[Written at Alfoxden. The subject was reported to me by a lady of
Bristol, who had seen the poor creature.--I. F.]
From 1798 to 1805 this poem was published under the title of 'The Mad
Mother'.
In the editions of 1815 and 1820 it was ranked as one of the "Poems
founded on the Affections." In the editions of 1827 and 1832, it was
classed as one of the "Poems of the Imagination." In 1836 and
afterwards, it was replaced among the "Poems founded on the
Affections."--Ed.
I Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair;
Her eyebrows have a rusty stain,
And she came far from over the main.
She has a baby on her arm, 5
Or else she were alone:
And underneath the hay-stack warm,
And on the greenwood stone,
She talked and sung the woods among,
And it was in the English tongue. 10
II "Sweet babe! they say that I am mad
But nay, my heart is far too glad;
And I am happy when I sing
Full many a sad and doleful thing:
Then, lovely baby, do not fear! 15
I pray thee have no fear of me;
But safe as in a cradle, here
My lovely baby! thou shalt be:
To thee I know too much I owe;
I cannot work thee any woe. 20
III "A fire was once within my brain;
And in my head a dull, dull pain;
And fiendish faces, one, two, three,
Hung at my breast, [1] and pulled at me;
But then there came a sight of joy; 25
It came at once to do me good;
I waked, and saw my little boy,
My little boy of flesh and blood;
Oh joy for me that sight to see!
For he was here, and only he. 30
IV "Suck, little babe, oh suck again!
It cools my blood; it cools my brain;
Thy lips I feel them, baby! they
Draw from my heart the pain away.
Oh! press me with thy little hand; 35
It loosens something at my chest;
About that tight and deadly band
I feel thy little fingers prest.
The breeze I see is in the tree:
It comes to cool my babe and me. 40
V "Oh! love me, love me, little boy!
Thou art thy mother's only joy;
And do not dread the waves below,
When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go;
The high crag cannot work me harm, 45
Nor leaping torrents when they howl;
The babe I carry on my arm,
He saves for me my precious soul;
Then happy lie; for blest am I;
Without me my sweet babe would die. 50
VI "Then do not fear, my boy! for thee
Bold as a lion will I be; [2]
And I will always be thy guide,
Through hollow snows and rivers wide.
I'll build an Indian bower; I know 55
The leaves that make the softest bed:
And, if from me thou wilt not go,
But still be true till I am dead,
My pretty thing! then thou shall sing
As merry as the birds in spring. 60
VII "Thy father cares not for my breast,
'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest;
'Tis all thine own!--and, if its hue
Be changed, that was so fair to view,
'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove! 65
My beauty, little child, is flown,
But thou wilt live with me in love;
And what if my poor cheek be brown?
'Tis well for me, thou canst not see
How pale and wan it else would be. 70
VIII "Dread not their taunts, my little Life;
I am thy father's wedded wife;
And underneath the spreading tree
We two will live in honesty.
If his sweet boy he could forsake, 75
With me he never would have stayed:
From him no harm my babe can take;
But he, poor man! is wretched made;
And every day we two will pray
For him that's gone and far away. 80
IX "I'll teach my boy the sweetest things:
I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
My little babe! thy lips are still,
And thou hast almost sucked thy fill.
--Where art thou gone, my own dear child? 85
What wicked looks are those I see?
Alas! alas! that look so wild,
It never, never came from me:
If thou art mad, my pretty lad,
Then I must be for ever sad. 90
X "Oh! smile on me, my little lamb!
For I thy own dear mother am:
My love for thee has well been tried:
I've sought thy father far and wide.
I know the poisons of the shade; 95
I know the earth-nuts fit for food:
Then, pretty dear, be not afraid:
We'll find thy father in the wood.
Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away!
And there, my babe, we'll live for aye." [A] 100
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1.
1820.
... breasts ... 1798.]
[Variant 2.
1832.
... I will be; 1798.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A:
"For myself, I would rather have written 'The Mad Mother' than all the
works of all the Bolingbrokes and Sheridans, those brilliant meteors,
that have been exhaled from the morasses of human depravity since the
loss of Paradise."
(S. T. C. to W. Godwin, 9th December 1800.) See 'William Godwin: his
Friends and Contemporaries', vol. ii. p. 14.--Ed.]
* * * * *
SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN;
WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED
Composed 1798.--Published 1798.
[This old man had been huntsman to the Squires of Alfoxden, which, at
the time we occupied it, belonged to a minor. The old man's cottage
stood upon the Common, a little way from the entrance to Alfoxden
Park. But it had disappeared. Many other changes had taken place in
the adjoining village, which I could not but notice with a regret more
natural than well-considered. Improvements but rarely appear such to
those who, after long intervals of time, revisit places they have had
much pleasure in. It is unnecessary to add, the fact was as mentioned
in the poem; and I have, after an interval of forty-five years, the
image of the old man as fresh before my eyes as if I had seen him
yesterday. The expression when the hounds were out, 'I dearly love
their voice,' was word for word from his own lips.--I. F.]
This poem was classed among those of "Sentiment and Reflection."--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,
An old Man dwells, a little man,--
'Tis said [1] he once was tall.
[2] Full five-and-thirty [3] years he lived 5
A running huntsman merry;
And still the centre of his cheek
Is red as a ripe cherry. [4]
No man like him the horn could sound,
And hill and valley rang with glee: 10
When Echo bandied, round and round,
The halloo of Simon Lee.
In those proud days, he little cared
For husbandry or tillage;
To blither tasks did Simon rouse 15
The sleepers of the village. [5]
He all the country could outrun,
Could leave both man and horse behind;
And often, ere the chase [6] was done,
He reeled, and was stone blind. 20
And still there's something in the world
At which his heart rejoices;
For when the chiming hounds are out,
He dearly loves their voices!
But, oh the heavy change! [A]--bereft 25
Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see! [7]
Old Simon to the world is left
In liveried poverty.
His Master's dead,--and no one now
Dwells in the Hall of Ivor; 30
Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
He is the sole survivor. [8]
And [9] he is lean and he is sick;
His body, dwindled and awry,
Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; 35
His legs are thin and dry.
One prop he has, and only one,
His wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village Common. [10] 40
Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
Not twenty paces from the door,
A scrap of land they have, but they
Are poorest of the poor.
This scrap of land he from the heath 45
Enclosed when he was stronger;
But what to them avails the land
Which he can till no longer? [11]
Oft, working by her Husband's side,
Ruth does what Simon cannot do; 50
For she, with scanty cause for pride, [12]
Is stouter of the two.
And, though you with your utmost skill
From labour could not wean them,
'Tis little, very little--all 55
That they can do between them. [13]
Few months of life has he in store
As he to you will tell,
For still, the more he works, the more
Do his weak ankles swell. [14] 60
My gentle Reader, I perceive
How patiently you've waited,
And now I fear [15] that you expect
Some tale will be related.
O Reader! had you in your mind 65
Such stores as silent thought can bring,[B]
O gentle Reader! you would find
A tale in every thing.
What more I have to say is short,
And you must [16] kindly take it: 70
It is no tale; but, should you think, [17]
Perhaps a tale you'll make it.
One summer-day I chanced to see
This old Man doing all he could
To unearth the root [18] of an old tree, 75
A stump of rotten wood.
The mattock tottered in his hand;
So vain was his endeavour,
That at the root of the old tree
He might have worked for ever. 80
"You're overtasked, good Simon Lee,
Give me your tool," to him I said;
And at the word right gladly he
Received my proffered aid.
I struck, and with a single blow 85
The tangled root I severed,
At which the poor old Man so long
And vainly had endeavoured.
The tears into his eyes were brought,
And thanks and praises seemed to run 90
So fast out of his heart, I thought
They never would have done.
--I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
With coldness still returning;
Alas! the gratitude of men 95
Hath oftener [19] left me mourning.[C]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1827.
I've heard ... 1798.]
[Variant 2: In editions 1798 to 1815 the following is inserted:
Of years he has upon his back,
No doubt, a burthen weighty;
He says he is three score and ten,
But others say he's eighty.
A long blue livery-coat has he,
That's fair behind, and fair before;
Yet, meet him where you will, you see
At once that he is poor.]
[Variant 3:
1827.
... five and twenty ... 1798.]
[Variant 4:
1845.
And, though he has but one eye left,
His cheek is like a cherry. 1798.
And still the centre of his cheek
Is blooming as a cherry. 1820.]
[Variant 5:
1827.
No man like him the horn could sound,
And no man was so full of glee;
To say the least, four counties round
Had heard of Simon Lee;
His master's dead, and no one now
Dwells in the hall of Ivor;
Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
He is the sole survivor. 1798.
Worn out by hunting feats--bereft
By time of friends and kindred, see!
Old Simon to the world is left
In liveried poverty.
His Master's dead, ... 1827.
The fourth stanza of the final edition being second in 1827, and the
second stanza being third in 1827.]
[Variant 6:
1827.
... race ... 1798.]
[Variant 7:
Of strength, of friends, and kindred, see.
In MS. letter to Allan Cunningham, Nov. 1828.]
[Variant 8:
1832.
His hunting feats have him bereft
Of his right eye, as you may see:
And then, what limbs those feats have left
To poor old Simon Lee!
He has no son, he has no child,
His wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village common. 1798.
His hunting feats have him bereft
Of his right eye, as you may see,
And Simon to the world is left,
In liveried poverty.
When he was young he little knew
Of husbandry or tillage;
And now is forced to work, though weak,
--The weakest in the village. 1820.]
[Variant 9:
1798.
But ... 1820.
The text of 1832 reverts to that of 1798.]
[Variant 10:
1827.
His little body's half awry,
His ancles they are swoln and thick;
His legs are thin and dry.
When he was young he little knew
Of husbandry or tillage;
And now he's forced to work, though weak,
--The weakest in the village. 1798.
His dwindled body's half awry, 1800.
His ancles, too, are swoln and thick; 1815.
And now is forced to work, 1815.
His dwindled body half awry,
Rests upon ancles swoln and thick;
His legs are thin and dry.
He has no son, he has no child,
His Wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village Common. 1820.]
[Variant 11:
1845.
But what avails the land to them,
Which they can till no longer? 1798.
"But what," saith he, "avails the land,
Which I can till no longer?" 1827.
But what avails it now, the land
Which he can till no longer? 1832.
'Tis his, but what avails the land
Which he can till no longer? 1837.
The time, alas! is come when he
Can till the land no longer. 1840.
The time is also come when he
Can till the land no longer. C.]
[Variant 12:
1827.
Old Ruth works out of doors with him,
And does what Simon cannot do;
For she, not over stout of limb, 1798.]
[Variant 13:
1840.
Alas! 'tis very little, all
Which they can ... 1798.
That they can ... 1837.]
[Variant 14:
1815.
His poor old ancles swell. 1798.]
[Variant 15:
1820.
And I'm afraid ... 1798.]
[Variant 16:
1820.
I hope you'll ... 1798.]
[Variant 17:
1798.
... _think_,
In the editions 1832 to 1843.]
[Variant 18:
1815.
About the root ... 1798.]
[Variant 19:
1820.
Has oftner ... 1798.
Has oftener ... 1805.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: Note that the phrase: 'But oh the heavy change,' occurs in
Milton's 'Lycidas'. (Professor Dowden.) See 'Lycidas', l. 37.--Ed.]
[Footnote B: Compare Shakspeare's Sonnet, No. xxx.:
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past;
and in Spenser's 'An epitaph upon the Right Honourable Sir Phillip
Sidney, Knight; Lord governor of Flushing.'
Farewell, self-pleasing thoughts, which quietness brings forth.
Ed.]
[Footnote C: See Appendix VI. to this volume.--Ed.]
* * * * *
LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING
Composed 1798.--Published 1798.
[Actually composed while I was sitting by the side of the brook that
runs down from the 'Comb', in which stands the village of Alford,
through the grounds of Alfoxden. It was a chosen resort of mine. The
brook ran down a sloping rock, so as to make a waterfall, considerable
for that county; and across the pool below had fallen a tree--an ash
if I rightly remember--from which rose perpendicularly, boughs in
search of the light intercepted by the deep shade above. The boughs
bore leaves of green, that for want of sunshine had faded into almost
lily-white; and from the underside of this natural sylvan bridge
depended long and beautiful tresses of ivy, which waved gently in the
breeze, that might, poetically speaking, be called the breath of the
waterfall. This motion varied of course in proportion to the power of
water in the brook. When, with dear friends, I revisited this spot,
after an interval of more than forty years, [A] this interesting
feature of the scene was gone. To the owner of the place I could not
but regret that the beauty of this retired part of the grounds had not
tempted him to make it more accessible by a path, not broad or
obtrusive, but sufficient for persons who love such scenes to creep
along without difficulty.--I. F.]
These 'Lines' were included among the "Poems of Sentiment
and Reflection."--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link 5
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green [1] bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; 10
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes. [B]
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:--
But the least motion which they made, 15
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there. 20
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan, [2]
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
* * * * *
This Alfoxden dell, once known locally as "The Mare's Pool," was a
trysting-place of Wordsworth, Coleridge, and their friends. Coleridge
thus describes it, in his poem beginning "This Lime-Tree Bower, my
Prison," addressed to Charles Lamb:
The roaring dell, o'er-wooded, narrow, deep,
And only speckled by the midday sun;
Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock
Flings arching like a bridge;--that branchless ash,
Unsunn'd and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves
Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still,
Fanned by the waterfall!
Of all the localities around Alfoxden, this grove is the one chiefly
associated with Wordsworth. There was no path to the waterfall, as
suggested by the Poet to the owner of the place, in 1840; but, in 1880,
I found the "natural sylvan bridge" restored. An ash tree, having fallen
across the glen, reproduced the scene exactly as it is described in the
Fenwick note.--Ed.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1837.
... sweet 1798.]
[Variant 2:
1837.
If I these thoughts may not prevent,
If such be of my creed the plan, 1798.
If this belief from Heaven is sent,
If such be nature's holy plan, 1820.
From Heaven if this belief be sent, 1827.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: See the Fenwick note to "A whirl-blast from behind the
hill," p. 238.--Ed.]
[Footnote B: See Appendix VII.--Ed.]
* * * * *
TO MY SISTER
Composed 1798.--Published 1798.
[Composed in front of Alfoxden House. My little boy-messenger on this
occasion was the son of Basil Montagu. The larch mentioned in the
first stanza was standing when I revisited the place in May 1841, more
than forty years after. I was disappointed that it had not improved in
appearance as to size, nor had it acquired anything of the majesty of
age, which, even though less perhaps than any other tree, the larch
sometimes does. A few score yards from this tree, grew, when we
inhabited Alfoxden, one of the most remarkable beech-trees ever seen.
The ground sloped both towards and from it. It was of immense size,
and threw out arms that struck into the soil, like those of the
banyan-tree, and rose again from it. Two of the branches thus inserted
themselves twice, which gave to each the appearance of a serpent
moving along by gathering itself up in folds. One of the large boughs
of this tree had been torn off by the wind before we left Alfoxden,
but five remained. In 1841 we could barely find the spot where the
tree had stood. So remarkable a production of nature could not have
been wilfully destroyed.--I. F.]
In the editions 1798 to 1815 the title of this poem was, 'Lines written
at a small distance from my House, and sent by my little Boy to the
person to whom they are addressed'. From 1820 to 1843 the title was, 'To
my Sister; written at a small distance from my House, and sent by my
little Boy'. In 1845 and afterwards, it was simply 'To my Sister'. The
poem was placed by Wordsworth among those of "Sentiment and
Reflection."--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
It is the first mild day of March:
Each minute sweeter than before
The redbreast sings from the tall larch
That stands beside our door.
There is a blessing in the air, 5
Which seems a sense of joy to yield
To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
And grass in the green field.
My sister! ('tis a wish of mine)
Now that our morning meal is done, 10
Make haste, your morning task resign;
Come forth and feel the sun.
Edward will come with you;--and, pray,
Put on with speed your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day 15
We'll give to idleness.
No joyless forms shall regulate
Our living calendar:
We from to-day, my Friend, will date
The opening of the year. 20
Love, now a [1] universal birth,
From heart to heart is stealing,
From earth to man, from man to earth:
--It is the hour of feeling.
One moment now may give us more 25
Than years of toiling reason: [2]
Our minds shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.
Some silent laws our hearts will make, [3]
Which they shall long obey: 30
We for the year to come may take
Our temper from to-day.
And from the blessed power that rolls
About, below, above,
We'll frame the measure of our souls: 35
They shall be tuned to love.
Then come, my Sister! come, I pray,
With speed put on your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day
We'll give to idleness. 40
* * * * *
The larch is now gone; but the place where it stood can easily be
identified.--Ed.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1837.
... an ... 1798.]
[Variant 2:
1837.
Than fifty years of reason; 1798.]
[Variant 3:
1820.
... may. 1798.]
* * * * *
EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY
Composed 1798.--Published 1798.
[This poem is a favourite among the Quakers, as I have learned on many
occasions. It was composed in front of the house of Alfoxden, in the
spring of 1798. [A]--I.F.]
Included among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
"Why, William, on that old grey stone,
Thus for the length of half a day,
Why, William, sit you thus alone,
And dream your time away?
"Where are your books?--that light bequeathed 5
To Beings else forlorn and blind!
Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.
"You look round on your Mother Earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you; 10
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you!"
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake, 15
And thus I made reply.
"The eye--it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against or with our will. 20