Which of themselves our minds impress;
That we can feed this mind of ours
In a wise passiveness.
"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 25
Of things for ever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?
"--Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,
Conversing as I may, 30
I sit upon this old grey stone,
And dream my time away."
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: In his "Advertisement" to the first edition of "Lyrical
Ballads" (1798) Wordsworth writes,
"The lines entitled 'Expostulation and Reply', and those which follow,
arose out of conversation with a friend who was somewhat unreasonably
attached to modern books of Moral Philosophy."
Was the friend Sir James Mackintosh? or was it--a much more probable
supposition--his friend, S. T. Coleridge?--Ed.]
* * * * *
THE TABLES TURNED
AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT
Composed 1798.--Published 1798
Included among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you'll grow double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble? [1]
The sun, above the mountain's head, 5
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.
Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet, 10
How sweet his music! on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is [2] no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things, 15
Let Nature be your Teacher.
She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless--
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 20
One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can. [A]
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; 25
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:--
We murder to dissect.
Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those [3] barren leaves; 30
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1820.
Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks,
Why all this toil and trouble?
Up! up! my friend, and quit your books,
Or surely you'll grow double. 1798.]
[Variant 2:
1815.
And he is ... 1798.]
[Variant 3:
1837.
... these ... 1798.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: A mediæval anticipation of this may be quoted in a
footnote.
"Believe me, as my own experience," once said St. Bernard, "you will
find more in the woods than in books; the forests and rocks will teach
you more than you can learn from the greatest Masters."
I quote this, as sent to me by a friend; but the only passage at all
approaching to it which I can verify is the following:
"Quidquid in Scripturis valet, quidquid in eis spiritualiter sentit,
maxime in silvis et in agris meditando et orando se confitetur
accepisse, et in hoc nullos aliquando se magistros habuisse nisi
quercus et fagos joco illo suo gratioso inter amicos dicere solet."
See the appendix to Mabillon's edition of 'Bernardi Opera', ii. 1072,
'S. Bernardi Vita, et Res Gesta, auctore Guilielmo'.--Ed.]
* * * * *
THE COMPLAINT OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN
Composed 1798.--Published 1798.
When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is unable to continue his journey
with his companions; he is left behind, covered over with Deer-skins,
and is supplied with water, food, and fuel if the situation of the place
will afford it. He is informed of the track which his companions intend
to pursue, and if he is unable to follow, or overtake them, he perishes
alone in the Desart; unless he should have the good fortune to fall in
with some other Tribes of Indians. It is unnecessary to add that the
females are equally, or still more, exposed to the same fate. See that
very interesting work, Hearne's 'Journey from Hudson's Bay to the
Northern Ocean'. When the Northern Lights, as the same writer informs
us, vary their position in the air, they make a rustling and a crackling
noise. This circumstance is alluded to in the first stanza of the
following poem.--W. W. 1798.
[At Alfoxden, in 1798, where I read Hearne's 'Journey' with deep
interest. It was composed for the volume of "Lyrical Ballads."--I. F.]
Classed among the "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
I Before I see another day,
Oh let my body die away!
In sleep I heard the northern gleams;
The stars, they were among my dreams; [1]
In rustling conflict through the skies, [2] 5
I heard, I saw the flashes drive, [3]
And yet they are upon my eyes,
And yet I am alive;
Before I see another day,
Oh let my body die away! 10
II My fire is dead: it knew no pain;
Yet is it dead, and I remain:
All stiff with ice the ashes lie;
And they are dead, and I will die.
When I was well, I wished to live, 15
For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire
But they to me no joy can give,
No pleasure now, and no desire.
Then here contented will I lie!
Alone, I cannot fear to die. 20
III Alas! ye [4] might have dragged me on
Another day, a single one!
Too soon I yielded to despair;
Why did ye listen to my prayer? [5]
When ye [6] were gone my limbs were stronger; 25
And oh, how grievously I rue,
That, afterwards, a little longer,
My friends, I did not follow you!
For strong and without pain I lay,
Dear friends, when ye [7] were gone away. 30
IV My Child! they gave thee to another,
A woman who was not thy mother.
When from my arms my Babe they took,
On me how strangely did he look!
Through his whole body something ran, 35
A most strange working [8] did I see;
--As if he strove to be a man,
That he might pull the sledge for me:
And then he stretched his arms, how wild!
Oh mercy! like a helpless child. [9] 40
V My little joy! my little pride!
In two days more I must have died.
Then do not weep and grieve for me;
I feel I must have died with thee.
O wind, that o'er my head art flying 45
The way my friends their course did bend,
I should not feel the pain of dying,
Could I with thee a message send;
Too soon, my friends, ye [10] went away;
For I had many things to say. 50
VI I'll follow you across the snow;
Ye [11] travel heavily and slow;
In spite of all my weary pain
I'll look upon your tents again.
--My fire is dead, and snowy white 55
The water which beside it stood:
The wolf has come to me to-night,
And he has stolen away my food.
For ever left alone am I;
Then wherefore should I fear to die? 60
VII [12] Young as I am, my course is run, [13]
I shall not see another sun;
I cannot lift my limbs to know
If they have any life or no.
My poor forsaken Child, if I 65
For once could have thee close to me,
With happy heart I then would die,
And my last thought would happy be; [14]
But thou, dear Babe, art far away,
Nor shall I see another day. [15] 70
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1798.
The stars were mingled with my dreams; 1815.
The text of 1836 returns to that of 1798.]
[Variant 2:
1820.
In sleep did I behold the skies, 1798.]
[Variant 3:
1827.
I saw the crackling flashes drive; 1798.
I heard, and saw the flashes drive; 1820.]
[Variant 4:
1815.
... you ... 1798.]
[Variant 5:
1815.
Too soon despair o'er me prevailed;
Too soon my heartless spirit failed; 1798.]
[Variant 6:
1815.
... you ... 1798.]
[Variant 7:
1845.
My friends, when you ... 1798.
... when ye ... 1815.]
[Variant 8:
1815.
A most strange something .... 1798.]
[Variant 9:
1815.
... a little child. 1798.]
[Variant 10:
1815.
... you ... 1798.]
[Variant 11:
1815.
You ... 1798.]
[Variant 12: This stanza was omitted in the editions 1815 to 1832, but
restored in 1836.--Ed.]
[Variant 13:
1836.
My journey will be shortly run, 1798.]
[Variant 14:
1836.
... I then would die,
And my last thoughts ... 1798.
... I then should die, 1800.]
[Variant 15:
1836.
I feel my body die away,
I shall not see another day. 1798.]
* * * * *
THE LAST OF THE FLOCK
Composed 1798.--Published 1798.
[Produced at the same time as 'The Complaint', and for the same
purpose. The incident occurred in the village of Holford, close by
Alfoxden.--I. F.]
Included among the "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
I In distant countries have I been, [1]
And yet I have not often seen
A healthy man, a man full grown,
Weep in the public roads, alone.
But such a one, on English ground, 5
And in the broad highway, I met;
Along the broad highway he came,
His cheeks with tears were wet:
Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad;
And in his arms a Lamb he had. 10
II He saw me, and he turned aside,
As if he wished himself to hide:
And with his coat did then essay [2]
To wipe those briny tears away.
I followed him, and said, "My friend, 15
What ails you? wherefore weep you so?"
--"Shame on me, Sir! this lusty Lamb,
He makes my tears to flow.
To-day I fetched him from the rock:
He is the last of all my flock. 20
III "When I was young, a single man,
And after youthful follies ran,
Though little given to care and thought,
Yet, so it was, an ewe [3] I bought;
And other sheep from her I raised, 25
As healthy sheep as you might see;
And then I married, and was rich
As I could wish to be;
Of sheep I numbered a full score,
And every year increased my store. 30
IV "Year after year my stock it grew;
And from this one, this single ewe,
Full fifty comely sheep I raised,
As fine [4] a flock as ever grazed!
Upon the Quantock hills they fed; [5] 35
They throve, and we at home did thrive:
--This lusty Lamb of all my store
Is all that is alive;
And now I care not if we die,
And perish all of poverty. 40
V "Six [6] Children, Sir! had I to feed;
Hard labour in a time of need!
My pride was tamed, and in our grief
I of the Parish asked relief.
They said, I was a wealthy man; 45
My sheep upon the uplands [7] fed,
And it was fit that thence I took
Whereof to buy us bread.
'Do this: how can we give to you,'
They cried, 'what to the poor is due?' 50
VI "I sold a sheep, as they had said,
And bought my little children bread,
And they were healthy with their food;
For me--it never did me good.
A woeful time it was for me, 55
To see the end of all my gains,
The pretty flock which I had reared
With all my care and pains,
To see it melt like snow away--
For me it was a woeful day. 60
VII "Another still! and still another!
A little lamb, and then its mother!
It was a vein that never stopped--
Like blood-drops from my heart they dropped.
'Till thirty were not left alive 65
They dwindled, dwindled, one by one;
And I may say, that many a time
I wished they all were gone--
Reckless of what might come at last
Were but the bitter struggle past. [8] 70
VIII "To wicked deeds I was inclined,
And wicked fancies crossed my mind;
And every man I chanced to see,
I thought he knew some ill of me:
No peace, no comfort could I find, 75
No ease, within doors or without;
And, crazily and wearily
I went my work about;
And oft was moved to flee from home,
And hide my head where wild beasts roam.[9] 80
IX "Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me,
As dear as my own children be;
For daily with my growing store
I loved my children more and more.
Alas! it was an evil time; 85
God cursed me in my sore distress;
I prayed, yet every day I thought
I loved my children less;
And every week, and every day,
My flock it seemed to melt away. 90
X "They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see!
From ten to five, from five to three,
A lamb, a wether, and a ewe;-.
And then at last from three to two;
And, of my fifty, yesterday 95
I had but only one:
And here it lies upon my arm,
Alas! and I have none;--
To-day I fetched it from the rock;
It is the last of all my flock." 100
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1815.
... I have been, 1798.]
[Variant 2:
1836.
Then with his coat he made essay 1798.]
[Variant 3:
1832.
... a ewe ... 1798.]
[Variant 4:
1836.
As sweet ... 1798.]
[Variant 5:
1836.
Upon the mountain did they feed; 1798.]
[Variant 6:
1800.
Ten ... 1798.]
[Variant 7:
1836.
... upon the mountain ... 1798.]
[Variant 8:
1827.
They dwindled one by one away;
For me it was a woeful day. 1798.]
[Variant 9:
1836.
Oft-times I thought to run away;
For me it was a woeful day. 1798.
Bent oftentimes to flee from home,
And hide my head where wild beasts roam. 1827.]
* * * * *
THE IDIOT BOY
Composed 1798.--Published 1798.
[Alfoxden, 1798. The last stanza, 'The cocks did crow to-whoo,
to-whoo, and the sun did shine so cold,' was the foundation of the
whole. The words were reported to me by my dear friend Thomas Poole;
but I have since heard the same repeated of other idiots. Let me add,
that this long poem was composed in the groves of Alfoxden, almost
extempore; not a word, I believe, being corrected, though one stanza
was omitted. I mention this in gratitude to those happy moments, for,
in truth, I never wrote anything with so much glee.--I. F.]
One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
'Tis eight o'clock,--a clear March night,
The moon is up,--the sky is blue,
The owlet, in the moonlight air,
Shouts from [1] nobody knows where;
He lengthens out his lonely shout, 5
Halloo! halloo! a long halloo!
--Why bustle thus about your door,
What means this bustle, Betty Foy?
Why are you in this mighty fret?
And why on horseback have you set 10
Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy?
[2]
Scarcely a soul is out of bed: [3]
Good Betty, put him down again;
His lips with joy they burr at you;
But, Betty! what has he to do 15
With stirrup, saddle, or with rein?
[4]
But Betty's bent on her intent;
For her good neighbour, Susan Gale,
Old Susan, she who dwells alone,
Is sick, and makes a piteous moan, 20
As if her very life would fail.
There's not a house within a mile,
No hand to help them in distress;
Old Susan lies a-bed in pain,
And sorely puzzled are the twain, 25
For what she ails they cannot guess.
And Betty's husband's at the wood,
Where by the week he doth abide,
A woodman in the distant vale;
There's none to help poor Susan Gale; 30
What must be done? what will betide?
And Betty from the lane has fetched
Her Pony, that is mild and good;
Whether he be in joy or pain,
Feeding at will along the lane, 35
Or bringing faggots from the wood.
And he is all in travelling trim,--
And, by the moonlight, Betty Foy
Has on the well-girt saddle set [5]
(The like was never heard of yet) 40
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy.
And he must post without delay
Across the bridge and through the dale, [6]
And by the church, and o'er the down,
To bring a Doctor from the town, 45
Or she will die, old Susan Gale.
There is no need of boot or spur,
There is no need of whip or wand;
For Johnny has his holly-bough,
And with a _hurly-burly_ now 50
He shakes the green bough in his hand.
And Betty o'er and o'er has told
The Boy, who is her best delight,
Both what to follow, what to shun,
What do, and what to leave undone, 55
How turn to left, and how to right.
And Betty's most especial charge,
Was, "Johnny! Johnny! mind that you
Come home again, nor stop at all,--
Come home again, whate'er befal, 60
My Johnny, do, I pray you do."
To this did Johnny answer make,
Both with his head and with his hand,
And proudly shook the bridle too;
And then! his words were not a few, 65
Which Betty well could understand.
And now that Johnny is just going,
Though Betty's in a mighty flurry,
She gently pats the Pony's side,
On which her Idiot Boy must ride, 70
And seems no longer in a hurry.
But when the Pony moved his legs,
Oh! then for the poor Idiot Boy!
For joy he cannot hold the bridle,
For joy his head and heels are idle, 75
He's idle all for very joy.
And while the Pony moves his legs,
In Johnny's left hand you may see
The green bough [7] motionless and dead:
The Moon that shines above his head 80
Is not more still and mute than he.
His heart it was so full of glee,
That till full fifty yards were gone,
He quite forgot his holly whip,
And all his skill in horsemanship: 85
Oh! happy, happy, happy John.
And while the Mother, at the door,
Stands fixed, her face with joy o'erflows [8]
Proud of herself, and proud of him,
She sees him in his travelling trim, 90
How quietly her Johnny goes.
The silence of her Idiot Boy,
What hopes it sends to Betty's heart!
He's at the guide-post--he turns right;
She watches till he's out of sight, 95
And Betty will not then depart.
Burr, burr--now Johnny's lips they burr.
As loud as any mill, or near it;
Meek as a lamb the Pony moves,
And Johnny makes the noise he loves, 100
And Betty listens, glad to hear it.
Away she hies to Susan Gale:
Her Messenger's in merry tune; [9]
The owlets hoot, the owlets curr,
And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr, 105
As [10] on he goes beneath the moon.
His steed and he right well agree;
For of this Pony there's a rumour,
That, should he lose his eyes and ears,
And should he live a thousand years, 110
He never will be out of humour.
But then he is a horse that thinks!
And when he thinks, his pace is slack;
Now, though he knows poor Johnny well,
Yet, for his life, he cannot tell 115
What he has got upon his back.
So through the moonlight lanes they go,
And far into the moonlight dale,
And by the church, and o'er the down,
To bring a Doctor from the town, 120
To comfort poor old Susan Gale.
And Betty, now at Susan's side,
Is in the middle of her story,
What speedy help her Boy will bring, [11]
With many a most diverting thing, 125
Of Johnny's wit, and Johnny's glory.
And Betty, still at Susan's side,
By this time is not quite so flurried: [12]
Demure with porringer and plate
She sits, as if in Susan's fate 130
Her life and soul were buried.
But Betty, poor good woman! she,
You plainly in her face may read it,
Could lend out of that moment's store
Five years of happiness or more 135
To any that might need it.
But yet I guess that now and then
With Betty all was not so well;
And to the road she turns her ears,
And thence full many a sound she hears, 140
Which she to Susan will not tell.
Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans;
"As sure as there's a moon in heaven,"
Cries Betty, "he'll be back again;
They'll both be here--'tis almost ten-- 145
Both will be [13] here before eleven."
Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans;
The clock gives warning for eleven;
'Tis on the stroke--"He must be near,"
Quoth Betty, "and will soon be here, [14] 150
As sure as there's a moon in heaven."
The clock is on the stroke of twelve,
And Johnny is not yet in sight:
--The Moon's in heaven, as Betty sees,
But Betty is not quite at ease; 155
And Susan has a dreadful night.
And Betty, half an hour ago,
On Johnny vile reflections cast:
"A little idle sauntering Thing!"
With other names, an endless string; 160
But now that time is gone and past.
And Betty's drooping at the heart,
That happy time all past and gone,
"How can it be he is so late?
The Doctor, he has made him wait; 165
Susan! they'll both be here anon."
And Susan's growing worse and worse,
And Betty's in a sad _quandary_;
And then there's nobody to say
If she must go, or she must stay! 170
--She's in a sad _quandary_.
The clock is on the stroke of one;
But neither Doctor nor his Guide
Appears [15] along the moonlight road;
There's neither horse nor man abroad, 175
And Betty's still at Susan's side.
And Susan now begins to fear [16]
Of sad mischances not a few,
That Johnny may perhaps be drowned;
Or lost, perhaps, and never found; 180
Which they must both for ever rue.
She prefaced half a hint of this
With, "God forbid it should be true!"
At the first word that Susan said
Cried Betty, rising from the bed, 185
"Susan, I'd gladly stay with you.
"I must be gone, I must away:
Consider, Johnny's but half-wise;
Susan, we must take care of him,
If he is hurt in life or limb"-- 190
"Oh God forbid!" poor Susan cries.
"What can I do?" says Betty, going,
"What can I do to ease your pain?
Good Susan tell me, and I'll stay;
I fear you're in a dreadful way, 195
But I shall soon be back again."
"Nay, Betty, [17] go! good Betty, go!
There's nothing that can ease my pain."
Then off she hies; but with a prayer
That God poor Susan's life would spare, 200
Till she comes back again.
So, through the moonlight lane she goes,
And far into the moonlight dale;
And how she ran, and how she walked,
And all that to herself she talked, 205
Would surely be a tedious tale.
In high and low, above, below,
In great and small, in round and square,
In tree and tower was Johnny seen,
In bush and brake, in black and green; 210
'Twas Johnny, Johnny, every where.
And while she crossed the bridge, there came
A thought with which her heart is sore--[18]
Johnny perhaps his horse forsook,
To hunt the moon within the brook, [19] 215
And never will be heard of more.
Now is she high [20] upon the down,
Alone amid a prospect wide;
There's neither Johnny nor his Horse
Among the fern or in the gorse; 220
There's neither Doctor nor his Guide.
"Oh saints! what is become of him?
Perhaps he's climbed into an oak,
Where he will stay till he is dead;
Or, sadly he has been misled, 225
And joined the wandering gipsy-folk.
"Or him that wicked Pony's carried
To the dark cave, the goblin's hall;
Or in the castle he's pursuing
Among the ghosts his own undoing; 230
Or playing with the waterfall."
At poor old Susan then she railed,
While to the town she posts away;
"If Susan had not been so ill,
Alas! I should have had him still, 235
My Johnny, till my dying day."
Poor Betty, in this sad distemper,
The Doctor's self could [21] hardly spare:
Unworthy things she talked, and wild;
Even he, of cattle the most mild, 240
The Pony had his share.
But now she's fairly in the town, [22]
And to the Doctor's door she hies;
'Tis silence all on every side;
The town so long, the town so wide, 245
Is silent as the skies.
And now she's at the Doctor's door,
She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap;
The Doctor at the casement shows
His glimmering eyes that peep and doze! 250
And one hand rubs his old night-cap.
"Oh Doctor! Doctor! where's my Johnny?"
"I'm here, what is't you want with me?"
"Oh Sir! you know I'm Betty Foy,
And I have lost my poor dear Boy, 255
You know him--him you often see;
"He's not so wise as some folks be":
"The devil take his wisdom!" said
The Doctor, looking somewhat grim,
"What, Woman! should I know of him?" 260
And, grumbling, he went back to bed!
"O woe is me! O woe is me!
Here will I die; here will I die;
I thought to find my lost one here, [23]
But he is neither far nor near, 265
Oh! what a wretched Mother I!"
She stops, she stands, she looks about;
Which way to turn she cannot tell.
Poor Betty! it would ease her pain
If she had heart to knock again; 270
--The clock strikes three--a dismal knell!
Then up along the town she hies,
No wonder if her senses fail;
This piteous news so much it shocked her,
She quite forgot to send the Doctor, 275
To comfort poor old Susan Gale.
And now she's high upon the down,
And she can see a mile of road:
"O cruel! I'm almost threescore;
Such night as this was ne'er before, 280
There's not a single soul abroad."
She listens, but she cannot hear
The foot of horse, the voice of man;
The streams with softest sound are flowing,
The grass you almost hear it growing, 285
You hear it now, if e'er you can.
The owlets through the long blue night
Are shouting to each other still:
Fond lovers! yet not quite hob nob,
They lengthen out the tremulous sob, 290
That echoes far from hill to hill.
Poor Betty now has lost all hope,
Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin,
A green-grown pond she just has past,
And from the brink she hurries fast, 295
Lest she should drown herself therein.
And now she sits her down and weeps;
Such tears she never shed before;
"Oh dear, dear Pony! my sweet joy!
Oh carry back my Idiot Boy! 300
And we will ne'er o'erload thee more."
A thought is come into her head:
The Pony he is mild and good,
And we have always used him well;
Perhaps he's gone along the dell, 305
And carried Johnny to the wood.
Then up she springs as if on wings;
She thinks no more of deadly sin;
If Betty fifty ponds should see,
The last of all her thoughts would be 310
To drown herself therein.
O Reader! now that I might tell
What Johnny and his Horse are doing!
What they've been doing all this time,
Oh could I put it into rhyme, 315
A most delightful tale pursuing!
Perhaps, and no unlikely thought!
He with his Pony now doth roam
The cliffs and peaks so high that are,
To lay his hands upon a star, 320
And in his pocket bring it home.
Perhaps he's turned himself about,
His face unto his horse's tail,
And, still and mute, in wonder lost,
All silent as a horseman-ghost, 325
He travels slowly down the vale. [24]
And now, perhaps, is hunting [25] sheep,
A fierce and dreadful hunter he;
Yon valley, now so trim [26] and green,
In five months' time, should he be seen, 330
A desert wilderness will be!
Perhaps, with head and heels on fire,
And like the very soul of evil,
He's galloping away, away,
And so will gallop [27] on for aye, 335
The bane of all that dread the devil!
I to the Muses have been bound
These fourteen years, by strong indentures: [A]
O gentle Muses! let me tell
But half of what to him befel; 340
He surely met [28] with strange adventures.
O gentle Muses! is this kind?
Why will ye thus my suit repel?
Why of your further aid bereave me?
And can ye thus unfriended [29] leave me; 345
Ye Muses! whom I love so well?
Who's yon, that, near the waterfall,
Which thunders down with headlong force
Beneath the moon, yet shining fair,
As careless as if nothing were, 350
Sits upright on a feeding horse?
Unto his horse--there feeding [30] free,
He seems, I think, the rein to give;
Of moon or stars he takes no heed;
Of such we in romances read: 355
--'Tis Johnny! Johnny! as I live.
And that's the very Pony, too!
Where is she, where is Betty Foy?
She hardly can sustain her fears;
The roaring waterfall she hears, 360
And cannot find her Idiot Boy.
Your Pony's worth his weight in gold:
Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy!
She's coming from among the trees,
And now all full in view she sees 365
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy.
And Betty sees the Pony too:
Why stand you thus, good Betty Foy?
It is no goblin, 'tis no ghost,
'Tis he whom you so long have lost, 370
He whom you love, your Idiot Boy.
She looks again--her arms are up--
She screams--she cannot move for joy;
She darts, as with a torrent's force,
She almost has o'erturned the Horse, 375
And fast she holds her Idiot Boy.
And Johnny burrs, and laughs aloud;
Whether in cunning or in joy
I cannot tell; but while he laughs,
Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs 380
To hear again her Idiot Boy.
And now she's at the Pony's tail,
And now is [31] at the Pony's head,--
On that side now, and now on this;
And, almost stifled with her bliss, 385
A few sad tears does Betty shed.
She kisses o'er and o'er again
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy;
She's happy here, is happy there, [32]
She is uneasy every where; 390
Her limbs are all alive with joy.
She pats the Pony, where or when
She knows not, happy Betty Foy!
The little Pony glad may be,
But he is milder far than she, 395
You hardly can perceive his joy.
"Oh! Johnny, never mind the Doctor;
You've done your best, and that is all:"
She took the reins, when this was said,
And gently turned the Pony's head 400
From the loud waterfall.
By this the stars were almost gone,
The moon was setting on the hill,
So pale you scarcely looked at her:
The little birds began to stir, 405
Though yet their tongues were still.
The Pony, Betty, and her Boy,
Wind slowly through the woody dale;
And who is she, betimes abroad,
That hobbles up the steep rough road? 410
Who is it, but old Susan Gale?
Long time lay Susan lost in thought; [33]
And many dreadful fears beset her,
Both for her Messenger and Nurse;
And, as her mind grew worse and worse, 415
Her body--it grew better.
She turned, she tossed herself in bed,
On all sides doubts and terrors met her;
Point after point did she discuss;
And, while her mind was fighting thus, 420
Her body still grew better.
"Alas! what is become of them?
These fears can never be endured;
I'll to the wood."--The word scarce said,
Did Susan rise up from her bed, 425
As if by magic cured.
Away she goes [34] up hill and down,
And to the wood at length is come;
She spies her Friends, she shouts a greeting;
Oh me! it is a merry meeting 430
As ever was in Christendom.
The owls have hardly sung their last,
While our four travellers homeward wend;
The owls have hooted all night long,
And with the owls began my song, 435
And with the owls must end.
For while they all were travelling home,
Cried Betty, "Tell us, Johnny, do,
Where all this long night you have been,
What you have heard, what you have seen: 440
And, Johnny, mind you tell us true."
Now Johnny all night long had heard
The owls in tuneful concert strive;
No doubt too he the moon had seen;
For in the moonlight he had been 445
From eight o'clock till five.
And thus, to Betty's question, he
Made answer, like a traveller bold,
(His very words I give to you,)
"The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, 450
And the sun did shine so cold!"
--Thus answered Johnny in his glory,
And that was all his travel's story.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1827.
He shouts from ... 1798.]
[Variant 2: Inserted in the editions 1798 to 1820.
Beneath the moon that shines so bright,
Till she is tired, let Betty Foy
With girt and stirrup fiddle-faddle;
But wherefore set upon a saddle
Him whom she loves, her idiot boy?]
[Variant 3:
1836.
There's scarce a soul that's out of bed; 1798.]
[Variant 4: Inserted in the editions 1798 to 1820.
The world will say 'tis very idle,
Bethink you of the time of night;
There's not a mother, no not one,
But when she hears what you have done,
Oh! Betty she'll be in a fright.]
[Variant 5:
1836.
Has up upon the saddle set, 1798.]
[Variant 6:
1820.
... that's in the dale, 1798.]
[Variant 7:
1827.
... bough's ... 1798.]
[Variant 8:
1827.
And Betty's standing at the door,
And Betty's face with joy o'erflows, 1798.]
[Variant 9:
1820.
And Johnny's in a merry tune, 1798.]
[Variant 10:
1827.
And ... 1798.]
[Variant 11:
1836.
What comfort Johnny soon will bring, 1798.
What comfort soon her Boy will bring, 1827.]
[Variant 12:
1827.
And Betty's still at Susan's side:
By this time she's not quite so flurried; 1798.]
[Variant 13:
1827.
They'll both be ... 1798.]
[Variant 14:
1827.
'Tis on the stroke--"If Johnny's near,"
Quoth Betty, "he will soon be here," 1798.]
[Variant 15:
1836.
Appear ... 1798.]
[Variant 16:
1827.
... she begins to fear 1798.]
[Variant 17:
1800.
Good Betty [i] ... 1798.]
[Variant 18:
1836.
She's past the bridge that's in the dale,
And now the thought torments her sore, 1798.
She's past the bridge far in the dale; 1820.
The bridge is past--far in the dale; 1827.]
[Variant 19:
1827.
... that's in the brook, 1798.]
[Variant 20:
1827.
And now she's high ... 1798.]
[Variant 21.
1827.
...would ... 1798.]
[Variant 22.
1836.
And now she's got into the town, 1798.]
[Variant 23:
1827.
... my Johnny here, 1798.]
[Variant 24.
1836.
All like a silent horseman-ghost,
He travels on along the vale. 1798.]
[Variant 25.
1820.
... he's hunting . . 1798.]
[Variant 26.
1820.
...that's so trim .... 1798.]
[Variant 27.
1827.
...he'll gallop .... 1798.]
[Variant 28.
1802.
For sure he met ..... 1798.]
[Variant 29.
1798.
...unfriendly....
Only in MS. and in the edition of 1805.]
[Variant 30:
1827.
...that's feeding ... 1798.]
[Variant 31:
1827.
And now she's ... 1798.]
[Variant 32:
1827.
... she's happy there, 1798.]
[Variant 33:
1827
Long Susan lay deep lost in thought, 1798.]
[Variant 34: 1836.
... she posts ... 1798.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: As Wordsworth gives the date of this poem as 1798, the
above line implies that his poetical work began at least in 1784, when
he was fourteen years of age. The note to 'An Evening Walk' dictated to
Miss Fenwick (see p. 5) implies the same.--Ed.]
* * * * *
SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE VARIANT
[Sub-Footnote i: This change was made by S. T. C.--Ed.]
* * * * *
THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR [A]
Composed 1798.--Published 1800.
The class of Beggars to which the old man here described
belongs, will probably soon be extinct. It consisted of poor,
and, mostly, old and infirm persons, who confined themselves to
a stated round in their neighbourhood, and had certain fixed
days, on which, at different houses, they regularly received
charity; sometimes in money, but mostly in provisions.-W. W.
1800.
[Observed, and with great benefit to my own heart, when I was a child.
Written at Racedown and Alfoxden in my twenty-third year. [B] The
Political Economists were about that time beginning their war upon
mendicity in all its forms, and by implication, if not directly, on
alms-giving also. This heartless process has been carried as far as it
can go by the AMENDED Poor Law Bill, tho' the inhumanity that prevails
in this measure is somewhat disguised by the profession that one of
its objects is to throw the poor upon the voluntary donations of their
neighbours; that is, if rightly interpreted, to force them into a
condition between relief in the Union Poor House and alms robbed of
their Christian grace and spirit, as being _forced_ rather from the
benevolent than given by them; while the avaricious and selfish, and
all, in fact, but the humane and charitable, are at liberty to keep
all they possess from their distressed brethren.--I. F.]
Included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Old Age."--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
I saw an aged Beggar in my walk;
And he was seated, by the highway side,
On a low structure of rude masonry
Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they
Who lead their horses down the steep rough road 5
May thence remount at ease. The aged Man
Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone
That overlays the pile; and, from a bag
All white with flour, the dole of village dames,
He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one; 10
And scanned them with a fixed and serious look
Of idle computation. In the sun,
Upon the second step of that small pile,
Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills,
He sat, and ate [1] his food in solitude: 15
And ever, scattered from his palsied hand,
That, still attempting to prevent the waste,
Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers
Fell on the ground; and the small mountain birds,
Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal, 20
Approached within the length of half his staff.
Him from my childhood have I known; and then
He was so old, he seems not older now;
He travels on, a solitary Man,
So helpless in appearance, that for him 25
The sauntering Horseman throws not with a slack
And careless hand [2] his alms upon the ground,
But stops,--that he may safely lodge the coin
Within the old Man's hat; nor quits him so,
But still, when he has given his horse the rein, 30
Watches the aged Beggar with a look [3]
Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends
The toll-gate, when in summer at her door
She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees
The aged beggar coming, quits her work, 35
And lifts the latch for him that he may pass.
The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake
The aged Beggar in the woody lane,
Shouts to him from behind; and, if thus warned [4]
The old man does not change his course, the boy 40
Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside,
And passes gently by, without a curse
Upon his lips, or anger at his heart.
He travels on, a solitary Man;
His age has no companion. On the ground 45
His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along,
_They_ move along the ground; and, evermore,
Instead of common and habitual sight
Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale,
And the blue sky, one little span of earth 50
Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day,
Bow-bent, his eyes for ever on the ground, [5]
He plies his weary journey; seeing still,
And seldom [6] knowing that he sees, some straw,
Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track, 55
The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left
Impressed on the white road,--in the same line,
At distance still the same. Poor Traveller!
His staff trails with him; scarcely do his feet [7]
Disturb the summer dust; he is so still 60
In look and motion, that the cottage curs, [8]
Ere he has [9] passed the door, will turn away,
Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls,
The vacant and the busy, maids and youths,
And urchins newly breeched--all pass him by: 65
Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind.
But deem not this Man useless.--Statesmen! ye
Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye
Who have a broom still ready in your hands
To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud, 70
Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate
Your talents, power, or [10] wisdom, deem him not
A burthen of the earth! 'Tis nature's law
That none, the meanest of created things,
Of forms created the most vile and brute, 75
The dullest or most noxious, should exist
Divorced from good--a spirit and pulse of good,
A life and soul, to every mode of being
Inseparably linked. Then be assured
That least of all can aught--that ever owned 80
The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime [C]
Which man is born to--sink, howe'er depressed,
So low as to be scorned without a sin;
Without offence to God cast out of view;
Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower 85
Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement
Worn out and worthless. [11] While from door to door
This old Man creeps, [12] the villagers in him
Behold a record which together binds
Past deeds and offices of charity, 90
Else unremembered, and so keeps alive
The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years,
And that half-wisdom half-experience gives,
Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign
To selfishness and cold oblivious cares. 95
Among the farms and solitary huts,
Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages,
Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds,
The mild necessity of use compels
To acts of love; and habit does the work 100
Of reason; yet prepares that after-joy
Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul,
By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued
Doth find herself [13] insensibly disposed
To virtue and true goodness. 105
Some there are,
By their good works exalted, lofty minds
And meditative, authors of delight
And happiness, which to the end of time
Will live, and spread, and kindle: even such minds [14] 110
In childhood, from this solitary Being,
Or from like wanderer, haply have received [15]
(A thing more precious far than all that books
Or the solicitudes of love can do!)
That first mild touch of sympathy and thought, 115
In which they found their kindred with a world
Where want and sorrow were. The easy man
Who sits at his own door,--and, like the pear
That [16] overhangs his head from the green wall,
Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young, 120
The prosperous and unthinking, they who live
Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove
Of their own kindred;--all behold in him
A silent monitor, which on their minds
Must needs impress a transitory thought 125
Of self-congratulation, to the heart
Of each recalling his peculiar boons,
His charters and exemptions; and, perchance,
Though he to no one give the fortitude
And circumspection needful to preserve 130
His present blessings, and to husband up
The respite of the season, he, at least,
And 'tis no vulgar service, makes them felt.
Yet further.--Many, I believe, there are
Who live a life of virtuous decency, 135
Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel
No self-reproach; who of the moral law
Established in the land where they abide
Are strict observers; and not negligent
In acts of love to those with whom they dwell, [17] 140
Their kindred, and the children of their blood.
Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace!
--But of the poor man ask, the abject poor;
Go, and demand of him, if there be here
In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, 145
And these inevitable charities,
Wherewith to satisfy the human soul?
No--man is dear to man; the poorest poor
Long for some moments in a weary life
When they can know and feel that they have been, 150
Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out
Of some small blessings; have been kind to such
As needed kindness, for this single cause,
That we have all of us one human heart.
--Such pleasure is to one kind Being known, 155
My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week
Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself
By her own wants, she from her store [18] of meal
Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip
Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door 160
Returning with exhilarated heart,
Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven.
Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!
And while in that vast solitude to which
The tide of things has borne [19] him, he appears 165
To breathe and live but for himself alone,
Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about
The good which the benignant law of Heaven
Has hung around him: and, while life is his,
Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers 170
To tender offices and pensive thoughts. [D]
--Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!
And, long as he can wander, let him breathe
The freshness of the valleys; let his blood
Struggle with frosty air and winter snows; 175
And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath
Beat his grey locks against his withered face.
Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness
Gives the last human interest to his heart.
May never HOUSE, misnamed of INDUSTRY, 180
Make him a captive!--for that pent-up din,
Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air,
Be his the natural silence of old age!
Let him be free of mountain solitudes;
And have around him, whether heard or not, 185
The pleasant melody of woodland birds.
Few are his pleasures: if his eyes have now
Been doomed so long to settle upon earth
That not without some effort they behold
The countenance of the horizontal sun, [20] 190
Rising or setting, let the light at least
Find a free entrance to their languid orbs.
And let him, _where_ and _when_ he will, sit down
Beneath the trees, or on a [21] grassy bank
Of highway side, and with the little birds 195
Share his chance-gathered meal; and, finally,
As in the eye of Nature he has lived,
So in the eye of Nature let him die! [E]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1805.
... eat ... 1800.]
[Variant 2:
1837.
The sauntering horseman-traveller does not throw
With careless hand ... 1800.]
[Variant 3:
1827.
Towards the aged Beggar turns a look, 1800.]
[Variant 4:
1827.
... and, if perchance 1800.]
[Variant 5:
1800.
... and, evermore,
Instead of Nature's fair variety,]
Her ample scope of hill and dale, of clouds
And the blue sky, the same short span of earth
Is all his prospect. When the little birds
Flit over him, if their quick shadows strike
Across his path, he does not lift his head
Like one whose thoughts have been unsettled. So
Brow-bent, his eyes for ever ... MS.]
[Variant 6:
1827.
And never ... 1800.]
[Variant 7:
1800.
... his slow footsteps scarce MS.]
[Variant 8:
1800.
... that the miller's dog
Is tired of barking at him. MS.]
[Variant 9:
1837.
... have ... 1800.]
[Variant 10:
1837.
... and ... 1800.]
[Variant 11: The lines from "Then be assured" to "worthless" were added
in the edition of 1837.]
[Variant 12:
1837.
... While thus he creeps
From door to door, ... 1800.]
[Variant 13:
1832.
... itself ... 1800.]
[Variant 14:
1827.
... ; minds like these, 1800.]
[Variant 15:
1827.
This helpless wanderer, have perchance receiv'd, 1800.]
[Variant 16:
1827.
Which ... 1800.]
[Variant 17:
1827.
... and not negligent,
Meanwhile, in any tenderness of heart
Or act of love ... 1800.]
[Variant 18:
1827.
... chest ... 1800.]
[Variant 19:
1827.
... led ... 1800.]
[Variant 20:
1837.
... if his eyes, which now
Have been so long familiar with the earth,
No more behold the horizontal sun 1800.
... if his eyes have now
Been doomed so long to settle on the earth
That not without some effort they behold
The countenance of the horizontal sun, 1815.]
[Variant 21:
1837.
... or by the ... 1800.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: In an early MS. the title of this poem is 'Description of a
Beggar', and in the editions 1800 to 1820 the title was 'The Old
Cumberland Beggar, a Description'.--Ed.]
[Footnote B: Wordsworth went to Racedown in 1795, when he was
twenty-five years of age; and was at Alfoxden in his twenty-eighth
year.--Ed.]
[Footnote C: Compare Ovid's 'Metamorphoses' I. 84:
Os homini sublime dedit, coelumque videre
Jussit et erectos ad sidera tollere vultus.
Ed.]
[Footnote D: With this poem compare Frederick William Faber's "Hymn,"
which he called 'The Old Labourer', beginning:
What end doth he fulfil!
He seems without a will.
Ed.]
[Footnote E: In January 1801 Charles Lamb thus wrote to Wordsworth of
his 'Old Cumberland Beggar':
"It appears to me a fault that the instructions conveyed in it are too
direct, and like a lecture: they don't slide into the mind of the
reader while he is imagining no such matter,"
At the same time he refers to
"the delicate and curious feeling in the wish of the Beggar that he
may have about him the melody of birds, although he hears them not."
('The Letters of Charles Lamb', edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i. p.
163.)--Ed.]
* * * * *
ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY
Composed 1798.--Published 1798.
[If I recollect right, these verses were an overflowing from 'The Old
Cumberland Beggar'.--I. F.]
They were published in the first edition of "Lyrical Ballads" (1798),
but 'The Old Cumberland Beggar' was not published till 1800. In an early
MS., however, the two are incorporated.
In the edition of 1798, the poem was called, 'Old Man Travelling; Animal
Tranquillity and Decay, a Sketch'. In 1800, the title was 'Animal
Tranquillity and Decay. A Sketch'. In 1845, it was 'Animal Tranquillity
and Decay'.
It was included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Old
Age."--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
The little hedgerow birds,
That peck along the road, regard him not.
He travels on, and in his face, his step,
His gait, is one expression: every limb,
His look and bending figure, all bespeak 5
A man who does not move with pain, but moves
With thought.--He is insensibly subdued
To settled quiet: he is one by whom
All effort seems forgotten; one to whom
Long patience hath [1] such mild composure given, 10
That patience now doth seem a thing of which
He hath no need. He is by nature led
To peace so perfect that the young behold
With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels. [2]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1805.
...has... 1798.]
[Variant 2:
1815.
--I asked him whither he was bound, and what
The object of his journey; he replied
"Sir! I am going many miles to take
A last leave of my son, a mariner,
Who from a sea-fight has been brought to Falmouth,
And there is dying in an hospital." 1798.
... he replied
That he was going many miles to take
A last leave of his son, a mariner,
Who from a sea-fight had been brought to Falmouth,
And there was dying [i] in an hospital. 1800 to 1805.]
* * * * *
SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE VARIANT
[Sub-Footnote i: The edition of 1800 has "lying," evidently a
misprint.--Ed.]
* * * * *
APPENDIX
I
The following is the full text of the original edition of 'Descriptive
Sketches', first published in 1793:
DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES
IN VERSE.
TAKEN DURING A
PEDESTRIAN TOUR
IN THE
ITALIAN, GRISON, SWISS, AND SAVOYARD
ALPS. BY
W. WORDSWORTH, B.A.
OF ST. JOHN'S, CAMBRIDGE.
"LOCA PASTORUM DESERTA ATQUE OTIA DIA."
'Lucret'.
"CASTELLA IN TUMULIS--
ET LONGE SALTUS LATEQUE VACANTES."
'Virgil'.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, ST. PAUL'S CHURCH-YARD.
1793.
TO THE REV. ROBERT JONES, FELLOW OF ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.
Dear sir, However desirous I might have been of giving you proofs of the
high place you hold in my esteem, I should have been cautious of
wounding your delicacy by thus publicly addressing you, had not the
circumstance of my having accompanied you amongst the Alps, seemed to
give this dedication a propriety sufficient to do away any scruples
which your modesty might otherwise have suggested.
In inscribing this little work to you I consult my heart. You know well
how great is the difference between two companions lolling in a post
chaise, and two travellers plodding slowly along the road, side by side,
each with his little knap-sack of necessaries upon his shoulders. How
much more of heart between the two latter!
I am happy in being conscious I shall have one reader who will approach
the conclusion of these few pages with regret. You they must certainly
interest, in reminding you of moments to which you can hardly look back
without a pleasure not the less dear from a shade of melancholy. You
will meet with few images without recollecting the spot where we
observed them together, consequently, whatever is feeble in my design,
or spiritless in my colouring, will be amply supplied by your own
memory.
With still greater propriety I might have inscribed to you a description
of some of the features of your native mountains, through which we have
wandered together, in the same manner, with so much pleasure. But the
sea-sunsets which give such splendour to the vale of Clwyd, Snowdon, the
chair of Idris, the quiet village of Bethkelert, Menai and her druids,
the Alpine steeps of the Conway, and the still more interesting windings
of the wizard stream of the Dee remain yet untouched. Apprehensive that
my pencil may never be exercised on these subjects, I cannot let slip
this opportunity of thus publicly assuring you with how much affection
and esteem,
I am Dear Sir,
Your most obedient very humble Servant
W. WORDSWORTH.
ARGUMENT
'Happiness (if she had been to be found on Earth) amongst the Charms of
Nature--Pleasures of the pedestrian Traveller--Author crosses France to
the Alps--Present state of the Grande Chartreuse--Lake of Como--Time,
Sunset--Same Scene, Twilight--Same Scene, Morning, it's Voluptuous
Character; Old Man and Forest Cottage Music--River Tusa--Via Mala and
Grison Gypsey. Valley of Sckellenen-thal--Lake of Uri, Stormy
Sunset--Chapel of William Tell--force of Local Emotion--Chamois
Chaser--View of the higher Alps--Manner of Life of a Swiss Mountaineer
interspersed with views of the higher Alps--Golden Age of the Alps--Life
and Views continued--Ranz des Vaches famous Swiss Air--Abbey of
Einsiedlen and it's Pilgrims--Valley of Chamouny--Mont Blanc--Slavery of
Savoy--Influence of Liberty on Cottage Happiness--France--Wish for the
extirpation of Slavery--Conclusion.'
DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES [A]
Were there, below, a spot of holy ground,
By Pain and her sad family unfound,
Sure, Nature's GOD that spot to man had giv'n,
Where murmuring rivers join the song of ev'n;
Where falls the purple morning far and wide 5
In flakes of light upon the mountain-side;
Where summer Suns in ocean sink to rest,
Or moonlight Upland lifts her hoary breast;
Where Silence, on her night of wing, o'er-broods
Unfathom'd dells and undiscover'd woods; 10
Where rocks and groves the power of waters shakes
In cataracts, or sleeps in quiet lakes.
But doubly pitying Nature loves to show'r
Soft on his wounded heart her healing pow'r,
Who plods o'er hills and vales his road forlorn, 15
Wooing her varying charms from eve to morn.
No sad vacuities his heart annoy,
Blows not a Zephyr but it whispers joy;
For him lost flowers their idle sweets exhale;
He tastes the meanest note that swells the gale; 20
For him sod-seats the cottage-door adorn,
And peeps the far-off spire, his evening bourn!
Dear is the forest frowning o'er his head,
And dear the green-sward to his velvet tread;
Moves there a cloud o'er mid-day's flaming eye? 25
Upward he looks--and calls it luxury;
Kind Nature's charities his steps attend,
In every babbling brook he finds a friend,
While chast'ning thoughts of sweetest use, bestow'd
By Wisdom, moralize his pensive road. 30
Host of his welcome inn, the noon-tide bow'r,
To his spare meal he calls the passing poor;
He views the Sun uprear his golden fire,
Or sink, with heart alive like [B] Memnon's lyre;
Blesses the Moon that comes with kindest ray 35
To light him shaken by his viewless way.
With bashful fear no cottage children steal
From him, a brother at the cottage meal,
His humble looks no shy restraint impart,
Around him plays at will the virgin heart. 40
While unsuspended wheels the village dance,
The maidens eye him with inquiring glance,
Much wondering what sad stroke of crazing Care
Or desperate Love could lead a wanderer there.
Me, lur'd by hope her sorrows to remove, 45
A heart, that could not much itself approve,
O'er Gallia's wastes of corn dejected led,
[C] Her road elms rustling thin above my head,
Or through her truant pathway's native charms,
By secret villages and lonely farms, 50
To where the Alps, ascending white in air,
Toy with the Sun, and glitter from afar.
Ev'n now I sigh at hoary Chartreuse' doom
Weeping beneath his chill of mountain gloom.
Where now is fled that Power whose frown severe 55
Tam'd "sober Reason" till she crouch'd in fear?
That breath'd a death-like peace these woods around
Broke only by th' unvaried torrent's sound,
Or prayer-bell by the dull cicada drown'd.
The cloister startles at the gleam of arms, 60
And Blasphemy the shuddering fane alarms;
Nod the cloud-piercing pines their troubl'd heads,
Spires, rocks, and lawns, a browner night o'erspreads.
Strong terror checks the female peasant's sighs,
And start th' astonish'd shades at female eyes. 65
The thundering tube the aged angler hears,
And swells the groaning torrent with his tears.
From Bruno's forest screams the frighted jay,
And slow th' insulted eagle wheels away.
The cross with hideous laughter Demons mock, 70
By [D] angels planted on the aëreal rock.
The "parting Genius" sighs with hollow breath
Along the mystic streams of [E] Life and Death.
Swelling the outcry dull, that long resounds
Portentous, thro' her old woods' trackless bounds, 75
Deepening her echoing torrents' awful peal
And bidding paler shades her form conceal,
[F] Vallombre, mid her falling fanes, deplores,
For ever broke, the sabbath of her bow'rs.
More pleas'd, my foot the hidden margin roves 80
Of Como bosom'd deep in chesnut groves.
No meadows thrown between, the giddy steeps
Tower, bare or sylvan, from the narrow deeps.
To towns, whose shades of no rude sound complain,
To ringing team unknown and grating wain, 85
To flat-roof'd towns, that touch the water's bound,
Or lurk in woody sunless glens profound,
Or from the bending rocks obtrusive cling,
And o'er the whiten'd wave their shadows fling;
Wild round the steeps the little [G] pathway twines, 90
And Silence loves it's purple roof of vines.
The viewless lingerer hence, at evening, sees
From rock-hewn steps the sail between the trees;
Or marks, mid opening cliffs, fair dark-ey'd maids
Tend the small harvest of their garden glades, 95
Or, led by distant warbling notes, surveys,
With hollow ringing ears and darkening gaze,
Binding the charmed soul in powerless trance,
Lip-dewing Song and ringlet-tossing Dance,
Where sparkling eyes and breaking smiles illume 100
The bosom'd cabin's lyre-enliven'd gloom;
Or stops the solemn mountain-shades to view
Stretch, o'er their pictur'd mirror, broad and blue,
Tracking the yellow sun from steep to steep,
As up th' opposing hills, with tortoise foot, they creep. 105
Here half a village shines, in gold array'd,
Bright as the moon, half hides itself in shade.
From the dark sylvan roofs the restless spire
Inconstant glancing, mounts like springing fire.
There, all unshaded, blazing forests throw no 110
Rich golden verdure on the waves below.
Slow glides the sail along th' illumin'd shore,
And steals into the shade the lazy oar.
Soft bosoms breathe around contagious sighs,
And amourous music on the water dies. 115
Heedless how Pliny, musing here, survey'd
Old Roman boats and figures thro' the shade,
Pale Passion, overpower'd, retires and woos
The thicket, where th' unlisten'd stock-dove coos.
How bless'd, delicious Scene! the eye that greets 120
Thy open beauties, or thy lone retreats;
Th' unwearied sweep of wood thy cliffs that scales,
The never-ending waters of thy vales;
The cots, those dim religious groves enbow'r,
Or, under rocks that from the water tow'r 125
Insinuated, sprinkling all the shore,
Each with his household boat beside the door,
Whose flaccid sails in forms fantastic droop,
Bright'ning the gloom where thick the forests stoop;
--Thy torrents shooting from the clear-blue sky, 130
Thy towns, like swallows' nests that cleave on high;
That glimmer hoar in eve's last light, descry'd
Dim from the twilight water's shaggy side,
Whence lutes and voices down th' enchanted woods
Steal, and compose the oar-forgotten floods, 135
While Evening's solemn bird melodious weeps,
Heard, by star-spotted bays, beneath the steeps;
--Thy lake, mid smoking woods, that blue and grey
Gleams, streak'd or dappled, hid from morning's ray
Slow-travelling down the western hills, to fold 140
It's green-ting'd margin in a blaze of gold;
From thickly-glittering spires the matin-bell
Calling the woodman from his desert cell,
A summons to the sound of oars, that pass,
Spotting the steaming deeps, to early mass; 145
Slow swells the service o'er the water born,
While fill each pause the ringing woods of morn.
Farewel! those forms that, in thy noon-tide shade,
Rest, near their little plots of wheaten glade;
Those stedfast eyes, that beating breasts inspire 150
To throw the "sultry ray" of young Desire;
Those lips, whose tides of fragrance come, and go,
Accordant to the cheek's unquiet glow;
Those shadowy breasts in love's soft light array'd,
And rising, by the moon of passion sway'd. 155
--Thy fragrant gales and lute-resounding streams,
Breathe o'er the failing soul voluptuous dreams;
While Slavery, forcing the sunk mind to dwell
On joys that might disgrace the captive's cell,
Her shameless timbrel shakes along thy marge, 160
And winds between thine isles the vocal barge.
Yet, arts are thine that rock th' unsleeping heart,
And smiles to Solitude and Want impart.
I lov'd, mid thy most desert woods astray,
With pensive step to measure my slow way, [H] 165
By lonely, silent cottage-doors to roam,
The far-off peasant's day-deserted home;
Once did I pierce to where a cabin stood,
The red-breast peace had bury'd it in wood,
There, by the door a hoary-headed sire 170
Touch'd with his wither'd hand an aged lyre;
Beneath an old-grey oak as violets lie,
Stretch'd at his feet with stedfast, upward eye,
His children's children join'd the holy sound,
A hermit--with his family around. 175
Hence shall we seek where fair Locarno smiles
Embower'd in walnut slopes and citron isles,
Or charms that smile on Tusa's evening stream,
While mid dim towers and woods her [I] waters gleam;
From the bright wave, in solemn gloom, retire 180
The dull-red steeps, and darkening still, aspire,
To where afar rich orange lustres glow
Round undistinguish'd clouds, and rocks, and snow;
Or, led where Viamala's chasms confine
Th' indignant waters of the infant Rhine, 185
Bend o'er th' abyss?--the else impervious gloom
His burning eyes with fearful light illume.
The Grison gypsey here her tent has plac'd,
Sole human tenant of the piny waste;
Her tawny skin, dark eyes, and glossy locks, 190
Bend o'er the smoke that curls beneath the rocks.
--The mind condemn'd, without reprieve, to go
O'er life's long deserts with it's charge of woe,
With sad congratulation joins the train,
Where beasts and men together o'er the plain 195
Move on,--a mighty caravan of pain;
Hope, strength, and courage, social suffering brings,
Freshening the waste of sand with shades and springs.
--She solitary through the desert drear
Spontaneous wanders, hand in hand with Fear. 200
A giant moan along the forest swells
Protracted, and the twilight storm foretells,
And, ruining from the cliffs their deafening load
Tumbles, the wildering Thunder slips abroad;
On the high summits Darkness comes and goes, 205
Hiding their fiery clouds, their rocks, and snows;
The torrent, travers'd by the lustre broad,
Starts like a horse beside the flashing road;
In the roof'd [J] bridge, at that despairing hour,
She seeks a shelter from the battering show'r. 210
--Fierce comes the river down; the crashing wood
Gives way, and half it's pines torment the flood;
[K] Fearful, beneath, the Water-spirits call,
And the bridge vibrates, tottering to its fall.
--Heavy, and dull, and cloudy is the night, 215
No star supplies the comfort of it's light,
Glimmer the dim-lit Alps, dilated, round,
And one sole light shifts in the vale profound;
While, opposite, the waning moon hangs still,
And red, above her melancholy hill. 220
By the deep quiet gloom appall'd, she sighs,
Stoops her sick head, and shuts her weary eyes.
--Breaking th' ascending roar of desert floods,
And insect buzz, that stuns the sultry woods,
She hears, upon the mountain forest's brow, 225
The death-dog, howling loud and long, below;
On viewless fingers counts the valley-clock,
Followed by drowsy crow of midnight cock.
--Bursts from the troubl'd Larch's giant boughs
The pie, and chattering breaks the night's repose. 230
Low barks the fox; by Havoc rouz'd the bear,
Quits, growling, the white bones that strew his lair;
The dry leaves stir as with the serpent's walk,
And, far beneath, Banditti voices talk;
Behind her hill the Moon, all crimson, rides, 235
And his red eyes the slinking Water hides;
Then all is hush'd; the bushes rustle near,
And with strange tinglings sings her fainting ear.
--Vex'd by the darkness, from the piny gulf
Ascending, nearer howls the famish'd wolf, 240
While thro' the stillness scatters wild dismay,
Her babe's small cry, that leads him to his prey.
Now, passing Urseren's open vale serene,
Her quiet streams, and hills of downy green,
Plunge with the Russ embrown'd by Terror's breath, 245
Where danger roofs the narrow walks of death;
By floods, that, thundering from their dizzy height,
Swell more gigantic on the stedfast sight;
Black drizzling craggs, that beaten by the din,
Vibrate, as if a voice complain'd within; 250
Bare steeps, where Desolation stalks, afraid,
Unstedfast, by a blasted yew upstay'd;
By [L] cells whose image, trembling as he prays,
Awe-struck, the kneeling peasant scarce surveys;
Loose-hanging rocks the Day's bless'd eye that hide, 255
And [M] crosses rear'd to Death on every side,
Which with cold kiss Devotion planted near,
And, bending, water'd with the human tear,
Soon fading "silent" from her upward eye,
Unmov'd with each rude form of Danger nigh, 260
Fix'd on the anchor left by him who saves
Alike in whelming snows and roaring waves.
On as we move, a softer prospect opes,
Calm huts, and lawns between, and sylvan slopes.
While mists, suspended on th' expiring gale, 265
Moveless o'er-hang the deep secluded vale,
The beams of evening, slipping soft between,
Light up of tranquil joy a sober scene;
Winding it's dark-green wood and emerald glade,
The still vale lengthens underneath the shade; 270
While in soft gloom the scattering bowers recede,
Green dewy lights adorn the freshen'd mead,
Where solitary forms illumin'd stray
Turning with quiet touch the valley's hay,
On the low [N] brown wood-huts delighted sleep 275
Along the brighten'd gloom reposing deep.
While pastoral pipes and streams the landscape lull,
And bells of passing mules that tinkle dull,
In solemn shapes before th' admiring eye
Dilated hang the misty pines on high, 280
Huge convent domes with pinnacles and tow'rs,
And antique castles seen tho' drizzling show'rs.
From such romantic dreams my sould awake,
Lo! Fear looks silent down on Uri's lake,
By whose unpathway'd margin still and dread 285
Was never heard the plodding peasant's tread.
Tower like a wall the naked rocks, or reach
Far o'er the secret water dark with beech,
More high, to where creation seems to end,
Shade above shade the desert pines ascend, 290
And still, below, where mid the savage scene
Peeps out a little speck of smilgin green,
There with his infants man undaunted creeps
And hangs his small wood-hut upon the steeps.
A garden-plot the desert air perfumes, 295
Mid the dark pines a little orchard blooms,
A zig-zag path from the domestic skiff
Threading the painful cragg surmounts the cliff.
--Before those hermit doors, that never know
The face of traveller passing to and fro, 300
No peasant leans upon his pole, to tell
For whom at morning toll'd the funeral bell,
Their watch-dog ne'er his angry bark forgoes,
Touch'd by the beggar's moan of human woes,
The grass seat beneath their casement shade 305
The pilgrim's wistful eye hath never stay'd.
--There, did the iron Genius not disdain
The gentle Power that haunts the myrtle plain,
There might the love-sick maiden sit, and chide
Th' insuperable rocks and severing tide, 310
There watch at eve her lover's sun-gilt sail
Approaching, and upbraid the tardy gale,
There list at midnight till is heard no more,
Below, the echo of his parting oar,
There hang in fear, when growls the frozen stream, 315
To guide his dangerous tread the taper's gleam.
Mid stormy vapours ever driving by,
Where ospreys, cormorants, and herons cry,
Where hardly giv'n the hopeless waste to chear,
Deny'd the bread of life the foodful ear, 320
Dwindles the pear on autumn's latest spray,
And apple sickens pale in summer's ray,
Ev'n here Content has fix'd her smiling reign
With Independance child of high Disdain.
Exulting mid the winter of the skies, 325
Shy as the jealous chamois, Freedom flies,
And often grasps her sword, and often eyes,
Her crest a bough of Winter's bleakest pine,
Strange "weeds" and alpine plants her helm entwine,
And wildly-pausing oft she hangs aghast, 330
While thrills the "Spartan fife" between the blast.
'Tis storm; and hid in mist from hour to hour
All day the floods a deeper murmur pour,
And mournful sounds, as of a Spirit lost,
Pipe wild along the hollow-blustering coast, 335
'Till the Sun walking on his western field
Shakes from behind the clouds his flashing shield.
Triumphant on the bosom of the storm,
Glances the fire-clad eagle's wheeling form;
Eastward, in long perspective glittering, shine 340
The wood-crown'd cliffs that o'er the lake recline;
Wide o'er the Alps a hundred streams unfold,
At once to pillars turn'd that flame with gold;
Behind his sail the peasant strives to shun
The west that burns like one dilated sun, 345
Where in a mighty crucible expire
The mountains, glowing hot, like coals of fire. [O]
But lo! the boatman, over-aw'd, before
The pictur'd fane of Tell suspends his oar;
Confused the Marathonian tale appears, 350
While burn in his full eyes the glorious tears.
And who but feels a power of strong controul,
Felt only there, oppress his labouring soul,
Who walks, where honour'd men of ancient days
Have wrought with god-like arm the deeds of praise? 355
Say, who, by thinking on Canadian hills,
Or wild Aosta lulled by Alpine rills,
On Zutphen's plain; or where with soften'd gaze
The old grey stones the plaided chief surveys,
Can guess the high resolve, the cherish'd pain 360
Of him whom passion rivets to the plain,
Where breath'd the gale that caught Wolfe's happiest sigh,
And the last sun-beam fell on Bayard's eye,
Where bleeding Sydney from the cup retir'd,
And glad Dundee in "faint huzzas" expir'd. 365
But now with other soul I stand alone
Sublime upon this far-surveying cone,
And watch from [P] pike to pike amid the sky
Small as a bird the chamois-chaser fly.
'Tis his with fearless step at large to roam 370
Thro' wastes, of Spirits wing'd the solemn home,
[Q] Thro' vacant worlds where Nature never gave
A brook to murmur or a bough to wave,
Which unsubstantial Phantoms sacred keep;
Thro' worlds where Life and Sound, and Motion sleep, 375
Where Silence still her death-like reign extends,
Save when the startling cliff unfrequent rends:
In the deep snow the mighty ruin drown'd,
Mocks the dull ear of Time with deaf abortive sound;
--To mark a planet's pomp and steady light 380
In the least star of scarce-appearing night,
And neighbouring moon, that coasts the vast profound,
Wheel pale and silent her diminish'd round,
While far and wide the icy summits blaze
Rejoicing in the glory of her rays; 385
The star of noon that glitters small and bright,
Shorn of his beams, insufferably white,
And flying fleet behind his orb to view
Th' interminable sea of sable blue.
--Of cloudless suns no more ye frost-built spires 390
Refract in rainbow hues the restless fires!
Ye dewy mists the arid rocks o'er-spread
Whose slippery face derides his deathful tread!
--To wet the peak's impracticable sides
He opens of his feet the sanguine tides, 395
Weak and more weak the issuing current eyes
Lapp'd by the panting tongue of thirsty skies. [R]
--At once bewildering mists around him close,
And cold and hunger are his least of woes;
The Demon of the snow with angry roar 400
Descending, shuts for aye his prison door.
Craz'd by the strength of hope at morn he eyes
As sent from heav'n the raven of the skies,
Then with despair's whole weight his spirits sink,
No bread to feed him, and the snow his drink, 405
While ere his eyes can close upon the day,
The eagle of the Alps o'ershades his prey.
--Meanwhile his wife and child with cruel hope
All night the door at every moment ope;
Haply that child in fearful doubt may gaze, 410
Passing his father's bones in future days,
Start at the reliques of that very thigh,
On which so oft he prattled when a boy.
Hence shall we turn where, heard with fear afar,
Thunders thro' echoing pines the headlong Aar? 415
Or rather stay to taste the mild delights
Of pensive [S] Underwalden's pastoral heights?
--Is there who mid these awful wilds has seen
The native Genii walk the mountain green?
Or heard, while other worlds their charms reveal, 420
Soft music from th' aëreal summit steal?
While o'er the desert, answering every close,
Rich steam of sweetest perfume comes and goes.
--And sure there is a secret Power that reigns
Here, where no trace of man the spot profanes, 425
Nought but the herds that pasturing upward creep,
Hung dim-discover'd from the dangerous steep,
[T] Or summer hamlet, flat and bare, on high
Suspended, mid the quiet of the sky.
How still! no irreligious sound or sight 430
Rouzes the soul from her severe delight.
An idle voice the sabbath region fills
Of Deep that calls to Deep across the hills,
Broke only by the melancholy sound
Of drowsy bells for ever tinkling round; 435
Faint wail of eagle melting into blue
Beneath the cliffs, and pine-woods steady sugh; [U]
The solitary heifer's deepen'd low;
Or rumbling heard remote of falling snow.
Save that, the stranger seen below, the boy 440
Shouts from the echoing hills with savage joy.
When warm from myrtle bays and tranquil seas,
Comes on, to whisper hope, the [V] vernal breeze,
When hums the mountain bee in May's glad ear,
And emerald isles to spot the heights appear, 445
When shouts and lowing herds the valley fill,
And louder torrents stun the noon-tide hill,
When fragrant scents beneath th' enchanted tread
Spring up, his little all around him spread,
The pastoral Swiss begins the cliffs to scale 450
To silence leaving the deserted vale,
Up the green mountain tracking Summer's feet,
Each twilight earlier call'd the Sun to meet,
With earlier smile the ray of morn to view
Fall on his shifting hut that gleams mid smoking dew; 455
Bless'd with his herds, as in the patriarch's age,
The summer long to feed from stage to stage;
O'er azure pikes serene and still, they go,
And hear the rattling thunder far below;
Or lost at eve in sudden mist the day 460
Attend, or dare with minute-steps their way;
Hang from the rocks that tremble o'er the steep,
And tempt the icy valley yawning deep,
O'er-walk the chasmy torrent's foam-lit bed,
Rock'd on the dizzy larch's narrow tread, 465
Whence Danger leans, and pointing ghastly, joys
To mock the mind with "desperation's toys";
Or steal beneath loose mountains, half deterr'd,
That sigh and shudder to the lowing herd.
--I see him, up the midway cliff he creeps 470
To where a scanty knot of verdure peeps,
Thence down the steep a pile of grass he throws
The fodder of his herds in winter snows.
Far different life to what tradition hoar
Transmits of days more bless'd in times of yore. [W] 475
Then Summer lengthen'd out his season bland,
And with rock-honey flow'd the happy land.
Continual fountains welling chear'd the waste,
And plants were wholesome, now of deadly taste.
Nor Winter yet his frozen stores had pil'd 480
Usurping where the fairest herbage smil'd;
Nor Hunger forc'd the herds from pastures bare
For scanty food the treacherous cliffs to dare.
Then the milk-thistle bad those herds demand
Three times a day the pail and welcome hand. 485
But human vices have provok'd the rod
Of angry Nature to avenge her God.
Thus does the father to his sons relate,
On the lone mountain top, their chang'd estate.
Still, Nature, ever just, to him imparts 490
Joys only given to uncorrupted hearts.
--'Tis morn: with gold the verdant mountain glows,
More high, the snowy peaks with hues of rose.
Far stretch'd beneath the many-tinted hills
A mighty waste of mist the valley fills, 495
A solemn sea! whose vales and mountains round
Stand motionless, to awful silence bound.
A gulf of gloomy blue, that opens wide
And bottomless, divides the midway tide.
Like leaning masts of stranded ships appear 500
The pines that near the coast their summits rear;
Of cabins, woods, and lawns a pleasant shore
Bounds calm and clear the chaos still and hoar;
Loud thro' that midway gulf ascending, sound
Unnumber'd streams with hollow roar profound. 505
Mounts thro' the nearer mist the chaunt of birds,
And talking voices, and the low of herds,
The bark of dogs, the drowsy tinkling bell,
And wild-wood mountain lutes of saddest swell.
Think not, suspended from the cliff on high 510
He looks below with undelighted eye.
--No vulgar joy is his, at even tide
Stretch'd on the scented mountain's purple side.
For as the pleasures of his simple day
Beyond his native valley hardly stray, 515
Nought round it's darling precincts can he find
But brings some past enjoyment to his mind,
While Hope that ceaseless leans on Pleasure's urn
Binds her wild wreathes, and whispers his return.
Once Man entirely free, alone and wild, 520
Was bless'd as free--for he was Nature's child.
He, all superior but his God disdain'd,
Walk'd none restraining, and by none restrain'd,
Confess'd no law but what his reason taught,
Did all he wish'd, and wish'd but what he ought. 525
As Man in his primaeval dower array'd
The image of his glorious sire display'd,
Ev'n so, by vestal Nature guarded, here
The traces of primaeval Man appear.
The native dignity no forms debase, 530
The eye sublime, and surly lion-grace.
The slave of none, of beasts alone the lord,
He marches with his flute, his book, and sword,
Well taught by that to feel his rights, prepar'd
With this "the blessings he enjoys to guard." 535
And as on glorious ground he draws his breath,
Where Freedom oft, with Victory and Death,
Hath seen in grim array amid their Storms
Mix'd with auxiliar Rocks, three [X] hundred Forms;
While twice ten thousand corselets at the view 540
Dropp'd loud at once, Oppression shriek'd, and flew.
Oft as those sainted Rocks before him spread,
An unknown power connects him with the dead.
For images of other worlds are there,
Awful the light, and holy is the air. 545
Uncertain thro' his fierce uncultur'd soul
Like lighted tempests troubled transports roll;
To viewless realms his Spirit towers amain,
Beyond the senses and their little reign.
And oft, when pass'd that solemn vision by, 550
He holds with God himself communion high,
When the dread peal of swelling torrents fills
The sky-roof'd temple of th' eternal hills,
And savage Nature humbly joins the rite,
While flash her upward eyes severe delight. 555
Or gazing from the mountain's silent brow,
Bright stars of ice and azure worlds of snow,
Where needle peaks of granite shooting bare
Tremble in ever-varying tints of air,
Great joy by horror tam'd dilates his heart, 560
And the near heav'ns their own delights impart.
--When the Sun bids the gorgeous scene farewell,
Alps overlooking Alps their state upswell;
Huge Pikes of Darkness nam'd, of [Y] Fear and Storms
Lift, all serene, their still, illumin'd forms, 565
In sea-like reach of prospect round him spread,
Ting'd like an angel's smile all rosy red.
When downward to his winter hut he goes,
Dear and more dear the lessening circle grows,
That hut which from the hills his eyes employs 570
So oft, the central point of all his joys.
And as a swift by tender cares oppress'd
Peeps often ere she dart into her nest,
So to th' untrodden floor, where round him looks
His father helpless as the babe he rocks, 575
Oft he descends to nurse the brother pair,
Till storm and driving ice blockade him there;
There hears, protected by the woods behind,
Secure, the chiding of the baffled wind,
Hears Winter, calling all his Terrors round, 580
Rush down the living rocks with whirlwind sound.
Thro' Nature's vale his homely pleasures glide
Unstain'd by envy, discontent, and pride,
The bound of all his vanity to deck
With one bright bell a favourite heifer's neck; 585
Content upon some simple annual feast,
Remember'd half the year, and hop'd the rest,
If dairy produce, from his inner hoard,
Of thrice ten summers consecrate the board.
--Alas! in every clime a flying ray 590
Is all we have to chear our wintry way,
Condemn'd, in mists and tempests ever rife,
To pant slow up the endless Alp of life.
"Here," cried a swain, whose venerable head
Bloom'd with the snow-drops of Man's narrow bed, 595
Last night, while by his dying fire, as clos'd
The day, in luxury my limbs repos'd,
"Here Penury oft from misery's mount will guide
Ev'n to the summer door his icy tide,
And here the avalanche of Death destroy 600
The little cottage of domestic Joy.
But, ah! th' unwilling mind may more than trace
The general sorrows of the human race:
The churlish gales, that unremitting blow
Cold from necessity's continual snow, 605
To us the gentle groups of bliss deny
That on the noon-day bank of leisure lie.
Yet more; the tyrant Genius, still at strife
With all the tender Charities of life,
When close and closer they begin to strain, 610
No fond hand left to staunch th' unclosing vein,
Tearing their bleeding ties leaves Age to groan
On his wet bed, abandon'd and alone.
For ever, fast as they of strength become
To pay the filial debt, for food to roam, 615
The father, forc'd by Powers that only deign
That solitary Man disturb their reign,
From his bare nest amid the storms of heaven
Drives, eagle-like, his sons as he was driven,
His last dread pleasure! watches to the plain-- 620
And never, eagle-like, beholds again." [Z]
When the poor heart has all its joys resign'd,
Why does their sad remembrance cleave behind?
Lo! by the lazy Seine the exile roves,
Or where thick sails illume Batavia's groves; 625
Soft o'er the waters mournful measures swell,
Unlocking bleeding Thought's "memorial cell";
At once upon his heart Despair has set
Her seal, the mortal tear his cheek has wet;
Strong poison not a form of steel can brave 630
Bows his young hairs with sorrow to the grave.
Gay lark of hope thy silent song resume!
Fair smiling lights the purpled hills illume!
Soft gales and dews of life's delicious morn,
And thou, lost fragrance of the heart return! 635
[Aa] Soon flies the little joy to man allow'd,
And tears before him travel like a cloud.
For come Diseases on, and Penury's rage,
Labour, and Pain, and Grief, and joyless Age,
And Conscience dogging close his bleeding way 640
Cries out, and leads her Spectres to their prey,
'Till Hope-deserted, long in vain his breath
Implores the dreadful untried sleep of Death.
--Mid savage rocks and seas of snow that shine
Between interminable tracts of pine, 645
Round a lone fane the human Genii mourn,
Where fierce the rays of woe collected burn.
--From viewless lamps a ghastly dimness falls,
And ebbs uncertain on the troubled walls,
Dim dreadful faces thro' the gloom appear, 650
Abortive Joy, and Hope that works in fear,
While strives a secret Power to hush the crowd,
Pain's wild rebellious burst proclaims her rights aloud.
Oh give not me that eye of hard disdain
That views undimm'd Einsiedlen's [Bb] wretched fane. 655
Mid muttering prayers all sounds of torment meet,
Dire clap of hands, distracted chafe of feet,
While loud and dull ascends the weeping cry,
Surely in other thoughts contempt may die.
If the sad grave of human ignorance bear 660
One flower of hope--Oh pass and leave it there.
--The tall Sun, tiptoe on an Alpine spire,
Flings o'er the desert blood-red streams of fire.
At such an hour there are who love to stray,
And meet the gladdening pilgrims on their way. 665
--Now with joy's tearful kiss each other greet,
Nor longer naked be your way-worn feet,
For ye have reach'd at last that happy shore,
Where the charm'd worm of pain shall gnaw no more.
How gayly murmur and how sweetly taste 670
The [Cc] fountains rear'd for you amid the waste!
Yes I will see you when ye first behold
Those turrets tipp'd by hope with morning gold,
And watch, while on your brows the cross ye make,
Round your pale eyes a wintry lustre wake. 675
--Without one hope her written griefs to blot,
Save in the land where all things are forgot,
My heart, alive to transports long unknown,
Half wishes your delusion were it's own.
Last let us turn to where Chamouny [Dd] shields, 680
Bosom'd in gloomy woods, her golden fields,
Five streams of ice amid her cots descend,
And with wild flowers and blooming orchards blend,
A scene more fair than what the Grecian feigns
Of purple lights and ever vernal plains. 685
Here lawns and shades by breezy rivulets fann'd,
Here all the Seasons revel hand in hand,
--Red stream the cottage lights; the landscape fades,
Erroneous wavering mid the twilight shades.
Alone ascends that mountain nam'd of white, [Ee] 690
That dallies with the Sun the summer night.
Six thousand years amid his lonely bounds
The voice of Ruin, day and night, resounds.
Where Horror-led his sea of ice assails,
Havoc and Chaos blast a thousand vales, 695
In waves, like two enormous serpents, wind
And drag their length of deluge train behind.
Between the pines enormous boughs descry'd
Serene he towers, in deepest purple dy'd;
Glad Day-light laughs upon his top of snow, 700
Glitter the stars above, and all is black below.
At such an hour I heav'd the human sigh,
When roar'd the sullen Arve in anger by,
That not for thee, delicious vale! unfold
Thy reddening orchards, and thy fields of gold; 705
That thou, the [Ff] slave of slaves, art doom'd to pine,
While no Italian arts their charms combine
To teach the skirt of thy dark cloud to shine;
For thy poor babes that, hurrying from the door,
With pale-blue hands, and eyes that fix'd implore, 710
Dead muttering lips, and hair of hungry white,
Besiege the traveller whom they half affright.
--Yes, were it mine, the cottage meal to share
Forc'd from my native mountains bleak and bare;
O'er [Gg] Anet's hopeless seas of marsh to stray, 715
Her shrill winds roaring round my lonely way;
To scent the sweets of Piedmont's breathing rose,
And orange gale that o'er Lugano blows;
In the wide range of many a weary round,
Still have my pilgrim feet unfailing found, 720
As despot courts their blaze of gems display,
Ev'n by the secret cottage far away
The lilly of domestic joy decay;
While Freedom's farthest hamlets blessings share,
Found still beneath her smile, and only there. 725
The casement shade more luscious woodbine binds,
And to the door a neater pathway winds,
At early morn the careful housewife, led
To cull her dinner from it's garden bed,
Of weedless herbs a healthier prospect sees, 730
While hum with busier joy her happy bees;
In brighter rows her table wealth aspires,
And laugh with merrier blaze her evening fires;
Her infant's cheeks with fresher roses glow,
And wilder graces sport around their brow; 735
By clearer taper lit a cleanlier board
Receives at supper hour her tempting hoard;
The chamber hearth with fresher boughs is spread,
And whiter is the hospitable bed.
--And thou! fair favoured region! which my soul 740
Shall love, till Life has broke her golden bowl,
Till Death's cold touch her cistern-wheel assail,
And vain regret and vain desire shall fail;
Tho' now, where erst the grey-clad peasant stray'd,
To break the quiet of the village shade 745
Gleam war's [Hh] discordant habits thro' the trees,
And the red banner mock the sullen breeze;
Tho' now no more thy maids their voices suit
To the low-warbled breath of twilight lute,
And heard, the pausing village hum between, 750
No solemn songstress lull the fading green,
Scared by the fife, and rumbling drum's alarms,
And the short thunder, and the flash of arms;
While, as Night bids the startling uproar die,
Sole sound, the [Ii] sourd renews his mournful cry: 755
--Yet, hast thou found that Freedom spreads her pow'r
Beyond the cottage hearth, the cottage door:
All nature smiles; and owns beneath her eyes
Her fields peculiar, and peculiar skies.
Yes, as I roam'd where Loiret's [Jj] waters glide 760
Thro' rustling aspins heard from side to side,
When from October clouds a milder light
Fell, where the blue flood rippled into white,
Methought from every cot the watchful bird
Crowed with ear-piercing power 'till then unheard; 765
Each clacking mill, that broke the murmuring streams,
Rock'd the charm'd thought in more delightful dreams;
Chasing those long long dreams the falling leaf
Awoke a fainter pang of moral grief;
The measured echo of the distant flail 770
Winded in sweeter cadence down the vale;
A more majestic tide the [Kk] water roll'd,
And glowed the sun-gilt groves in richer gold:
--Tho' Liberty shall soon, indignant, raise
Red on his hills his beacon's comet blaze; 775
Bid from on high his lonely cannon sound,
And on ten thousand hearths his shout rebound;
His larum-bell from village-tow'r to tow'r
Swing on th' astounded ear it's dull undying roar:
Yet, yet rejoice, tho' Pride's perverted ire 780
Rouze Hell's own aid, and wrap thy hills in fire.
Lo! from th' innocuous flames, a lovely birth!
With it's own Virtues springs another earth:
Nature, as in her prime, her virgin reign
Begins, and Love and Truth compose her train; 785
With pulseless hand, and fix'd unwearied gaze,
Unbreathing Justice her still beam surveys:
No more, along thy vales and viny groves,
Whole hamlets disappearing as he moves,
With cheeks o'erspread by smiles of baleful glow, 790
On his pale horse shall fell Consumption go.
Oh give, great God, to Freedom's waves to ride
Sublime o'er Conquest, Avarice, and Pride,
To break, the vales where Death with Famine scow'rs,
And dark Oppression builds her thick-ribb'd tow'rs; 795
Where Machination her fell soul resigns,
Fled panting to the centre of her mines;
Where Persecution decks with ghastly smiles
Her bed, his mountains mad Ambition piles;
Where Discord stalks dilating, every hour, 800
And crouching fearful at the feet of Pow'r,
Like Lightnings eager for th' almighty word,
Look up for sign of havoc, Fire, and Sword; [Ll]
--Give them, beneath their breast while Gladness springs,
To brood the nations o'er with Nile-like wings; 805
And grant that every sceptred child of clay,
Who cries, presumptuous, "here their tides shall stay,"
Swept in their anger from th' affrighted shore,
With all his creatures sink--to rise no more.
To-night, my friend, within this humble cot 810
Be the dead load of mortal ills forgot,
Renewing, when the rosy summits glow
At morn, our various journey, sad and slow.
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: All the notes to this reprint of the edition of 1793 are
Wordsworth's own, as given in that edition.--Ed.]
[Footnote B: The lyre of Memnon is reported to have emitted melancholy
or chearful tones, as it was touched by the sun's evening or morning
rays.]
[Footnote C: There are few people whom it may be necessary to inform,
that the sides of many of the post-roads in France are planted with a
row of trees.]
[Footnote D: Alluding to crosses seen on the tops of the spiry rocks of
the Chartreuse, which have every appearance of being inaccessible.]
[Footnote E: Names of rivers at the Chartreuse.]
[Footnote F: Name of one of the vallies of the Chartreuse.]
[Footnote G: If any of my readers should ever visit the Lake of Como, I
recommend it to him to take a stroll along this charming little pathway:
he must chuse the evening, as it is on the western side of the Lake. We
pursued it from the foot of the water to it's head: it is once
interrupted by a ferry.]
[Footnote H:
Solo, e pensoso i più deserti campi
Vò misurando à passi tardi, e lenti.
'Petrarch'.]
[Footnote I: The river along whose banks you descend in crossing the
Alps by the Semplon pass. From the striking contrast of it's features,
this pass I should imagine to be the most interesting among the Alps.]
[Footnote J: Most of the bridges among the Alps are of wood and covered:
these bridges have a heavy appearance, and rather injure the effect of
the scenery in some places.]
[Footnote K:
"Red came the river down, and loud, and oft
The angry Spirit of the water shriek'd."
HOME'S 'Douglas'.]
[Footnote L: The Catholic religion prevails here, these cells are, as is
well known, very common in the Catholic countries, planted, like the
Roman tombs, along the road side.]
[Footnote M: Crosses commemorative of the deaths of travellers by the
fall of snow and other accidents very common along this dreadful road.]
[Footnote N: The houses in the more retired Swiss valleys are all built
of wood.]
[Footnote O: I had once given to these sketches the title of
Picturesque; but the Alps are insulted in applying to them that term.
Whoever, in attempting to describe their sublime features, should
confine himself to the cold rules of painting would give his reader but
a very imperfect idea of those emotions which they have the irresistible
power of communicating to the most impassive imaginations. The fact is,
that controuling influence, which distinguishes the Alps from all other
scenery, is derived from images which disdain the pencil. Had I wished
to make a picture of this scene I had thrown much less light into it.
But I consulted nature and my feelings. The ideas excited by the stormy
sunset I am here describing owed their sublimity to that deluge of
light, or rather of fire, in which nature had wrapped the immense forms
around me; any intrusion of shade, by destroying the unity of the
impression, had necessarily diminished its grandeur.]
[Footnote P: Pike is a word very commonly used in the north of England,
to signify a high mountain of the conic form, as Langdale pike, etc.]
[Footnote Q: For most of the images in the next sixteen verses I am
indebted to M. Raymond's interesting observations annexed to his
translation of Coxe's 'Tour in Switzerland'.]
[Footnote R: The rays of the sun drying the rocks frequently produce on
their surface a dust so subtile and slippery, that the wretched
chamois-chasers are obliged to bleed themselves in the legs and feet in
order to secure a footing.]
[Footnote S: The people of this Canton are supposed to be of a more
melancholy disposition than the other inhabitants of the Alps: this, if
true, may proceed from their living more secluded.]
[Footnote T: These summer hamlets are most probably (as I have seen
observed by a critic in the 'Gentleman's Magazine') what Virgil alludes
to in the expression "Castella in tumulis."]
[Footnote U: Sugh, a Scotch word expressive of the sound of the wind
through the trees.]
[Footnote V: This wind, which announces the spring to the Swiss, is
called in their language Foen; and is according to M. Raymond the Syroco
of the Italians.]
[Footnote W: This tradition of the golden age of the Alps, as M. Raymond
observes, is highly interesting, interesting not less to the philosopher
than to the poet. Here I cannot help remarking, that the superstitions
of the Alps appear to be far from possessing that poetical character
which so eminently distinguishes those of Scotland and the other
mountainous northern countries. The Devil with his horns, etc., seems to
be in their idea, the principal agent that brings about the sublime
natural revolutions that take place daily before their eyes.]
[Footnote X: Alluding to several battles which the Swiss in very small
numbers have gained over their oppressors the house of Austria; and in
particular, to one fought at Naeffels near Glarus, where three hundred
and thirty men defeated an army of between fifteen and twenty thousand
Austrians. Scattered over the valley are to be found eleven stones, with
this inscription, 1388, the year the battle was fought, marking out as I
was told upon the spot, the several places where the Austrians
attempting to make a stand were repulsed anew.]
[Footnote Y: As Schreck-Horn, the pike of terror. Wetter-Horn, the pike
of storms, etc. etc.]
[Footnote Z: The effect of the famous air called in French Ranz des
Vaches upon the Swiss troops removed from their native country is well
known, as also the injunction of not playing it on pain of death, before
the regiments of that nation, in the service of France and Holland.]
[Footnote Aa: Optima quæque dies, etc.]
[Footnote Bb: This shrine is resorted to, from a hope of relief, by
multitudes, from every corner of the Catholick world, labouring under
mental or bodily afflictions.]
[Footnote Cc: Rude fountains built and covered with sheds for the
accommodation of the pilgrims, in their ascent of the mountain. Under
these sheds the sentimental traveller and the philosopher may find
interesting sources of meditation.]
[Footnote Dd: This word is pronounced upon the spot Chàmouny, I have
taken the liberty of reading it long thinking it more musical.]
[Footnote Ee: It is only from the higher part of the valley of Chàmouny
that Mont Blanc is visible.]
[Footnote Ff: It is scarce necessary to observe that these lines were
written before the emancipation of Savoy.]
[Footnote Gg: A vast extent of marsh so called near the lake of
Neuf-chatel.]
[Footnote Hh: This, as may be supposed, was written before France became
the seat of war.]
[Footnote Ii: An insect so called, which emits a short, melancholy cry,
heard, at the close of the summer evenings, on the banks of the Loire.]
[Footnote Jj: The river Loiret, which has the honour of giving name to a
department, rises out of the earth at a place, called La Source, a
league and a half south-east of Orleans, and taking at once the
character of a considerable stream, winds under a most delicious bank on
its left, with a flat country of meadows, woods, and vineyards on its
right, till it falls into the Loire about three or four leagues below
Orleans. The hand of false taste has committed on its banks those
outrages which the Abbé de Lille so pathetically deprecates in those
charming verses descriptive of the Seine, visiting in secret the retreat
of his friend Watelet. Much as the Loiret, in its short course, suffers
from injudicious ornament, yet are there spots to be found upon its
banks as soothing as meditation could wish for: the curious traveller
may meet with some of them where it loses itself among the mills in the
neighbourhood of the villa called La Fontaine. The walks of La Source,
where it takes its rise, may, in the eyes of some people, derive an
additional interest from the recollection that they were the retreat of
Bolingbroke during his exile, and that here it was that his
philosophical works were chiefly composed. The inscriptions, of which he
speaks in one of his letters to Swift descriptive of this spot, are not,
I believe, now extant. The gardens have been modelled within these
twenty years according to a plan evidently not dictated by the taste of
the friend of Pope.]
[Footnote Kk: The duties upon many parts of the French rivers were so
exorbitant that the poorer people, deprived of the benefit of water
carriage, were obliged to transport their goods by land.]
[Footnote Ll:
--And, at his heels,
Leash'd in like hounds, should Famine, Sword, and Fire,
Crouch for employment.]
* * * * *
APPENDIX II
The following is Wordsworth's Itinerary of the Tour, taken by him and
his friend Jones, which gave rise to 'Descriptive Sketches'.
July
13. Calais.
14. Ardres.
17. Péronne.
18. Village near Coucy.
19. Soissons.
20. Château Thierry.
21. Sézanne.
22. Village near Troyes.
23. Bar-le-Duc.
24. Chatillon-sur-Seine.
26. Nuits.
27. Châlons.
28. Châlons.
29. On the Saône.
30. Lyons.
31. Condrieu.
August
1. Moreau.
2. Voreppe.
3. Village near Chartreuse.
4. Chartreuse.
6. Aix.
7. Town in Savoy.
8. Town on Lake of Geneva.
9. Lausanne.
10. Villeneuve.
11. St. Maurice in the Valais.
12. Chamouny.
13. Chamouny.
14. Martigny.
15. Village beyond Sion.
16. Brieg.
17. Spital on Alps.
18. Margozza.
19. Village beyond Lago Maggiore.
20. Village on Lago di Como.
21. Village beyond Gravedona.
22. Jones at Chiavenna; W. W. at Samolaco.
23. Sovozza.
24. Splügen.
25. Flems.
26. Dissentis.
27. Village on the Reuss.
28. Fluelen.
29. Lucerne.
30. Village on the Lake of Zurich.
31. Einsiedlen.
September
1. Glarus.
2. Glarus.
3. Village beyond Lake of Wallenstadt.
4. Village on road to Appenzell.
5. Appenzell.
6. Keswill, on Lake of Constance.
7. On the Rhine.
8. On the Rhine.
9. On road to Lucerne.
10. Lucerne.
11. Saxeln.
12. Village on the Aar.
13. Grindelwald.
14. Lauterbrunnen.
15. Village three leagues from Berne.
16. Avranches.
19. Village beyond Pierre Pertuises.
20. Village four leagues from Basle.
21. Basle.
22. Town six leagues from Strasburg.
23. Spires.
24. Village on Rhine.
25. Mentz. Mayence.
27. Village on Rhine, two leagues from Coblentz.
28. Cologne.
29. Village three leagues from Aix-la-Chapelle.
The pedestrians bought a boat at Basle, and in it floated down the Rhine
as far as Cologne, intending to proceed in the same way to Ostend; but
they returned to England from Cologne by Calais. In the course of this
tour, Wordsworth wrote a letter to his sister, dated "Sept. 6, 1790,
Keswill, a small village on the Lake of Constance," which will be found
amongst his letters in a subsequent volume.--Ed.
* * * * *
APPENDIX III
The following two variants in 'Descriptive Sketches' are from MS. notes
written in the late Lord Coleridge's copy of the edition of 1836-7.
l. 247.
Yet the world's business hither finds its way
At times, and unsought tales beguile the day,
And tender thoughts are those which Solitude
l. 249.
Yet tender thoughts dwell there. No Solitude
Hath power Youth's natural feelings to exclude.
* * * * *
APPENDIX IV
'Anecdote for Fathers'
See Eusebius' 'Præparatio Evangelica', vi. 5.--[Greek: kleie bi_en
kartos te log_on pseud_egora lex_o]--which was Apollo's answer to
certain persons who tried to force his oracle to reply.--Ed.
* * * * *
APPENDIX V
'The Thorn'
William Taylor's translation of Bürger's 'Pfarrer's Tochter' appeared in
'The Monthly Magazine' (1796), and as the same volume contained
contributions by Coleridge and Lamb, it is possible that Wordsworth saw
it. Bürger's Pastor's Daughter murdered her natural child, but it is her
ghost which haunts its grave, which she had torn
With bleeding nails beside the pond,
And nightly pines the pool beside.
* * * * *
APPENDIX VI
'Simon Lee'
It was found impossible fully to describe, within the limits of a
footnote, the endless shiftings to and fro of the stanzas and half
stanzas of 'Simon Lee'. The first eight stanzas of the edition of 1798
are therefore reprinted in this Appendix; and a Table is added, by means
of which the various transpositions effected from time to time may be
readily ascertained. In the Table 'a' stands for lines 1-4, and 'b' for
lines 5-8 of a stanza.
In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,
An old man dwells, a little man,
I've heard he once was tall.
Of years he has upon his back,
No doubt, a burthen weighty;
He says he is three score and ten,
But others say he's eighty.
A long blue livery-coat has he,
That's fair behind, and fair before;
Yet, meet him where you will, you see
At once that he is poor.
Full five and twenty years he lived
A running huntsman merry;
And, though he has but one eye left,
His cheek is like a cherry.
No man like him the horn could sound,
And no man was so full of glee;
To say the least, four counties round
Had heard of Simon Lee;
His master's dead, and no one now
Dwells in the hall of Ivor;
Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
He is the sole survivor.
His hunting feats have him bereft
Of his right eye, as you may see:
And then, what limbs those feats have left
To poor old Simon Lee!
He has no son, he has no child,
His wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village common.
And he is lean and he is sick,
His little body's half awry
His ancles they are swoln and thick;
His legs are thin and dry.
When he was young he little knew
Of husbandry or tillage;
And now he's forced to work, though weak,
--The weakest in the village.
He all the country could outrun,
Could leave both man and horse behind;
And often, ere the race was done,
He reeled and was stone-blind.
And still there's something in the world
At which his heart rejoices;
For when the chiming hounds are out,
He dearly loves their voices!
Old Ruth works out of doors with him,
And does what Simon cannot do;
For she, not over stout of limb,
Is stouter of the two.
And though you with your utmost skill
From labour could not wean them,
Alas! 'tis very little, all
Which they can do between them.
Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
Not twenty paces from the door,
A scrap of land they have, but they
Are poorest of the poor.
This scrap of land he from the heath
Enclosed when he was stronger;
But what avails the land to them,
Which they can till no longer?
Editions Editions Edition Edition Editions
1798 and 1800. 1802-1815. 1820. 1827. 1832-1849.
1 1 1 a 1 a 1 a
2 b 2 b 2 b
2 2 3 4 a 3 a
3 b 5 b
3 3 4 a 3 a 6
5 b 5 b
4 6 6 6 4 a
3 b
5 4 5 a 5 a 5 a
4 b 4 b 4 b
6 5 7 8 8
7 7 8 7 7
8 8 9 9 9
APPENDIX VII
'Lines written in Early Spring', ll. 11, 12
Compare the 'Laws of Manu', i. 49:
"Vegetables, as well as animals, have internal consciousness, and are
sensible of pleasure and pain."
This I have received from a correspondent, but I have never seen the
English version.--Ed.
* * * * *
APPENDIX VIII
'An Evening Walk'
(1) l. 219,
"His neck, a varying arch, between his towering wings."
Compare 'Paradise Lost', book vii. l. 438.
(2) l. 286, in the footnote reading of 1793, the line occurs
"Or clock, that blind against the wanderer borne."
This refers to the winged beetle, the buzzard-clock.
(3) l. 323, "The bird, etc." The owl. Compare Cowper's 'Task', i. ll.
205, 206.
END OF VOL. I.