The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth
Edited by William Knight
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Title: The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth
Volume 1 of 8
Author: (Edited by William Knight)
Release Date: November 23, 2003 [EBook #10219]
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| 1. | The Poems are arranged in chronological order of composition, not of publication. In all the collective editions issued by Wordsworth during his lifetime, the arrangement of his poems in artificial groups, based on their leading characteristics—a plan first adopted in 1815—was adhered to; although he not unfrequently transferred a poem from one group to another. Here they are printed, with one or two exceptions to be afterwards explained, in the order in which they were written. |
| 2. | The changes of text made by Wordsworth in the successive editions of his Poems, are given in footnotes, with the dates of the changes. |
| 3. | Suggested changes, written by the Poet on a copy of the stereotyped edition of 1836-7—long kept at Rydal Mount, and bought, after Mrs. Wordsworth's death, at the sale of a portion of the Library at the Mount—are given in footnotes. |
| 4. | The Notes dictated by Wordsworth to Miss Isabella Fenwick—a dear friend of the Rydal Mount household, and a woman of remarkable character and faculty—which tell the story of his Poems, and the circumstances under which each was written, are printed in full. |
| 5. | Topographical Notes—explanatory of allusions made by Wordsworth to localities in the Lake District of England, to places in Scotland, Somersetshire, Yorkshire, the Isle of Man, and others on the Continent of Europe—are given, either at the close of the Poem in which the allusions occur, or as footnotes to the passages they illustrate. |
| 6. | Several complete Poems, and other fragments of verse, not included in any edition of his Works published during Wordsworth's lifetime, or since, are printed as an appendix to Volume VIII. |
| 7. | A new Bibliography of the Poems and Prose Works, and of the several editions issued in England and America, from 1793 to 1850, is added. |
| 8. | A new Life of the Poet is given. |
| 1. | The volumes are published, not in library 8vo size, but—as the works of every poet should be issued—in one more convenient to handle, and to carry. Eight volumes are devoted to the Poetical Works, and among them are included those fragments by his sister Dorothy, and others, which Wordsworth published in his lifetime among his own Poems. They are printed in the chronological order of composition, so far as that is known. |
| 2, | In the case of each Poem, any Note written by Wordsworth himself, as explanatory of it, comes first, and has the initials W. W., with the date of its first insertion placed after it. Next follows the Fenwick Note, within square brackets, thus [ ], and signed I. F.; and, afterwards, any editorial note required. When, however, Wordsworth's own notes were placed at the end of the Poems, or at the foot of the page, his plan is adopted, and the date appended. I should have been glad, had it been possible—the editors of the twentieth century may note this—to print Wordsworth's own notes, the Fenwick notes, and the Editor's in different type, and in type of a decreasing size; but the idea occurred to me too late, i.e. after the first volume had been passed for press. [Note: in pursuance of this aim, I have displayed the notes as above: Wordsworth's in black type, the Fenwick notes in dark grey, and the editor's own notes in light grey. I have not decreased the size, which would have made the text more difficult to read! html Ed.] |
| 3. | All the Prose Works of Wordsworth are given in full, and follow the Poems, in two volumes. The Prose Works were collected by Dr. Grosart, and published in 1876. Extracts from them have since been edited by myself and others: but they will now be issued, like the Poems, in chronological order, under their own titles, and with such notes as seem desirable. |
| 4. | All the Journals written by Dorothy Wordsworth at Alfoxden, Dove Cottage, and elsewhere, as well as her record of Tours with her brother in Scotland, on the Continent, etc., are published—some of them in full, others only in part. An explanation of why any Journal is curtailed will be found in the editorial note preceding it. Much new material will be found in these Journals. |
| 5. | The Letters of William and Dorothy Wordsworth —with a few from Mary and Dora Wordsworth—are arranged chronologically, and published by themselves. Hitherto, these letters have been scattered in many quarters—in the late Bishop of Lincoln's Memoirs of his uncle, in The Diary, Reminiscences, and Correspondence of Henry Crabb Robinson, in the Memorials of Coleorton and my own Life of the Poet, in the Prose Works, in the Transactions of the Wordsworth Society, in the Letters of Charles Lamb, in the Memorials of Thomas De Quincey, and other volumes; but many more, both of Wordsworth's and his sister's, have never before seen the light. More than a hundred and fifty letters from Dorothy Wordsworth to Mrs. Clarkson, the wife of the great "slave-liberator," were sent to me some time ago by Mrs. Arthur Tennyson, a relative of Mrs. Clarkson; and I have recently seen and been allowed to copy, Wordsworth's letters to his early friend Francis Wrangham, through the kindness of their late owner, Mr. Mackay of The Grange, Trowbridge. Many other letters of great interest have recently reached me. |
| 6. | In addition to a new Bibliography, and a Chronological Table of the Poems, and the Prose Works, a Bibliography of Wordsworth Criticism is appended. It includes most of the articles on the Poet, and notices of his Works, which have appeared in Great Britain, America, and the Continent of Europe. Under this head I have specially to thank Mrs. Henry A. St. John of Ithaca, N.Y., a devoted Transatlantic Wordsworthian, who has perhaps done more than any one—since Henry Reed—to promote the study of her favourite poet in America. Mrs. St. John's Wordsworth collection is unique, and her knowledge and enthusiasm are as great as her industry has been. Professor E. Legouis of the University of Lyons—who wrote an interesting book on Wordsworth's friend, Le Général Michel Beaupuy (1891)—has sent me material from France, which will be found in its proper place. Frau Professor Gothein of Bonn, who has translated many of Wordsworth's poems into German, and written his life, William Wordsworth: sein Leben, seine Werke, seine Zeitgenossen, (1893), has similarly helped me in reference to German criticism. |
| 7. | As the Poet's Letters, and his sister's Journals, will appear in earlier volumes, the new Life of Wordsworth will be much shorter than that which was published in 1889, in three volumes 8vo. It will not exceed a single volume. |
| 8. | In the edition of 1882-6, each volume contained an etching of a locality associated with Wordsworth. The drawings were made by John M'Whirter, R.A., in water-colour; and they were afterwards etched by Mr. C. O. Murray. One portrait by Haydon was prefixed to the first volume of the Life. In each volume of this edition—Poems, Prose Works, Journals, Letters, and Life—there will be a new portrait, either of the poet, or his wife, or sister, or daughter; and also a small vignette of a place associated with, or memorialised by Wordsworth in some way. The following will be the arrangement. |
| Volume | Contents | Portrait/Vignette | Location |
|---|---|---|---|
| I | Poems | W. Wordsworth by W. Shuter | Cockermouth |
| II | Poems | W. Wordsworth by Robert Hancock | Dame Tyson's Cottage, Hawkshead |
| III | Poems | W. Wordsworth by Edward Nash | Room in St. John's College, Cambridge |
| IV | Poems | W. Wordsworth by Richard Carruthers | Racedown, Dorsetshire |
| V | Poems | W. Wordsworth by William Boxall | Alfoxden, Somersetshire |
| VI | Poems | W. Wordsworth by Henry William Pickersgill | Goslar |
| VII | Poems | W. Wordsworth by Margaret Gillies | Dove Cottage |
| VIII | Poems | W. Wordsworth by Benjamin R. Haydon | The Rock of Names, Thirlmere |
| IX | The Prose Works | W. Wordsworth by Henry Inman | Gallow Hill, Yorkshire |
| X | The Prose Works | W. Wordsworth by Margaret Gillies | Coleorton Hall, Leicestershire |
| XI | The Journals | Dorothy Wordsworth, (Artist unknown) | Allan Bank, Grasmere |
| XII | The Journals | Mary Wordsworth, by Margaret Gillies | Rydal Mount |
| XIII | Correspondence | Dora Wordsworth, by Margaret Gillies | Bolton Abbey |
| XIV | Correspondence | W. Wordsworth, by Edward C. Wyon | Blea Tarn |
| XV | Correspondence | W. Wordsworth by by Thomas Woolner | Peele Castle |
| XVI | The Life | W. Wordsworth by Frederick Thrupp W. Wordsworth by Samuel Laurence W. Wordsworth by Benjamin R. Haydon |
Grasmere Church and Churchyard |
... I have seento enter on a discussion as to the extent of Wordsworth's debt—if any—to the author of Gebir. It is quite sufficient to print the relative passage from Landor's poem at the foot of the page.
A curious child applying to his ear
| 1. | As to the Chronological Order of the Poems. The chief advantage of a chronological arrangement of the Works of any author—and especially of a poet who himself adopted a different plan—is that it shows us, as nothing else can do, the growth of his own mind, the progressive development of his genius and imaginative power. By such a redistribution of what he wrote we can trace the rise, the culmination, and also—it may be—the decline and fall of his genius. Wordsworth's own arrangement—first adopted in the edition of 1815—was designed by him, with the view of bringing together, in separate classes, those Poems which referred to the same (or similar) subjects, or which were supposed to be the product of the same (or a similar) faculty, irrespective of the date of composition. Thus one group was entitled "Poems of the Fancy," another "Poems of the Imagination," a third "Poems proceeding from Sentiment and Reflection," a fourth "Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces," again "Poems on the Naming of Places," "Memorials of Tours," "Ecclesiastical Sonnets," "Miscellaneous Sonnets," etc. The principle which guided him in this was obvious enough. It was, in some respects, a most natural arrangement; and, in now adopting a chronological order, the groups, which he constructed with so much care, are broken up. Probably every author would attach more importance to a classification of his Works, which brought them together under appropriate headings, irrespective of date, than to a method of arrangement which exhibited the growth of his own mind; and it may be taken for granted that posterity would not think highly of any author who attached special value to this latter element. None the less posterity may wish to trace the gradual development of genius, in the imaginative writers of the past, by the help of such a subsequent rearrangement of their Works. There are difficulties, however, in the way of such a rearrangement, some of which, in Wordsworth's case, cannot be entirely surmounted. In the case of itinerary Sonnets, referring to the same subject, the dismemberment of a series—carefully arranged by their author—seems to be specially unnatural. But Wordsworth himself sanctioned the principle. If there was a fitness in collecting all his sonnets in one volume in the year 1838, out of deference to the wishes of his friends, in order that these poems might be "brought under the eye at once"—thus removing them from their original places, in his collected works—it seems equally fitting now to rearrange them chronologically, as far as it is possible to do so. It will be seen that it is not always possible. Then, there is the case of two Poems following each other, in Wordsworth's own arrangement, by natural affinity; such as the Epistle to Sir George Beaumont, written in 1811, which in almost all existing editions is followed by the Poem written in 1841, and entitled, Upon perusing the foregoing Epistle thirty years after its composition; or, the dedication to The White Doe of Rylstone, written in April 1815, while the Poem itself was written in 1807. To separate these Poems seems unnatural; and, as it would be inadmissible to print the second of the two twice over—once as a sequel to the first poem, and again in its chronological place—adherence to the latter plan has its obvious disadvantage in the case of these poems. Mr. Aubrey de Vere is very desirous that I should arrange all the "Poems dedicated to National Independence and Liberty" together in series, as Wordsworth left them, "on the principle that, though the order of publication should as a rule be the order of composition in poetry, all rules require, as well as admit of, exceptions." As I have the greatest respect for the judgment of such an authority as Mr. de Vere, I may explain that I only venture to differ from him because there are seventy-four Poems—including the sonnets and odes—in this series, and because they cover a period ranging from 1802 to 1815. I am glad, however, that many of these sonnets can be printed together, especially the earlier ones of 1802. After carefully weighing every consideration, it has seemed to me desirable to adopt the chronological arrangement in this particular edition; in which an attempt is made to trace the growth of Wordsworth's genius, as it is unfolded in his successive works. His own arrangement of his Poems will always possess a special interest and value; and it is not likely ever to be entirely superseded in subsequent issues of his Works. The editors and publishers of the future may possibly prefer it to the plan now adopted, and it will commend itself to many readers from the mere fact that it was Wordsworth's own; but in an edition such as the present—which is meant to supply material for the study of the Poet to those who may not possess, or have access to, the earlier and rarer editions—no method of arrangement can be so good as the chronological one. Its importance will be obvious after several volumes are published, when the point referred to above—viz. the evolution of the poet's genius—will be shown by the very sequence of the subjects chosen, and their method of treatment from year to year. The date of the composition of Wordsworth's Poems cannot always be ascertained with accuracy: and to get at the chronological order, it is not sufficient to take up his earlier volumes, and thereafter to note the additions made in subsequent ones. We now know (approximately) when each poem was first published; although, in some instances, they appeared in newspapers and magazines, and in many cases publication was long after the date of composition. For example, Guilt and Sorrow; or, Incidents upon Salisbury Plain—written in the years 1791-94—was not published in extenso till 1842. The tragedy of The Borderers, composed in 1795-96, was also first published in 1842. The Prelude—"commenced in the beginning of the year 1799, and completed in the summer of 1805"—was published posthumously in 1850: and some unpublished poems—both "of early and late years"—were first issued in 1886. A poem was frequently kept back, from some doubt as to its worth, or from a wish to alter and amend it. Of the five or six hundred sonnets that he wrote, Wordsworth said "Most of them were frequently re-touched; and, not a few, laboriously." Some poems were almost entirely recast; and occasionally fugitive verses were withheld from publication for a time, because it was hoped that they would subsequently form part of a larger whole. In the case of many of the poems, we are left to conjecture the date of composition, although we are seldom without some clue to it. The Fenwick Notes are a great assistance in determining the chronology. These notes—which will be afterwards more fully referred to—were dictated by Wordsworth to Miss Fenwick in the year 1843; but, at that time, his memory could not be absolutely trusted as to dates; and in some instances we know it to have been at fault. For example, he said of The Old Cumberland Beggar that it was "written at Racedown and Alfoxden in my twenty-third year." Now, he went to Racedown in the autumn of 1795, when he was twenty-five years old; and to Alfoxden, in the autumn of 1797, when twenty-seven. Again, the poem Rural Architecture is put down in the Fenwick note as "written at Townend in 1801"; but it had been published in 1800, in the second edition of "Lyrical Ballads." Similarly Wordsworth gave the dates "1801 or 1802" for The Reverie of Poor Susan, which had also appeared in "Lyrical Ballads," 1800. Wordsworth's memory was not always to be trusted even when he was speaking of a group of his own Poems. For example, in the edition of 1807, there is a short series described thus, "Poems, composed during a tour, chiefly on foot." They are numbered 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Now, one would naturally suppose that all the poems, in this set of five, were composed during the same pedestrian tour, and that they all referred to the same time. But the series contains Alice Fell (1802), Beggars (1802), To a Sky-Lark (1805), and Resolution and Independence (1802). Much more valuable than the Fenwick notes—for a certain portion of Wordsworth's life—is his sister Dorothy's Journal. The mistakes in the former can frequently be corrected from the minutely kept diary of those early years, when the brother and sister lived together at Grasmere. The whole of that Journal, so far as it is desirable to print it for posterity, will be given in a subsequent volume. Long before the publication of the Fenwick notes, Wordsworth himself supplied some data for a chronological arrangement of his Works. In the table of contents, prefixed to the first collected edition of 1815, in two volumes,—and also to the second collected edition of 1820, in four volumes,—there are two parallel columns: one giving the date of composition, and the other that of publication. There are numerous blanks in the former column, which was the only important one; as the year of publication could be ascertained from the editions themselves. Sometimes the date is given vaguely; as in the case of the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty," where the note runs, "from the year 1807 to 1813." At other times, the entry of the year of publication is inaccurate; for example, the Inscription for the spot where the Hermitage stood on St. Herbert's Island, Derwentwater, is put down as belonging to the year 1807; but this poem does not occur in the volumes of 1807, but in the second volume of "Lyrical Ballads" (1800). It will thus be seen that it is only by comparing Wordsworth's own lists of the years to which his Poems belong, with the contents of the several editions of his Works, with the Fenwick Notes, and with his sister's Journal, that we can approximately reconstruct the true chronology. To these sources of information must be added the internal evidence of the Poems themselves, incidental references in letters to friends, and stray hints gathered from various quarters. Many new sources of information as to the date of the composition of the Poems became known to me during the publication of my previous edition, and after its issue; the most important being the Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth. These discoveries showed that my chronological table of 1882—although then, relatively, "up to date"—was incomplete. The tables constructed by Mr. Tutin and by Professor Dowden are both more accurate than it was. It is impossible to attain to finality in such a matter; and several facts, afterwards discovered, and mentioned in the later volumes of my previous edition, have been used against the conclusions come to in the earlier ones. I have thus supplied the feathers for a few subsequent critical arrows. The shots have not been unkindly ones; and I am glad of the result, viz. that our knowledge of the dates—both as to the composition and first publication of the poems —is now much more exact than before. When a conjectural one is given in this edition, the fact is always mentioned. This chronological method of arrangement, however, has its limits. It is not possible always to adopt it: nor is it invariably necessary, even in order to obtain a true view of the growth of Wordsworth's mind. In this—as in so many other things—wisdom lies in the avoidance of extremes; the extreme of rigid fidelity to the order of time on the one hand, and the extreme of an irrational departure from it on the other. While an effort has been made to discover the exact order of the composition of the poems—and this is shown, not only in the Chronological Table, but at the beginning of each separate poem—it has been considered expedient to depart from that order in printing some of the poems. In certain cases a poem was begun and laid aside, and again resumed at intervals; and it is difficult to know to what year the larger part of it should be assigned. When we know the date at which a poem was commenced, and that it was finished "long afterwards," but have no clue as to the year, it is assigned to the year in which it was begun. For example, the Address to Kilchurn Castle was begun in 1803, but only the first three lines were written then. Wordsworth tells us that "the rest was added many years after," but when we know not; and the poem was not published till 1827. In such a case, it is placed in this edition as if it belonged chronologically to 1803, and retains its place in the series of Poems which memorialise the Tour in Scotland of that year. On a similar principle, The Highland Girl is placed in the same series; although Dorothy Wordsworth tells us, in her Journal of the Tour, that it was composed "not long after our return from Scotland"; and Glen Almain—although written afterwards at Rydal—retains its published place in the memorial group. Again the Departure from the Vale of Grasmere, August 1803, is prefixed to the same series; although it was not written till 1811, and first published in 1827. To give symmetry to such a Series, it is necessary to depart from the exact chronological order—the departure being duly indicated. On the same principle I have followed the Address to the Scholars of the Village School of ——, by its natural sequel—By the Side of the Grave some Years after, the date of the composition of which is unknown: and the Epistle to Sir George Beaumont (1811) is followed by the later Lines, to which Wordsworth gave the most prosaic title—he was often infelicitous in his titles—Upon perusing the foregoing Epistle thirty years after its composition. A like remark applies to the poem Beggars, which is followed by its own Sequel, although the order of date is disturbed; while all the "Epitaphs," translated from Chiabrera, are printed together. It is manifestly appropriate that the poems belonging to a series—such as the "Ecclesiastical Sonnets," or those referring to the "Duddon"—should be brought together, as Wordsworth finally arranged them; even although we may be aware that some of them were written subsequently, and placed in the middle of the series. The sonnets referring to "Aspects of Christianity in America"—inserted in the 1845 and 1849-50 editions of the collected Works—are found in no previous edition or version of the "Ecclesiastical Sonnets." These, along with some others on the Offices of the English Liturgy, were suggested to Wordsworth by an American prelate, Bishop Doane, and by Professor Henry Reed2; but we do not know in what year they were written. The "Ecclesiastical Sonnets"—first called "Ecclesiastical Sketches"—were written in the years 1820-22. The above additions to them appeared twenty-five years afterwards; but they ought manifestly to retain their place, as arranged by Wordsworth in the edition of 1845. The case is much the same with regard to the "Duddon Sonnets." They were first published in 1820: but No. xiv. beginning: O mountain Stream! the Shepherd and his Cot,was written in the year 1806, and appears in the edition of 1807. This sonnet will be printed in the series to which it belongs, and not in its chronological place. I think it would be equally unjust to remove it from the group—in which it helps to form a unity—and to print it twice over3. On the other hand, the series of "Poems composed during a Tour in Scotland, and on the English Border, in the Autumn of 1831"—and first published in the year 1835, in the volume entitled "Yarrow Revisited, and Other Poems"—contains two, which Wordsworth himself tells us were composed earlier; and there is no reason why these poems should not be restored to their chronological place. The series of itinerary sonnets, published along with them in the Yarrow volume of 1835, is the record of another Scottish tour, taken in the year 1833; and Wordsworth says of them that they were "composed or suggested during a tour in the summer of 1833." We cannot now discover which of them were written during the tour, and which at Rydal Mount after his return; but it is obvious that they should be printed in the order in which they were left by him, in 1835. It may be noted that almost all the "Evening Voluntaries" belong to these years—1832 to 1835—when the author was from sixty-two to sixty-five years of age. Wordsworth's habit of revision may perhaps explain the mistakes into which he occasionally fell as to the dates of his Poems, and the difficulty of reconciling what he says, as to the year of composition, with the date assigned by his sister in her Journal. When he says "written in 1801, or 1802," he may be referring to the last revision which he gave to his work. Certain it is, however, that he sometimes gave a date for the composition, which was subsequent to the publication of the poem in question. In the case of those poems to which no date was attached, I have tried to find a clue by which to fix an approximate one. Obviously, it would not do to place all the undated poems in a class by themselves. Such an arrangement would be thoroughly artificial; and, while we are in many instances left to conjecture, we can always say that such and such a poem was composed not later than a particular year. When the precise date is undiscoverable, I have thought it best to place the poem in or immediately before the year in which it was first published. Poems which were several years in process of composition, having been laid aside, and taken up repeatedly; e.g. The Prelude, which was composed between the years 1799 and 1805—are placed in the year in which they were finished. Disputable questions as to the date of any poem are dealt with in the editorial note prefixed or appended to it. There is one Poem which I have intentionally placed out of its chronological place, viz. the Ode, Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood. It was written at intervals from 1803 to 1806, and was first published in the edition of 1807, where it stood at the end of the second volume. In every subsequent edition of the collected Works—1815 to 1850—it closed the groups of poems; The Excursion only following it, in a volume of its own. This was an arrangement made by Wordsworth, of set purpose, and steadily adhered to—the Ode forming as it were the High Altar of his poetic Cathedral. As he wished it to retain that place in subsequent editions of his Works, it retains it in this one. Mr. Arnold's arrangement of the Poems, in his volume of Selections4, is extremely interesting and valuable; but, as to the method of grouping adopted, I am not sure that it is better than Wordsworth's own. As a descriptive title, "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection" is quite as good as "Poems akin to the Antique," and "Poems of the Fancy" quite as appropriate as "Poems of Ballad Form." Wordsworth's arrangement of his Poems in groups was psychologically very interesting; but it is open to many objections. Unfortunately Wordsworth was not himself consistent—in the various editions issued by himself—either in the class into which he relegated each poem, or the order in which he placed it there. There is tantalising topsy-turvyism in this, so that an editor who adopts it is almost compelled to select Wordsworth's latest grouping, which was not always his best. Sir William Rowan Hamilton wrote to Mr. Aubrey de Vere in 1835 that Dora Wordsworth told him that her father "was sometimes at a loss whether to refer her to the 'Poems of the Imagination,' or the 'Poems of the Fancy,' for some particular passage." Aubrey de Vere himself considered Wordsworth's arrangement as "a parade of system," and wrote of it, "I cannot help thinking that in it, he mistakes classification for method."5 I confess that it is often difficult to see why some of the poems were assigned by their author to the realm of the "Fancy," the "Imagination," and "Sentiment and Reflection" respectively. In a note to The Horn of Egremont Castle (edition 1815) Wordsworth speaks of it as "referring to the imagination," rather than as being "produced by it"; and says that he would not have placed it amongst his "Poems of the Imagination," "but to avoid a needless multiplication of classes"; and in the editions of 1827 and 1832 he actually included the great Ode on Immortality among his "Epitaphs and Elegiac Poems"! As late as 27th September 1845, he wrote to Professor Henry Reed, "Following your example" (i.e. the example set in Reed's American edition of the Poems), "I have greatly extended the class entitled 'Poems of the Imagination,' thinking as you must have done that, if Imagination were predominant in the class, it was not indispensable that it should pervade every poem which it contained. Limiting the class as I had done before, seemed to imply, and to the uncandid or observing did so, that the faculty, which is the primum mobile in poetry, had little to do, in the estimation of the author, with pieces not arranged under that head. I therefore feel much obliged to you for suggesting by your practice the plan which I have adopted."Could anything show more explicitly than this that Wordsworth was not perfectly satisfied with his own artificial groups? Professor Reed, in his American edition of 1837, however, acted on Wordsworth's expressed intention of distributing the contents of "Yarrow Revisited, and Other Poems" amongst the classes. He tells us that he "interspersed the contents of this volume among the Poems already arranged" by Wordsworth6. It may also be mentioned that not only members of his own household, but many of Wordsworth's friends—notably Charles Lamb—expressed a preference for a different arrangement of his Poems from that which he had adopted. |
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| 2. | The various Readings, or variations of text, made by Wordsworth during his lifetime, or written by him on copies of his Poems, or discovered in MS. letters, from himself, or his sister, or his wife, are given in footnotes in this edition. Few English poets changed their text more frequently, or with more fastidiousness, than Wordsworth did. He did not always alter it for the better. Every alteration however, which has been discovered by me, whether for the better or for the worse, is here printed in full. We have thus a record of the fluctuations of his own mind as to the form in which he wished his Poems to appear; and this record casts considerable light on the development of his genius7. A knowledge of these changes of text can only be obtained in one or other of two ways. Either the reader must have access to all the thirty-two editions of Poems, the publication of which Wordsworth personally supervised; or, he must have all the changes in the successive editions, exhibited in the form of footnotes, and appended to the particular text that is selected and printed in the body of the work. It is extremely difficult—in some cases quite impossible—to obtain the early editions. The great public libraries of the country do not possess them all8. It is therefore necessary to fall back upon the latter plan, which seems the only one by which a knowledge of the changes of the text can be made accessible, either to the general reader, or to the special student of English Poetry. The text which—after much consideration—I have resolved to place throughout, in the body of the work, is Wordsworth's own final textus receptus, i.e. the text of 1849-50, reproduced in the posthumous edition of 18579; and since opinion will doubtless differ as to the wisdom of this selection, it may be desirable to state at some length the reasons which have led me to adopt it. There are only three possible courses open to an editor, who wishes to give—along with the text selected—all the various readings chronologically arranged as footnotes. Either,
Now, most persons who have studied the subject know that Wordsworth's best text is to be found, in one poem in its earliest edition, in another in its latest, and in a third in some intermediate edition. I cannot agree either with the statement that he always altered for the worse, or that he always altered for the better. His critical judgment was not nearly so unerring in this respect as Coleridge's was, or as Tennyson's has been. It may be difficult, therefore, to assign an altogether satisfactory reason for adopting either the earliest or the latest text; and at first sight, the remaining alternative plan may seem the wisest of the three. There are indeed difficulties in the way of the adoption of any one of the methods suggested; and as I adopt the latest text—not because it is always intrinsically the best, but on other grounds to be immediately stated—it may clear the way, if reference be made in the first instance to the others, and to the reasons for abandoning them. As to a selection of the text from various editions, this would doubtless be the best plan, were it a practicable one; and perhaps it may be attainable some day. But Wordsworth is as yet too near us for such an editorial treatment of his Works to be successful. The fundamental objection to it is that scarcely two minds—even among the most competent of contemporary judges—will agree as to what the best text is. An edition arranged on this principle could not possibly be acceptable to more than a few persons. Of course no arrangement of any kind can escape adverse criticism: it would be most unfortunate if it did. But this particular edition would fail in its main purpose, if questions of individual taste were made primary, and not secondary; and an arrangement, which gave scope for the arbitrary selection of particular texts,—according to the wisdom, or the want of wisdom, of the editor,—would deservedly meet with severe criticism in many quarters. Besides, such a method of arrangement would not indicate the growth of the Poet's mind, and the development of his genius. If an editor wished to indicate his own opinion of the best text for each poem—under the idea that his judgment might be of some use to other people—it would be wiser to do so by means of some mark or marginal note, than by printing his selected text in the main body of the work. He could thus at once preserve the chronological order of the readings, indicate his own preference, and leave it to others to select what they preferred. Besides, the compiler of such an edition would often find himself in doubt as to what the best text really was, the merit of the different readings being sometimes almost equal, or very nearly balanced; and, were he to endeavour to get out of the difficulty by obtaining the judgments of literary men, or even of contemporary poets, he would find that their opinions would in most cases be dissimilar, if they did not openly conflict. Those who cannot come to a final decision as to their own text would not be likely to agree as to the merits of particular readings in the poems of their predecessors. Unanimity of opinion on this point is indeed quite unattainable. Nevertheless, it would be easy for an editor to show the unfortunate result of keeping rigorously either to the latest or to the earliest text of Wordsworth. If, on the one hand, the latest were taken, it could be shown that many of the changes introduced into it were for the worse, and some of them very decidedly so. For example, in the poem To a Skylark—composed in 1825—the second verse, retained in the editions of 1827, 1832, 1836, and 1843, was unaccountably dropped out in the editions of 1845 and 1849. The following is the complete poem of 1825, as published in 1827. Ethereal Minstrel! Pilgrim of the sky!There is no doubt that the first and third stanzas are the finest, and some may respect the judgment that cut down the Poem by the removal of its second verse: but others will say, if it was right that such a verse should be removed, why were many others of questionable merit allowed to remain? Why was such a poem as The Glowworm, of the edition of 1807, never republished; while The Waterfall and the Eglantine, and To the Spade of a Friend, were retained? To give one other illustration, where a score are possible. In the sonnet, belonging to the year 1807, beginning: "Beloved Vale!" I said, "when I shall con,"we find, in the latest text, the lines—first adopted in 1827: I stood, of simple shame the blushing Thrall;while the early edition of 1807 contains the far happier lines: To see the Trees, which I had thought so tall,On the other hand, if the earliest text be invariably retained, some of the best poems will be spoiled (or the improvements lost), since Wordsworth did usually alter for the better. For example, few persons will doubt that the form in which the second stanza of the poem To the Cuckoo (written in 1802) appeared in 1845, is an improvement on all its predecessors. I give the readings of 1807, 1815, 1820, 1827, and 1845.
It might be urged that these considerations would warrant the interference of an editor, and justify him in selecting the text which he thought the best upon the whole; but this must be left to posterity. When editors can escape the bias of contemporary thought and feeling, when their judgments are refined by distance and mellowed by the new literary standards of the intervening years,—when in fact Wordsworth is as far away from his critics as Shakespeare now is—it may be possible to adjust a final text. But the task is beyond the power of the present generation. It may farther be urged that if this reasoning be valid,—and if, for the present, one text must be retained uniformly throughout,—the natural plan is to take the earliest, and not the latest; and this has some recommendations. It seems more simple, more natural, and certainly the easiest. We have a natural sequence, if we begin with the earliest and go on to the latest readings. Then, all the readers of Wordsworth, who care to possess or to consult the present edition, will doubtless possess one or other of the complete copies of his works, which contain his final text; while probably not one in twenty have ever seen the first edition of any of his poems, with the exception of The Prelude. It is true that if the reader turns to a footnote to compare the versions of different years, while he is reading for the sake of the poetry, he will be so distracted that the effect of the poem as a whole will be entirely lost; because the critical spirit, which judges of the text, works apart from the spirit of sympathetic appreciation, in which all poetry should be read. But it is not necessary to turn to the footnotes, and to mark what may be called the literary growth of a poem, while it is being read for its own sake: and these notes are printed in smaller type, so as not to obtrude themselves on the eye of the reader. Against the adoption of the earlier text, there is this fatal objection, that if it is to be done at all, it must be done throughout; and, in the earliest poems Wordsworth wrote—viz. An Evening Walk and Descriptive Sketches,—the subsequent alterations almost amounted to a cancelling of the earlier version. His changes were all, or almost all, unmistakably for the better. Indeed, there was little in these works—in the form in which they first appeared—to lead to the belief that an original poet had arisen in England. It is true that Coleridge saw in them the signs of the dawn of a new era, and wrote thus of Descriptive Sketches, before he knew its author, "Seldom, if ever, was the emergence of a great and original poetic genius above the literary horizon more evidently announced." Nevertheless the earliest text of these Sketches is, in many places, so artificial, prosaic, and dull, that its reproduction (except as an appendix, or in the form of footnotes) would be an injustice to Wordsworth.10 On the other hand, the passages subsequently cancelled are so numerous, and so long, that if placed in footnotes the latter would in some instances be more extensive than the text. The quarto of 1793 will therefore be reprinted in full as an Appendix to the first volume of this edition. The School Exercise written at Hawkshead in the poet's fourteenth year, will be found in vol. viii. Passing over these juvenile efforts, there are poems—such as Guilt and Sorrow, Peter Bell, and many others—in which the earlier text is an inferior one, which was either corrected or abandoned by Wordsworth in his maturer years. It would be a conspicuous blunder to print— in the place of honour,—the crude original which was afterwards repudiated by its author. It may be remembered, in connection with Wordsworth's text, that he himself said, "I am for the most part uncertain about my success in altering poems; but, in this case" (he is speaking of an insertion) "I am sure I have produced a great improvement." (Memoirs of Wordsworth, vol. i. p. 174.)11 Again, in writing to Mr. Dyce in 1830, "You know what importance I attach to following strictly the last copy of the text of an author." It is also worthy of note that the study of their chronology casts some light on the changes which the poems underwent. The second edition of "Lyrical Ballads" appeared in 1800. In that edition the text of 1798 is scarcely altered: but, in the year in which it was published, Wordsworth was engrossed with his settlement at Grasmere; and, in the springtime of creative work, he probably never thought of revising his earlier pieces. In the year 1800, he composed at least twenty-five new poems. The third edition of "Lyrical Ballads" appeared in 1802; and during that year he wrote forty-three new poems, many of them amongst the most perfect of his Lyrics. His critical instinct had become much more delicate since 1800: and it is not surprising to find—as we do find—that between the text of the "Lyrical Ballads" of 1800, and that of 1802, there are many important variations. This is seen, for example, in the way in which he dealt with The Female Vagrant, which is altered throughout. Its early redundance is pruned away; and, in many instances, the final text, sanctioned in 1845, had been adopted in 1803. Without going into further detail, it is sufficient to remark that in the year 1803 Wordsworth's critical faculty, the faculty of censorship, had developed almost step for step with the creative originality of his genius. In that prolific year, when week by week, almost day by day, fresh poems were thrown off with marvellous facility—as we see from his sister's Journal—he had become a severe, if not a fastidious, critic of his own earlier work. A further explanation of the absence of critical revision, in the edition of 1800, may be found in the fact that during that year Wordsworth was engaged in writing the "Preface" to his Poems; which dealt, in so remarkable a manner, with the nature of Poetry in general, and with his own theory of it in particular. A further reference to the Evening Walk will illustrate Wordsworth's way of dealing with his earlier text in his later editions. This Poem showed from the first a minute observation of Nature—not only in her external form and colour, but also in her suggestiveness—though not in her symbolism; and we also find the same transition from Nature to Man, the same interest in rural life, and the same lingering over its incidents that we see in his maturer poems. Nevertheless, there is much that is conventional in the first edition of An Evening Walk, published in 1793. I need only mention, as a sample, the use of the phrase "silent tides" to describe the waters of a lake. When this poem was revised, in the year 1815—with a view to its insertion in the first edition of the collected works—Wordsworth merely omitted large portions of it, and some of its best passages were struck out. He scarcely amended the text at all. In 1820, however, he pruned and improved it throughout; so that between this poem, as recast in 1820 (and reproduced almost verbatim in the next two editions of 1827 and 1832), and his happiest descriptions of Nature in his most inspired moods, there is no great difference. But, in 1836, he altered it still further in detail; and in that state practically left it, apparently not caring to revise it further. In the edition of 1845, however, there are several changes. So far as I can judge, there is one alteration for the worse, and one only. The reading, in the edition of 1793, In these lone vales, if aught of faith may claim,is better than that finally adopted, In these secluded vales, if village fame,It will be seen, however, from the changes made in the text of this poem, how Wordsworth's observation of Nature developed, how thoroughly dissatisfied he soon became with everything conventional, and discarded every image not drawn directly or at first hand from Nature. The text adopted in the present edition is, for the reasons stated, that which was finally sanctioned by Wordsworth himself, in the last edition of his Poems (1849-50). The earlier readings, occurring in previous editions, are given in footnotes; and it may be desirable to explain the way in which these are arranged. It will be seen that whenever the text has been changed a date is given in the footnote, before the other readings are added. This date, which accompanies the reference number of the footnote, indicates the year in which the reading finally retained was first adopted by Wordsworth. The earlier readings then follow, in chronological order, with the year to which they belong;12 and it is in every case to be assumed that the last of the changes indicated was continued in all subsequent editions of the works. No direct information is given as to how long a particular reading was retained, or through how many editions it ran. It is to be assumed, however, that it was retained in all intermediate editions till the next change of text is stated. It would encumber the notes with too many figures if, in every instance in which a change was made, the corresponding state of the text in all the other editions was indicated. But if no new reading follows the text quoted, it is to be taken for granted that the reading in question was continued in every subsequent edition, until the date which accompanies the reference figure. Two illustrations will make this clear. The first is a case in which the text was only altered once, the second an instance in which it was altered six times. In the Evening Walk the following lines occur The dog, loud barking, 'mid the glittering rocks,And the footnote is as follows:
Again, in Simon Lee, the lines occur: But what to them avails the landAnd the following are the footnotes:
The same thing is true of Descriptive Sketches. In the year 1827, there were scarcely any alterations made on the text of the poem, as printed in 1820; still fewer were added in 1832; but for the edition of 1836 the whole was virtually rewritten, and in that state it was finally left, although a few significant changes were made in 1845. Slight changes of spelling which occur in the successive editions, are not mentioned. When, however, the change is one of transposition, although the text remains unaltered,—as is largely the case in Simon Lee, for example—it is always indicated. It will be further observed that, at the beginning of every poem, two dates are given; the first, on the left-hand side, is the date of composition; the second, on the right-hand side, is the date of the first publication. In what class the poem first appeared, and the changes (if any) which subsequently occurred in its title, are mentioned in the note appended. |
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| 3. | In the present edition several suggested changes of text, which
were written by Wordsworth on the margin of a copy of his edition of
1836-7, which he kept beside him at Rydal Mount, are published. These
MS. notes seem to have been written by himself, or dictated to others,
at intervals between the years 1836 and 1850, and they are thus a record
of passing thoughts, or "moods of his own mind," during these years.
Some of these were afterwards introduced into the editions of 1842,
1846, and 1849; others were not made use of. The latter have now a value
of their own, as indicating certain new phases of thought and feeling,
in Wordsworth's later years. I owe my knowledge of them, and the
permission to use them, to the kindness of the late Chief Justice of
England, Lord Coleridge. The following is an extract from a letter from
him:
"Fox Ghyll, Ambleside, 4th October 1881.This precious copy of the edition of 1836-7 is now the property of Lady Coleridge. I re-examined it in 1894, and added several readings, which I had omitted to note twelve years ago, when Lord Coleridge first showed it to me. I should add that, since the issue of the volumes of 1882-6, many other MS. copies of individual Poems have come under my notice; and that every important variation of text in them is incorporated in this edition. As it is impossible to discover the precise year in which the suggested alterations of text were written by Wordsworth, on the margin of the edition of 1836, they will be indicated, wherever they occur, by the initial letter C. Comparatively few changes occur in the poems of early years. A copy of the 1814 (quarto) edition of The Excursion, now in the possession of a grandson of the poet, the Rev. John Wordsworth, Gosforth Rectory, Cumberland—which was the copy Wordsworth kept at Rydal Mount for annotation and correction, much in the same way as he kept the edition of 1836-7—has also been kindly sent to me by its present owner, for examination and use in this edition; and, in it, I have found some additional readings. |
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| 4. | In the present edition all the Notes and Memoranda, explanatory
of the Poems, which Wordsworth dictated to Miss Fenwick, are given in
full. Miss Fenwick lived much at Rydal Mount, during the later years of
the Poet's life; and it is to their friendship, and to her inducing
Wordsworth to dictate these Notes, that we owe most of the information
we possess, as to the occasions and circumstances under which his poems
were composed. These notes were first made use of—although only in a
fragmentary manner—by the late Bishop of Lincoln, in the Memoirs
of his uncle. They were afterwards incorporated in full in the edition
of 1857, issued by Mr. Moxon, under the direction of Mr. Carter; and in
the centenary edition. They were subsequently printed in The Prose
Works of Wordsworth, edited by Dr. Grosart; and in my edition of
1882-6. I am uncertain whether it was the original MS., written by Miss
Fenwick, or the copy of it afterwards taken for Miss Quillinan, to which
Dr. Grosart had access. The text of these Notes, as printed in the
edition of 1857, is certainly (in very many cases) widely different from
what is given in The Prose Works of 1876. I have made many
corrections—from the MS. which I have examined with care—of errors
which exist in all previously printed copies of these Notes, including
my own. What appears in this volume is printed from a MS., which Miss Quillinan gave me to examine and copy, and which she assured me was the original one. The proper place for these Fenwick Notes is doubtless that which was assigned to them by the editor of 1857, viz. before the poems which they respectively illustrate. |
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| 5. | Topographical Notes, explanatory of the allusions made by
Wordsworth to the localities in the English Lake District, and
elsewhere, are added throughout the volumes. This has already been
attempted to some extent by several writers, but a good deal more
remains to be done; and I may repeat what I wrote on this subject, in
1878. Many of Wordsworth's allusions to Place are obscure, and the exact localities difficult to identify. It is doubtful if he cared whether they could be afterwards traced out or not; and in reference to one particular rock, referred to in the "Poems on the Naming of Places," when asked by a friend to localise it, he declined; replying to the question, "Yes, that—or any other that will suit!" There is no doubt that, in many instances, his allusions to place are intentionally vague; and, in some of his most realistic passages, he avowedly weaves together a description of localities remote from each other. It is true that "Poems of Places" are not meant to be photographs; and were they simply to reproduce the features of a particular district, and be an exact transcript of reality, they would be literary photographs, and not poems. Poetry cannot, in the nature of things, be a mere register of phenomena appealing to the eye or the ear. No imaginative writer, however, in the whole range of English Literature, is so peculiarly identified with locality as Wordsworth is; and there is not one on the roll of poets, the appreciation of whose writings is more aided by an intimate knowledge of the district in which he lived. The wish to be able to identify his allusions to those places, which he so specially interpreted, is natural to every one who has ever felt the spell of his genius; and it is indispensable to all who would know the special charm of a region, which he described as "a national property," and of which he, beyond all other men, may be said to have effected the literary "conveyance" to posterity. But it has been asked—and will doubtless be asked again—what is the use of a minute identification of all these places? Is not the general fact that Wordsworth described this district of mountain, vale, and mere, sufficient, without any further attempt at localisation? The question is more important, and has wider bearings, than appears upon the surface. It must be admitted, on the one hand, that the discovery of the precise point in every local allusion is not necessary to an understanding or appreciation of the Poems. But, it must be remembered, on the other hand, that Wordsworth was never contented with simply copying what he saw in Nature. Of the Evening Walk—written in his eighteenth year—he says that the plan of the poem "has not been confined to a particular walk or an individual place; a proof (of which I was unconscious at the time) of my unwillingness to submit the poetic spirit to the chains of fact and real circumstance. The country is idealised rather than described in any one of its local aspects."13Again, he says of the Lines written while Sailing in a Boat at Evening: "It was during a solitary walk on the banks of the Cam that I was first struck with this appearance, and applied it to my own feelings in the manner here expressed, changing the scene to the Thames, near Windsor";14and of Guilt and Sorrow, he said, "To obviate some distraction in the minds of those who are well acquainted with Salisbury Plain, it may be proper to say, that of the features described as belonging to it, one or two are taken from other desolate parts of England."15In The Excursion he passes from Langdale to Grasmere, over to Patterdale, back to Grasmere, and again to Hawes Water, without warning; and even in the case of the "Duddon Sonnets" he introduces a description taken direct from Rydal. Mr. Aubrey de Vere tells of a conversation he had with Wordsworth, in which he vehemently condemned the ultra-realistic poet, who goes to Nature with "pencil and note-book, and jots down whatever strikes him most," adding, "Nature does not permit an inventory to be made of her charms! He should have left his pencil and note-book at home; fixed his eye as he walked with a reverent attention on all that surrounded him, and taken all into a heart that could understand and enjoy. Afterwards he would have discovered that while much of what he had admired was preserved to him, much was also most wisely obliterated. That which remained, the picture surviving in his mind, would have presented the ideal and essential truth of the scene, and done so in large part by discarding much which, though in itself striking, was not characteristic. In every scene, many of the most brilliant details are but accidental."The two last sentences of this extract give admirable expression to one feature of Wordsworth's interpretation of Nature. In the deepest poetry, as in the loftiest music,—in Wordsworth's lyrics as in Beethoven's sonatas—it is by what they unerringly suggest and not by what they exhaustively express that their truth and power are known. "In what he leaves unsaid," wrote Schiller, "I discover the master of style." It depends, no doubt, upon the vision of the "inward eye," and the reproductive power of the idealising mind, whether the result is a travesty of Nature, or the embodiment of a truth higher than Nature yields. On the other hand, it is equally certain that the identification of localities casts a sudden light in many instances upon obscure passages in a poem, and is by far the best commentary that can be given. It is much to be able to compare the actual scene, with the ideal creation suggested by it; as the latter was both Wordsworth's reading of the text of Nature, and his interpretation of it. In his seventy-third year, he said, looking back on his Evening Walk, that there was not an image in the poem which he had not observed, and that he "recollected the time and place where most of them were noted." In the Fenwick notes, we constantly find him saying, "the fact occurred strictly as recorded," "the fact was as mentioned in the poem"; and the fact very often involved the accessories of place. Any one who has tried to trace out the allusions in the "Poems on the Naming of Places," or to discover the site of "Michael's Sheepfold," to identify "Ghimmer Crag," or "Thurston-Mere,"—not to speak of the individual "rocks" and "recesses" near Blea Tarn at the head of Little Langdale so minutely described in The Excursion,—will admit that local commentary is an important aid to the understanding of Wordsworth. If to read the Yew Trees in Borrowdale itself, in mute reposeto read The Brothers in Ennerdale, or "The Daffodils" by the shore of Ullswater, gives a new significance to these "poems of the imagination," a discovery of the obscurer allusions to place or scene will deepen our appreciation of those passages in which his idealism is most pronounced. Every one knows Kirkstone Pass, Aira Force, Dungeon Ghyll, the Wishing Gate, and Helm Crag: many persons know the Glowworm Rock, and used to know the Rock of Names; but where is "Emma's Dell"? or "the meeting point of two highways," so characteristically described in the twelfth book of The Prelude? and who will fix the site of the pool in Rydal Upper Park, immortalised in the poem To M. H.? or identify "Joanna's Rock"? Many of the places in the English Lake District are undergoing change, and every year the local allusions will be more difficult to trace. Perhaps the most interesting memorial of the poet which existed, viz. the "Rock of Names," on the shore of Thirlmere, is now sunk under the waters of a Manchester reservoir. Other memorials are perishing by the wear and tear of time, the decay of old buildings, the alteration of roads, the cutting down of trees, and the modernising, or "improving," of the district generally. All this is inevitable. But it is well that many of the natural objects, over and around which the light of Wordsworth's genius lingers, are out of the reach of "improvements," and are indestructible even by machinery. If it be objected that several of the places which we try to identify—and which some would prefer to leave for ever undisturbed in the realm of imagination —were purposely left obscure, it may be replied that Death and Time have probably now removed all reasons for reticence, especially in the case of those poems referring to domestic life and friendly ties. While an author is alive, or while those are alive to whom he has made reference in the course of his allusions to place, it may even be right that works designed for posterity should not be dealt with after the fashion of the modern "interviewer." But greatness has its penalties; and a "fierce light" "beats around the throne" of Genius, as well as round that of Empire. Moreover, all experience shows that posterity takes a great and a growing interest in exact topographical illustrations of the works of great authors. The labour recently bestowed upon the places connected with Shakespeare, Scott, and Burns sufficiently attests this. The localities in Westmoreland, which are most permanently associated with Wordsworth, are these: Grasmere, where he lived during the years of his "poetic prime," and where he is buried; Lower Easdale, where he passed so many days with his sister by the side of the brook, and on the terraces at Lancrigg, and where The Prelude was dictated; Rydal Mount, where he spent the latter half of his life, and where he found one of the most perfect retreats in England; Great Langdale, and Blea Tarn at the head of Little Langdale, immortalised in The Excursion; the upper end of Ullswater, and Kirkstone Pass; and all the mountain tracks and paths round Grasmere and Rydal, especially the old upper road between them, under Nab Scar, his favourite walk during his later years, where he "composed hundreds of verses." There is scarcely a rock or mountain summit, a stream or tarn, or even a well, a grove, or forest-side in all that neighbourhood, which is not imperishably identified with this poet, who at once interpreted them as they had never been interpreted before, and added the gleam,It may be worthy of note that Wordsworth himself sanctioned the principle of tracing out local allusions both by dictating the Fenwick notes, and by republishing his Essay on the topography of the Lakes, along with the Duddon Sonnets, in 1820—and also, by itself, in 1822—"from a belief that it would tend materially to illustrate" his poems. In this edition the topographical Notes usually follow the Poems to which they refer. But in the case of the longer Poems, such as The Prelude, The Excursion, and others, it seems more convenient to print them at the foot of the page, than to oblige the reader to turn to the end of the volume. From the accident of my having tried long ago— at Principal Shairp's request—to do what he told me he wished to do, but had failed to carry out, I have been supposed, quite erroneously, to be an authority on the subject of "The English Lake District, as interpreted in the Poems of Wordsworth." The latter, it is true, is the title of one of the books which I have written about Wordsworth: but, although I visited the Lakes in 1860,—"as a pilgrim resolute"—and have re-visited the district nearly every year for more than a quarter of a century, I may say that I have only a partial knowledge of it. Others, such as Canon Rawnsley, Mr. Harry Goodwin, and Mr. Rix, for example, know many parts of it much better than I do; but, as I have often had to compare my own judgment with that of such experts as the late Dr. Cradock, Principal of Brasenose College, Oxford, and others, I may add that, when I differ from them, it has been only after a re-examination of their evidence, at the localities themselves. |
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| 6. | Several Poems, and fragments of poems, hitherto unpublished—or
published in stray quarters, and in desultory fashion—will find a place
in this edition; but I reserve these fragments, and place them all
together, in an Appendix to the last volume of the "Poetical Works." If
it is desirable to print these poems, in such an edition as this, it is
equally desirable to separate them from those which Wordsworth himself
sanctioned in his final edition of 1849-50. Every great author in the Literature of the World—whether he lives to old age (when his judgment may possibly be less critical) or dies young (when it may be relatively more accurate)—should himself determine what portions of his work ought, and what ought not to survive. At the same time,—while I do not presume to judge in the case of writers whom I know less fully than I happen to know Wordsworth and his contemporaries,—it seems clear that the very greatest men have occasionally erred as to what parts of their writings might, with most advantage, survive; and that they have even more frequently erred as to what MS. letters, etc.,—casting light on their contemporaries—should, or should not, be preserved. I am convinced, for example, that if the Wordsworth household had not destroyed all the letters which Coleridge sent to them, in the first decade of this century, the world would now possess much important knowledge which is for ever lost. It may have been wise, for reasons now unknown, to burn those letters, written by Coleridge: but the students of the literature of the period would gladly have them now. Passing from the question of the preservation of Letters, it is evident that Wordsworth was very careful in distinguishing between the Verses which he sent to Newspapers and Magazines, and those Poems which he included in his published volumes. His anxiety on this point may be inferred from the way in which he more than once emphasised the fact of republication, e.g. in Peter Bell (1819) he put the following prefatory note to four sonnets, which had previously appeared in Blackwood's Magazine, and which afterwards (1828) appeared in the Poetical Album of Alaric Watts, "The following Sonnets having lately appeared in Periodical Publications are here reprinted." Some of the poems (or fragments of poems), included in the addenda to Volume viii. of this edition, I would willingly have left out (especially the sonnet addressed to Miss Maria Williams); but, since they have appeared elsewhere, I feel justified in now reprinting even that trivial youthful effusion, signed "Axiologus." I rejoice, however, that there is no likelihood that the "Somersetshire Tragedy" will ever see the light. When I told Wordsworth's successor in the Laureateship that I had burned a copy of that poem, sent to me by one to whom it had been confided, his delight was great. It is the chronicle of a revolting crime, with nothing in the verse to warrant its publication. The only curious thing about it is that Wordsworth wrote it. With this exception, there is no reason why the fragments which he did not himself republish, and others which he published but afterwards suppressed, should not now be printed. The suppression of some of these by the poet himself is as unaccountable, as is his omission of certain stanzas in the earlier poems from their later versions. Even the Cambridge Installation Ode, which is so feeble, will be reprinted.16 The Glowworm, which only appeared in the edition of 1807, will be republished in full. Andrew Jones,—also suppressed after appearing in "Lyrical Ballads" of 1800, 1802, and 1805,—will be replaced, in like manner. The youthful School Exercise written at Hawkshead, the translation from the Georgics of Virgil, the poem addressed To the Queen in 1846, will appear in their chronological place in vol. viii. There are also a translation of some French stanzas by Francis Wrangham on The Birth of Love-a poem entitled The Eagle and the Dove, which was privately printed in a volume, consisting chiefly of French fragments, and called La petite Chouannerie, ou Historie d'un College Breton sous l'Empire—a sonnet on the rebuilding of a church at Cardiff—an Election Squib written during the Lowther and Brougham contest for the representation of the county of Cumberland in 1818—some stanzas written in the Visitors' Book at the Ferry, Windermere, and other fragments. Then, since Wordsworth published some verses by his sister Dorothy in his own volumes, other unpublished fragments by Miss Wordsworth may find a place in this edition. I do not attach much importance, however, to the recovery of these unpublished poems. The truth is, as Sir Henry Taylor—himself a poet and critic of no mean order—remarked,17 "In these days, when a great man's path to posterity is likely to be more and more crowded, there is a tendency to create an obstruction, in the desire to give an impulse. To gather about a man's work all the details that can be found out about it is, in my opinion, to put a drag upon it; and, as of the Works, so of the Life."The industrious labour of some editors in disinterring the trivial works of great men is not a commendable industry. All great writers have occasionally written trifles—this is true even of Shakespeare—and if they wished them to perish, why should we seek to resuscitate them? Besides, this labour—whether due to the industry of admiring friends, or to the ambition of the literary resurrectionist—is futile; because the verdict of Time is sure, and posterity is certain to consign the recovered trivialities to kindly oblivion. The question which should invariably present itself to the editor of the fragments of a great writer is, "Can these bones live?" If they cannot, they had better never see the light. Indeed the only good reason for reprinting the fragments which have been lost (because the author himself attached no value to them), is that, in a complete collection of the works of a great man, some of them may have a biographic or psychological value. But have we any right to reproduce, from an antiquarian motive, what—in a literary sense—is either trivial, or feeble, or sterile? We must, however, distinguish between what is suitable for an edition meant either to popularise an author, or to interpret him, and an edition intended to bring together all that is worthy of preservation for posterity. There is great truth in what Mr. Arnold has lately said of Byron: "I question whether by reading everything which he gives us, we are so likely to acquire an admiring sense, even of his variety and abundance, as by reading what he gives us at his happier moments. Receive him absolutely without omission and compromise, follow his whole outpouring, stanza by stanza, and line by line, from the very commencement to the very end, and he is capable of being tiresome."18This is quite true; nevertheless, English literature demands a complete edition of all the works of Byron: and it may be safely predicted that, for weightier reasons and with greater urgency, it will continue to call for the collected works of Wordsworth. It should also be noted that the fact of Wordsworth's having dictated to Miss Fenwick (so late as 1843) a stanza from The Convict in his note to The Lament of Mary Queen of Scots (1817), justifies the inclusion of the whole of that (suppressed) poem in such an edition as this. The fact that Wordsworth did not republish all his Poems, in his final edition of 1849-50, is not conclusive evidence that he thought them unworthy of preservation, and reproduction. It must be remembered that The Prelude itself was a posthumous publication; and also that the fragmentary canto of The Recluse, entitled "Home at Grasmere"—as well as the other canto published in 1886, and entitled (most prosaically) "Composed when a probability existed of our being obliged to quit Rydal Mount as a residence"—were not published by the poet himself. I am of opinion that his omission of the stanzas beginning: Among all lovely things my Love had been,and of the sonnet on his Voyage down the Rhine, was due to sheer forgetfulness of their existence. Few poets remember all their past, fugitive, productions. At the same time, there are other fragments,—written when he was experimenting with his theme, and when the inspiration of genius had forsaken him,—which it is unfortunate that he did not himself destroy. Among the Poems which Wordsworth suppressed, in his final edition, is the Latin translation of The Somnambulist by his son. This will be republished, more especially as it was included by Wordsworth himself in the second edition of his "Yarrow Revisited." It may be well to mention the repetitions which are inevitable in this edition,
Wisdom and Spirit of the universe,will be printed both by themselves in their chronological place, and in the longer poem of which they form a part, according to the original plan of their author. |
Fresh springs of green boxwood, not six months before.In the 'errata' of the edition of 1836 this is corrected to "fresh sprigs." There are other 'errata', which remained in the edition of 1849-50, e.g., in 'Rob Roy's Grave', "Vools" for "Veols," and mistakes in quotations from other poets, such as "invention" for "instruction," in Wither's poem on the Daisy. These are corrected without mention.
"Of the Poems in this class, "The Evening Walk" and "Descriptive Sketches" were first published in 1793. They are reprinted with some unimportant alterations that were chiefly made very soon after their publication. It would have been easy to amend them, in many passages, both as to sentiment and expression, and I have not been altogether able to resist the temptation: but attempts of this kind are made at the risk of injuring those characteristic features, which, after all, will be regarded as the principal recommendation of juvenile poems."In 1836 "unimportant" was erased before "alterations"; and after "temptation" the following was added, "as will be obvious to the attentive reader, in some instances: these are few, for I am aware that attempts of this kind," etc.
"The above, which was written some time ago, scarcely applies to the Poem, 'Descriptive Sketches', as it now stands. The corrections, though numerous, are not, however, such as to prevent its retaining with propriety a place in the class of 'Juvenile Pieces.'"In the editions of 1845 and 1849, Wordsworth called his "Juvenile Pieces," "Poems written in Youth."—Ed.
"Dear native regions," etc., 1786, Hawkshead. The beautiful image with which this poem concludes suggested itself to me while I was resting in a boat along with my companions under the shade of a magnificent row of sycamores, which then extended their branches from the shore of the promontory upon which stands the ancient, and at that time the more picturesque, Hall of Coniston, the Seat of the Le Flemings from very early times. The Poem of which it was the conclusion, was of many hundred lines, and contained thoughts and images, most of which have been dispersed through my other writings.—I. F.In the editions 1815 to 1832, the title given to this poem was 'Extract from the conclusion of a Poem, composed upon leaving School'. The row of sycamores at Hawkshead, referred to in the Fenwick note, no longer exists.
" .... I wrote, while yet a schoolboy, a long poem running upon my own adventures, and the scenery of the county in which I was brought up. The only part of that poem which has been preserved is the conclusion of it, which stands at the beginning of my collected Poems."AIn the eighth book of 'The Prelude', (lines 468-475), this fragment is introduced, and there Wordsworth tells us that once, when boating on Coniston Lake (Thurston-mere) in his boyhood, he entered under a grove of trees on its "western marge," and glided "along the line of low-roofed water," "as in a cloister." He adds,
while, in that shadeEd.
Loitering, I watched the golden beams of light
Flung from the setting sun, as they reposed
In silent beauty on the naked ridge
Of a high eastern hill—thus flowed my thoughts
In a pure stream of words fresh from the heart:
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| Dear native regions, I foretell, From what I feel at this farewell, That, wheresoe'er my steps may tend, And whensoe'er my course shall end, If in that hour a single tie Survive of local sympathy, My soul will cast the backward view, The longing look alone on you. Thus, while the Sun sinks down to rest Far in the regions of the west, Though to the vale no parting beam Be given, not one memorial gleam, A lingering light he fondly throws On the dear hills where first he rose. |
1 2 3 4 5 |
B |
5 10 |
| 1832 | |
... shall |
1815 |
| 1815 | |
That, when the close of life draws near, |
MS. |
| 1845. | |
Thus, when the Sun, prepared for rest, |
1815. |
Thus, from the precincts of the West, |
1832. |
... while sinking ... |
1836. |
Hath reached the precincts ... |
MS. |
| 1815 | |
A lingering lustre fondly throws |
1832 |
| 1815 | |
On the dear mountain-tops ... |
1820 |
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| Calm is all nature as a resting wheel. The kine are couched upon the dewy grass; The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass, Is cropping audibly his later meal: Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky. Now, in this blank of things, a harmony, Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal That grief for which the senses still supply Fresh food; for only then, when memory Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrain Those busy cares that would allay my pain; Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel The officious touch that makes me droop again. |
1 2 |
C |
5 10 |
Whose stealing pace and lengthened shade we fear,Ed.
Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear.
| 1827 | |
Is up, and cropping yet ... |
1807 |
| 1838 | |
... seems ... |
1807 |
The young Lady to whom this was addressed was my Sister. It was composed at School, and during my first two College vacations. There is not an image in it which I have not observed; and, now in my seventy-third year, I recollect the time and place, when most of them were noticed. I will confine myself to one instance:The title of this poem, as first published in 1793, was An Evening Walk. An epistle; in verse. Addressed to a Young Lady, from the Lakes of the North of England. By W. Wordsworth, B.A., of St. John's, Cambridge. Extracts from it were published in all the collected editions of the poems under the general title of "Juvenile Pieces," from 1815 to 1843; and, in 1845 and 1849, of "Poems written in Youth." The following prefatory note to the "Juvenile Pieces" occurs in the editions 1820 to 1832.Waving his hat, the shepherd, from the vale,I was an eye-witness of this for the first time while crossing the Pass of Dunmail Raise. Upon second thought, I will mention another image:
Directs his winding dog the cliffs to scale,—
The dog, loud barking, 'mid the glittering rocks,
Hunts, where his master points, the intercepted flocks.And, fronting the bright west, yon oak entwinesThis is feebly and imperfectly expressed, but I recollect distinctly the very spot where this first struck me. It was on the way between Hawkshead and Ambleside, and gave me extreme pleasure. The moment was important in my poetical history; for I date from it my consciousness of the infinite variety of natural appearances which had been unnoticed by the poets of any age or country, so far as I was acquainted with them; and I made a resolution to supply in some degree the deficiency. I could not have been at that time above fourteen years of age. The description of the swans, that follows, was taken from the daily opportunities I had of observing their habits, not as confined to the gentleman's park, but in a state of nature. There were two pairs of them that divided the lake of Esthwaite, and its in-and-out flowing streams, between them, never trespassing a single yard upon each other's separate domain. They were of the old magnificent species, bearing in beauty and majesty about the same relation to the Thames swan which that does to the goose. It was from the remembrance of those noble creatures, I took, thirty years after, the picture of the swan which I have discarded from the poem of 'Dion'. While I was a schoolboy, the late Mr. Curwen introduced a little fleet of these birds, but of the inferior species, to the lake of Windermere. Their principal home was about his own island; but they sailed about into remote parts of the lake, and either from real or imagined injury done to the adjoining fields, they were got rid of at the request of the farmers and proprietors, but to the great regret of all who had become attached to them from noticing their beauty and quiet habits. I will conclude my notice of this poem by observing that the plan of it has not been confined to a particular walk, or an individual place; a proof (of which I was unconscious at the time) of my unwillingness to submit the poetic spirit to the chains of fact and real circumstance. The country is idealised rather than described in any one of its local aspects.—I. F.
Its darkening boughs and leaves, in stronger lines.
cross-reference: return to Footnote A of The Idiot Boy
"They are reprinted with some unimportant alterations that were chiefly made very soon after their publication. It would have been easy to amend them, in many passages, both as to sentiment and expression, and I have not been altogether able to resist the temptation: but attempts of this kind are made at the risk of injuring those characteristic features, which, after all, will be regarded as the principal recommendation of juvenile poems."To this, Wordsworth added, in 1836,
"The above, which was written some time ago, scarcely applies to the Poem, Descriptive Sketches, as it now stands. The corrections, though numerous, are not, however, such as to prevent its retaining with propriety a place in the class of 'Juvenile Pieces.'"In May 1794 Wordsworth wrote to his friend Mathews,
"It was with great reluctance that I sent these two little works into the world in so imperfect a state. But as I had done nothing at the University, I thought these little things might show that I could do something."Wordsworth's notes to this poem are printed from the edition of 1793. Slight variations in the text of these notes in subsequent editions, in the spelling of proper names, and in punctuation, are not noted.—Ed.
'General Sketch of the Lakes—
Author's regret of his Youth which was passed amongst them—
Short description of Noon—
Cascade—
Noon-tide Retreat—
Precipice and sloping Lights—
Face of Nature as the Sun declines—
Mountain-farm, and the Cock—
Slate-quarry—
Sunset—
Superstition of the Country connected with that moment—
Swans—
Female Beggar—
Twilight-sounds—
Western Lights—
Spirits—
Night—
Moonlight—
Hope—
Night-sounds—
Conclusion'.
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| Far from my dearest Friend, 'tis mine to rove Through bare grey dell, high wood, and pastoral cove; Where Derwent rests, and listens to the roar That stuns the tremulous cliffs of high Lodore; Where peace to Grasmere's lonely island leads, To willowy hedge-rows, and to emerald meads; Leads to her bridge, rude church, and cottaged grounds, Her rocky sheepwalks, and her woodland bounds; Where, undisturbed by winds, Winander sleeps 'Mid clustering isles, and holly-sprinkled steeps; Where twilight glens endear my Esthwaite's shore, And memory of departed pleasures, more. Fair scenes, erewhile, I taught, a happy child, The echoes of your rocks my carols wild: The spirit sought not then, in cherished sadness, A cloudy substitute for failing gladness. In youth's keen eye the livelong day was bright, The sun at morning, and the stars at night, Alike, when first the bittern's hollow bill Was heard, or woodcocks roamed the moonlight hill. In thoughtless gaiety I coursed the plain, And hope itself was all I knew of pain; For then, the inexperienced heart would beat At times, while young Content forsook her seat, And wild Impatience, pointing upward, showed, Through passes yet unreached, a brighter road. Alas! the idle tale of man is found Depicted in the dial's moral round; Hope with reflection blends her social rays To gild the total tablet of his days; Yet still, the sport of some malignant power, He knows but from its shade the present hour. But why, ungrateful, dwell on idle pain? To show what pleasures yet to me remain, Say, will my Friend, with unreluctant ear, The history of a poet's evening hear? When, in the south, the wan noon, brooding still, Breathed a pale steam around the glaring hill, And shades of deep-embattled clouds were seen, Spotting the northern cliffs with lights between; When crowding cattle, checked by rails that make A fence far stretched into the shallow lake, Lashed the cool water with their restless tails, Or from high points of rock looked out for fanning gales; When school-boys stretched their length upon the green; And round the broad-spread oak, a glimmering scene, In the rough fern-clad park, the herded deer Shook the still-twinkling tail and glancing ear; When horses in the sunburnt intake stood, And vainly eyed below the tempting flood, Or tracked the passenger, in mute distress, With forward neck the closing gate to press— Then, while I wandered where the huddling rill Brightens with water-breaks the hollow ghyll As by enchantment, an obscure retreat Opened at once, and stayed my devious feet. While thick above the rill the branches close, In rocky basin its wild waves repose, Inverted shrubs, and moss of gloomy green, Cling from the rocks, with pale wood-weeds between; And its own twilight softens the whole scene, Save where aloft the subtle sunbeams shine On withered briars that o'er the crags recline; Save where, with sparkling foam, a small cascade, Illumines, from within, the leafy shade; Beyond, along the vista of the brook, Where antique roots its bustling course o'erlook, The eye reposes on a secret bridge Half grey, half shagged with ivy to its ridge; There, bending o'er the stream, the listless swain Lingers behind his disappearing wain. —Did Sabine grace adorn my living line, Blandusia's praise, wild stream, should yield to thine! Never shall ruthless minister of death 'Mid thy soft glooms the glittering steel unsheath; No goblets shall, for thee, be crowned with flowers, No kid with piteous outcry thrill thy bowers; The mystic shapes that by thy margin rove A more benignant sacrifice approve— A mind, that, in a calm angelic mood Of happy wisdom, meditating good, Beholds, of all from her high powers required, Much done, and much designed, and more desired,— Harmonious thoughts, a soul by truth refined, Entire affection for all human kind. Dear Brook, farewell! To-morrow's noon again Shall hide me, wooing long thy wildwood strain; But now the sun has gained his western road, And eve's mild hour invites my steps abroad. While, near the midway cliff, the silvered kite In many a whistling circle wheels her flight; Slant watery lights, from parting clouds, apace Travel along the precipice's base; Cheering its naked waste of scattered stone, By lichens grey, and scanty moss, o'ergrown; Where scarce the foxglove peeps, or thistle's beard; And restless stone-chat, all day long, is heard. How pleasant, as the sun declines, to view The spacious landscape change in form and hue! Here, vanish, as in mist, before a flood Of bright obscurity, hill, lawn, and wood; There, objects, by the searching beams betrayed, Come forth, and here retire in purple shade; Even the white stems of birch, the cottage white, Soften their glare before the mellow light; The skiffs, at anchor where with umbrage wide Yon chestnuts half the latticed boat-house hide, Shed from their sides, that face the sun's slant beam, Strong flakes of radiance on the tremulous stream: Raised by yon travelling flock, a dusty cloud Mounts from the road, and spreads its moving shroud; The shepherd, all involved in wreaths of fire, Now shows a shadowy speck, and now is lost entire. Into a gradual calm the breezes sink, A blue rim borders all the lake's still brink; There doth the twinkling aspen's foliage sleep, And insects clothe, like dust, the glassy deep: And now, on every side, the surface breaks Into blue spots, and slowly lengthening streaks; Here, plots of sparkling water tremble bright With thousand thousand twinkling points of light; There, waves that, hardly weltering, die away, Tip their smooth ridges with a softer ray; And now the whole wide lake in deep repose Is hushed, and like a burnished mirror glows, Save where, along the shady western marge, Coasts, with industrious oar, the charcoal barge. Their panniered train a group of potters goad, Winding from side to side up the steep road; The peasant, from yon cliff of fearful edge Shot, down the headlong path darts with his sledge; Bright beams the lonely mountain-horse illume Feeding 'mid purple heath, "green rings," and broom; While the sharp slope the slackened team confounds, Downward the ponderous timber-wain resounds; In foamy breaks the rill, with merry song, Dashed o'er the rough rock, lightly leaps along; From lonesome chapel at the mountain's feet, Three humble bells their rustic chime repeat; Sounds from the water-side the hammered boat; And 'blasted' quarry thunders, heard remote! Even here, amid the sweep of endless woods, Blue pomp of lakes, high cliffs and falling floods, Not undelightful are the simplest charms, Found by the grassy door of mountain-farms. Sweetly ferocious, round his native walks, Pride of his sister-wives, the monarch stalks; Spur-clad his nervous feet, and firm his tread; A crest of purple tops the warrior's head. Bright sparks his black and rolling eye-ball hurls Afar, his tail he closes and unfurls; On tiptoe reared, he strains his clarion throat, Threatened by faintly-answering farms remote: Again with his shrill voice the mountain rings, While, flapped with conscious pride, resound his wings! Where, mixed with graceful birch, the sombrous pine And yew-tree o'er the silver rocks recline; I love to mark the quarry's moving trains, Dwarf panniered steeds, and men, and numerous wains: How busy all the enormous hive within, While Echo dallies with its various din! Some (hear you not their chisels' clinking sound?) Toil, small as pigmies in the gulf profound; Some, dim between the lofty cliffs descried, O'erwalk the slender plank from side to side; These, by the pale-blue rocks that ceaseless ring, In airy baskets hanging, work and sing. Just where a cloud above the mountain rears An edge all flame, the broadening sun appears; A long blue bar its ćgis orb divides, And breaks the spreading of its golden tides; And now that orb has touched the purple steep Whose softened image penetrates the deep. 'Cross the calm lake's blue shades the cliffs aspire, With towers and woods, a "prospect all on fire"; While coves and secret hollows, through a ray Of fainter gold, a purple gleam betray. Each slip of lawn the broken rocks between Shines in the light with more than earthly green: Deep yellow beams the scattered stems illume, Far in the level forest's central gloom: Waving his hat, the shepherd, from the vale, Directs his winding dog the cliffs to scale,— The dog, loud barking, 'mid the glittering rocks, Hunts, where his master points, the intercepted flocks. Where oaks o'erhang the road the radiance shoots On tawny earth, wild weeds, and twisted roots; The druid-stones a brightened ring unfold; And all the babbling brooks are liquid gold; Sunk to a curve, the day-star lessens still, Gives one bright glance, and drops behind the hill. In these secluded vales, if village fame, Confirmed by hoary hairs, belief may claim; When up the hills, as now, retired the light, Strange apparitions mocked the shepherd's sight. The form appears of one that spurs his steed Midway along the hill with desperate speed; Unhurt pursues his lengthened flight, while all Attend, at every stretch, his headlong fall. Anon, appears a brave, a gorgeous show Of horsemen-shadows moving to and fro; At intervals imperial banners stream, And now the van reflects the solar beam; The rear through iron brown betrays a sullen gleam. While silent stands the admiring crowd below, Silent the visionary warriors go, Winding in ordered pomp their upward way Till the last banner of their long array Has disappeared, and every trace is fled Of splendour—save the beacon's spiry head Tipt with eve's latest gleam of burning red. Now, while the solemn evening shadows sail, On slowly-waving pinions, down the vale; And, fronting the bright west, yon oak entwines Its darkening boughs and leaves, in stronger lines; 'Tis pleasant near the tranquil lake to stray Where, winding on along some secret bay, The swan uplifts his chest, and backward flings His neck, a varying arch, between his towering wings: The eye that marks the gliding creature sees How graceful, pride can be, and how majestic, ease. While tender cares and mild domestic loves With furtive watch pursue her as she moves, The female with a meeker charm succeeds, And her brown little-ones around her leads, Nibbling the water lilies as they pass, Or playing wanton with the floating grass. She, in a mother's care, her beauty's pride Forgetting, calls the wearied to her side; Alternately they mount her back, and rest Close by her mantling wings' embraces prest. Long may they float upon this flood serene; Theirs be these holms untrodden, still, and green, Where leafy shades fence off the blustering gale, And breathes in peace the lily of the vale! Yon isle, which feels not even the milk-maid's feet, Yet hears her song, "by distance made more sweet," Yon isle conceals their home, their hut-like bower; Green water-rushes overspread the floor; Long grass and willows form the woven wall, And swings above the roof the poplar tall. Thence issuing often with unwieldy stalk, They crush with broad black feet their flowery walk; Or, from the neighbouring water, hear at morn The hound, the horse's tread, and mellow horn; Involve their serpent-necks in changeful rings, Rolled wantonly between their slippery wings, Or, starting up with noise and rude delight, Force half upon the wave their cumbrous flight. Fair Swan! by all a mother's joys caressed, Haply some wretch has eyed, and called thee blessed; When with her infants, from some shady seat By the lake's edge, she rose—to face the noontide heat; Or taught their limbs along the dusty road A few short steps to totter with their load. I see her now, denied to lay her head, On cold blue nights, in hut or straw-built shed, Turn to a silent smile their sleepy cry, By pointing to the gliding moon on high. —When low-hung clouds each star of summer hide, And fireless are the valleys far and wide, Where the brook brawls along the public road Dark with bat-haunted ashes stretching broad, Oft has she taught them on her lap to lay The shining glow-worm; or, in heedless play, Toss it from hand to hand, disquieted; While others, not unseen, are free to shed Green unmolested light upon their mossy bed. Oh! when the sleety showers her path assail, And like a torrent roars the headstrong gale; No more her breath can thaw their fingers cold, Their frozen arms her neck no more can fold; Weak roof a cowering form two babes to shield, And faint the fire a dying heart can yield! Press the sad kiss, fond mother! vainly fears Thy flooded cheek to wet them with its tears; No tears can chill them, and no bosom warms, Thy breast their death-bed, coffined in thine arms! Sweet are the sounds that mingle from afar, Heard by calm lakes, as peeps the folding star, Where the duck dabbles 'mid the rustling sedge, And feeding pike starts from the water's edge, Or the swan stirs the reeds, his neck and bill Wetting, that drip upon the water still; And heron, as resounds the trodden shore, Shoots upward, darting his long neck before. Now, with religious awe, the farewell light Blends with the solemn colouring of night; 'Mid groves of clouds that crest the mountain's brow, And round the west's proud lodge their shadows throw, Like Una shining on her gloomy way, The half-seen form of Twilight roams astray; Shedding, through paly loop-holes mild and small, Gleams that upon the lake's still bosom fall; Soft o'er the surface creep those lustres pale Tracking the motions of the fitful gale. With restless interchange at once the bright Wins on the shade, the shade upon the light. No favoured eye was e'er allowed to gaze On lovelier spectacle in faery days; When gentle Spirits urged a sportive chase, Brushing with lucid wands the water's face; While music, stealing round the glimmering deeps, Charmed the tall circle of the enchanted steeps. —The lights are vanished from the watery plains: No wreck of all the pageantry remains. Unheeded night has overcome the vales: On the dark earth the wearied vision fails; The latest lingerer of the forest train, The lone black fir, forsakes the faded plain; Last evening sight, the cottage smoke, no more, Lost in the thickened darkness, glimmers hoar; And, towering from the sullen dark-brown mere, Like a black wall, the mountain-steeps appear. —Now o'er the soothed accordant heart we feel A sympathetic twilight slowly steal, And ever, as we fondly muse, we find The soft gloom deepening on the tranquil mind. Stay! pensive, sadly-pleasing visions, stay! Ah no! as fades the vale, they fade away: Yet still the tender, vacant gloom remains; Still the cold cheek its shuddering tear retains. The bird, who ceased, with fading light, to thread Silent the hedge or steamy rivulet's bed, From his grey re-appearing tower shall soon Salute with gladsome note the rising moon, While with a hoary light she frosts the ground, And pours a deeper blue to Ćther's bound; Pleased, as she moves, her pomp of clouds to fold In robes of azure, fleecy-white, and gold. Above yon eastern hill, where darkness broods O'er all its vanished dells, and lawns, and woods; Where but a mass of shade the sight can trace, Even now she shows, half-veiled, her lovely face: Across the gloomy valley flings her light, Far to the western slopes with hamlets white; And gives, where woods the chequered upland strew, To the green corn of summer, autumn's hue. Thus Hope, first pouring from her blessed horn Her dawn, far lovelier than the moon's own morn, 'Till higher mounted, strives in vain to cheer The weary hills, impervious, blackening near; Yet does she still, undaunted, throw the while On darling spots remote her tempting smile. Even now she decks for me a distant scene, (For dark and broad the gulf of time between) Gilding that cottage with her fondest ray, (Sole bourn, sole wish, sole object of my way; How fair its lawns and sheltering woods appear! How sweet its streamlet murmurs in mine ear!) Where we, my Friend, to happy days shall rise, 'Till our small share of hardly-paining sighs (For sighs will ever trouble human breath) Creep hushed into the tranquil breast of death. But now the clear bright Moon her zenith gains, And, rimy without speck, extend the plains: The deepest cleft the mountain's front displays Scarce hides a shadow from her searching rays; From the dark-blue faint silvery threads divide The hills, while gleams below the azure tide; Time softly treads; throughout the landscape breathes A peace enlivened, not disturbed, by wreaths Of charcoal-smoke, that o'er the fallen wood, Steal down the hill, and spread along the flood. The song of mountain-streams, unheard by day, Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward way. Air listens, like the sleeping water, still, To catch the spiritual music of the hill, Broke only by the slow clock tolling deep, Or shout that wakes the ferry-man from sleep, The echoed hoof nearing the distant shore, The boat's first motion—made with dashing oar; Sound of closed gate, across the water borne, Hurrying the timid hare through rustling corn; The sportive outcry of the mocking owl; And at long intervals the mill-dog's howl; The distant forge's swinging thump profound; Or yell, in the deep woods, of lonely hound. |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 / 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 / 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 |
C D E F G H J K L M N P Q R S T U |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 90 95 100 105 110 115 120 125 130 135 140 145 150 155 160 165 170 175 180 185 190 195 200 205 210 215 220 225 230 235 240 245 250 255 260 265 270 275 280 285 290 295 300 305 310 315 320 325 330 335 340 345 350 355 360 365 370 375 380 |
| 1836 | |
His wizard course where hoary Derwent takes |
1793 1827 |
| 1836 | |
Where, bosom'd deep, the shy Winander peeps |
1793. 1827 |
| 1836 | |
Fair scenes! with other eyes, than once, I gaze, |
1793 1820 |
| 1820 | |
... wild ... |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
... stars of night, |
1793 1820 |
| 1820 | |
Return Delights! with whom my road begun, |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
For then, ev'n then, the little heart would beat |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
And wild Impatience, panting upward, show'd |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
With Hope Reflexion blends her social rays |
1793 |
| 1820 | |
While, Memory at my side, I wander here, |
| 1820 | |
To shew her yet some joys to me remain, |
1793 |
| 1820 | |
... with soft affection's ear, |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
... with lights between; |
1793 1820 |
| 1836 | |
And round the humming elm, a glimmering scene! |
1793 1820 |
| 1820 | |
When horses in the wall-girt intake stood, |
1793 |
| 1845 | |
—Then Quiet led me up the huddling rill, |
1793 1820 1836 |
| 1820 | |
To where, while thick above the branches close, |
1793 |
| 1845 | |
But see aloft the subtle sunbeams shine, |
C. MS. |
| 1845 | |
Sole light admitted here, a small cascade, |
1820 |
| 1827 | |
... path ... |
1793 |
| 1845 | |
Whence hangs, in the cool shade, the listless swain |
1820 |
| 1845 | |
—Sweet rill, ... |
1793 |
| 1820 | |
... and ... |
1793 |
| 1845 | |
And desert ... |
1793 |
| 1820 | |
How pleasant, as the yellowing sun declines, |
1793 |
| 1845 | |
... zephyrs ... |
1820 |
| 1845 | |
And now the universal tides repose, |
1820 |
| 1845 | |
The sails are dropped, the poplar's foliage sleeps, |
This couplet followed l. 127 from 1820 to 1843. |
| 1820 | |
Shot, down the headlong pathway darts his sledge; |
1793 |
| 1820 | |
Beside their shelteringi cross of wall, the flock |
Only in the edition of 1793. |
| 1820 | |
Dashed down ... |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
... verdant ... |
1793 |
| 1820 | |
Gazed by ... |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
... his warrior head. |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
... haggard ... |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
Whose state, like pine-trees, waving to and fro, |
This couplet was inserted in the editions 1793 to 1832. |
| 1820 | |
... blows ... |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
Bright'ning the cliffs between where sombrous pine, |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
How busy the enormous hive within, |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
... with the ... |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
Some hardly heard their chissel's clinking sound, |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
... th' aëreal ... |
1793 |
| 1815 | |
... viewless ... |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
Glad from their airy baskets hang and sing. |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
Hung o'er a cloud, above the steep that rears |
1793 |
| 1820 | |
It's ... |
1793 |
| 1845 | |
And now it touches on the purple steep |
1793 1832 1836 |
| 1836 | |
The coves ... |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
The gilded turn arrays in richer green |
1793 1820 |
| 1827 | |
... boles ... |
1793 |
| 1827 | |
... in ... |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
That, barking busy 'mid the glittering rocks, |
1793 |
| 1845 | |
The Druid stonesii their lighted fane unfold, |
1793 1836 |
| 1827 | |
... sinks ... |
1793 |
| 1845 | |
In these lone vales, if aught of faith may claim, |
1793 1820 1836 |
| 1836 | |
A desperate form appears, that spurs his steed, |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
Anon, in order mounts a gorgeous show |
1793 |
| 1820 | |
... is gilt with evening's beam, |
1793 |
| 1849 | |
... of the ... |
1836 |
| 1836 | |
Lost gradual o'er the heights in pomp they go, |
1793 1820 |
| 1836 | |
On red slow-waving pinions ... |
1793 |
| 1820 | |
And, fronting the bright west in stronger lines, |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
I love beside the glowing lake to stray, |
1793 1815 |
| 1836 | |
... to stray, |
1793 1813 1815 |
| 1836 | |
He swells his lifted chest, and backward flings |
1793 1815 |
| 1845 | |
... her beauty's pride |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
Long may ye roam these hermit waves that sleep, |
1793 1827 |
| 1820 | |
Where, tho' her far-off twilight ditty steal, |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
Yon tuft conceals your home, your cottage bow'r. |
1793 1820 |
| 1836 | |
Thence issuing oft, unwieldly as ye stalk, |
1793 1820 |
| 1820 | |
Safe from your door ye hear at breezy morn, |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
... and mellow horn; |
1793 1820 |
| 1836 | |
Fair Swan! by all a mother's joys caress'd, |
1793 |
... and called thee bless'd; |
1820 1832 |
| 1845 | |
... a shooting star ... |
1793 |
| 1845 | |
I hear, while in the forest depth he sees, |
1793-1832 1836 1836 |
| 1836 | |
... painful ... |
1793 |
| 1820 | |
The distant clock forgot, and chilling dew, |
Only in the edition of 1793. |
| 1836 | |
... on her lap to play |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
Oh! when the bitter showers her path assail, |
1793 1827 |
| 1827 | |
Scarce heard, their chattering lips her shoulder chill, |
1793 |
| 1820 | |
Soon shall the Light'ning hold before thy head |
Only in the edition of 1793. |
| 1820 | |
While, by the scene compos'd, the breast subsides, |
Only in the edition of 1793. |
| 1845 | |
... of the night; |
1793 |
| 1815 | |
Thence, from three paly loopholes mild and small, |
1793 |
| 1827 | |
Beyond the mountain's giant reach that hides |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
Soft o'er the surface creep the lustres pale |
1793 1815 |
| 1815 | |
—'Tis restless magic all; at once the brightvi |
Only in the edition of 1793. |
| 1836 | |
The bird, with fading light who ceas'd to thread |
1793 1815 |
| 1836 | |
Salute with boding note the rising moon, |
1793 |
And pleased her solemn pomp of clouds to fold |
1815 |
| 1836 | |
Now o'er the eastern hill, ... |
1793 1815 |
| 1836 | |
She lifts in silence up her lovely face; |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
Above ... |
1793 |
| 1815 | |
... silvery ... |
1793 |
| 1815 | |
... golden ... |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
The deepest dell the mountain's breast displays, |
1793 1820 |
| 1836 | |
The scene is waken'd, yet its peace unbroke, |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
All air is, as the sleeping water, still, |
1793 1832 |
| 1836 | |
Soon follow'd by his hollow-parting oar, |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
... the feeding ... |
1793 |
| 1836 | |
The tremulous sob of the complaining owl; |
1793 |
November chill blaws loud, wi' angry sugh. Ed.
"So break those glittering shadows, human joys"(Young).—W. W. 1793.
"Charming the night-calm with her powerful song."A line of one of our older poets.—W. W. 1793.
"Charms with her excellent voice an awful silence through all this building."Ed.
Not a passing breezeand see note A to page 31.—Ed.
Sigh'd to the grove, which in the midnight air
Stood motionless, and in the peaceful floods
Inverted hung.
Save that, atop, the subtle ...Subsequent editions previous to 1845 have
Save that aloft ...Ed.
"Vivid rings of green."Greenwood's Poem on Shooting.—W. W. 1793.
"Down the rough slope the pondrous waggon rings."Beattie.—W. W.
"Dolcemente feroce."Tasso.
and now a golden curve,Ed.
Gives one bright glance, then total disappears.
"Southen-fell side, as seen on the 25th of June 1744 by William Lancaster of Blakehills, and a farm servant, David Strichet:This interesting optical illusion—which suggests the wonderful island in the Atlantic, seen from the isles of Aran near Galway, alluded to in the Chorographical description of West, or H-Ier-Connaught, of R. O'Flaherty—was caused by the peculiar angle of the light from the setting sun, the reflection of the water of the Solway, and the refraction of the vapour and clouds above the Solway. These aerial and visionary horsemen were being exercised somewhere above the Kirkcudbright shore. It was not the first time the phenomenon had been seen within historic times, on the same fell-side, and at the same time of year. Canon Rawnsley writes to me,
"These visionary horsemen seemed to come from the lowest part of Southen-fell, and became visible just at a place called Knott. They then moved in regular troops along the side of the fell, till they came opposite Blakehills, when they went over the mountain. Then they described a kind of curvilinear path upon the side of the fell, and both these first and last appearances were bounded by the top of the mountain.
"Frequently the last, or last but one, in a troop would leave his place, and gallop to the front, and then take the same pace with the rest—a regular swift walk. Thus changes happened to every troop (for many troops appeared) and oftener than once or twice, yet not at all times alike.... Nor was this phenomenon seen at Blakehill only, it was seen by every person at every cottage within the distance of a mile. Neither was it confined to a momentary view, for from the time that Strichet first observed it, the appearance must have lasted at least two hours and a half, viz. from half past seven till the night coming on prevented further view."
"I have an idea that the fact that it took place at midsummer eve (June 27), the eve of the Feast of St. John, upon which occasion the shepherds hereabout used to light bonfires on the hills (no doubt a relic of the custom of the Beltane fires of old Norse days, perhaps of earlier sun-worship festivals of British times), may have had something to do with the naming of the mountain Blencathara of which Southen-fell (or Shepherd's-fell, as the name implies) is part. Blencathara, we are told, may mean the Hill of Demons, or the haunted hill. My suggestion is that the old sun-worshippers, who met in midsummer eve on Castrigg at the Druid circle or Donn-ring, saw just the same phenomenon as Strichet and Lancaster saw upon Southen-fell, and hence the name. Nay, perhaps the Druid circle was built where it is, because it was well in view of the Demon Hill."Ed.
... Her angel faceW. W. 1793.
As the great eye of Heaven shined bright,
And made a sunshine in that shady place.
But the soft murmur of swift-gushing rills,This Dr. John Brown—a singularly versatile English divine (1717-1766)—was one of the first, as Wordsworth pointed put, to lead the way to a true estimate of the English Lakes. His description of the Vale of Keswick, in a letter to a friend, is as fine as anything in Gray's Journal. Wordsworth himself quotes the lines given in this footnote in the first section of his Guide through the District of the Lakes.—Ed.
Forth issuing from the mountain's distant steep
(Unheard till now, and now scarce heard), proclaim'd
All things at rest.
This title is scarcely correct. It was during a solitary walk on the banks of the Cam that I was first struck with this appearance, and applied it to my own feelings in the manner here expressed, changing the scene to the Thames, near Windsor. This, and the three stanzas of the following poem, Remembrance of Collins, formed one piece; but, upon the recommendation of Coleridge, the three last stanzas were separated from the other.—I. F.The title of the poem in 1798, when it consisted of five stanzas, was Lines written near Richmond, upon the Thames, at Evening. When, in the edition of 1800, it was divided, the title of the first part was, Lines written when sailing in a Boat at Evening; that of the second part was Lines written near Richmond upon the Thames.
| text | variant | line number |
| How richly glows the water's breast Before us, tinged with evening hues, While, facing thus the crimson west, The boat her silent course pursues! And see how dark the backward stream! A little moment past so smiling! And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, Some other loiterers beguiling. Such views the youthful Bard allure; But, heedless of the following gloom, He deems their colours shall endure Till peace go with him to the tomb. —And let him nurse his fond deceit, And what if he must die in sorrow! Who would not cherish dreams so sweet, Though grief and pain may come to-morrow? |
1 2 3 |
5 10 15 |
| 1815 | |
How rich the wave, in front, imprest |
1798 |
| 1802 | |
... path ... |
1798 |
| 1815 | |
... loiterer ... |
1798 |
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| Glide gently, thus for ever glide, O Thames! that other bards may see As lovely visions by thy side As now, fair river! come to me. O glide, fair stream! for ever so, Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, Till all our minds for ever flow As thy deep waters now are flowing. Vain thought!—Yet be as now thou art, That in thy waters may be seen The image of a poet's heart, How bright, how solemn, how serene! Such as did once the Poet bless, Who murmuring here a later ditty, Could find no refuge from distress But in the milder grief of pity. Now let us, as we float along, For him suspend the dashing oar; And pray that never child of song May know that Poet's sorrows more. How calm! how still! the only sound, The dripping of the oar suspended! —The evening darkness gathers round By virtue's holiest Powers attended. |
1 2 3 4 5 |
B C D |
5 10 15 20 |
| 1800 | |
Such heart did once the poet bless, |
1798 |
| 1815 | |
Who, pouring here a lateri ditty, |
1798 |
| 1802 | |
Remembrance, as we glide along, |
1798 1800 |
| 1802 | |
For him ... |
1798 |
| 1802 | |
May know his freezing sorrows more. |
1798 |
Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide.Ed.
Remembrance oft shall haunt the shoreAs Mr. Dowden suggests, the him was probably italicised by Wordsworth, "because the oar is suspended not for Thomson but for Collins." The italics were first used in the edition of 1802.—Ed.
When Thames in summer wreaths is drest.
And oft suspend the dashing oar
To bid his gentle spirit rest.
To the Rev. Robert Jones, Fellow of St. John's College, Cambridge
Dear SirB,—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 our having been companions among the Alps, seemed to give this dedication a propriety sufficient to do away any scruples which your modesty might otherwise have suggestedC.
In inscribing this little work to you, I consult my heart. You know well how great is the difference between two companions lolling in a post-chaise, and two travellers plodding slowly along the road, side by side, each with his little knapsack of necessaries upon his shoulders. How much more of heart between the two latter!
I am happy in being conscious that I shall have one reader who will approach the conclusion of these few pages with regret. You they must certainly interest, in reminding you of moments to which you can hardly look back without a pleasure not the less dear from a shade of melancholy. You will meet with few images without recollecting the spot where we observed them together; consequently, whatever is feeble in my design, or spiritless in my colouring, will be amply supplied by your own memory.
With still greater propriety I might have inscribed to you a description of some of the features of your native mountains, through which we have wandered together, in the same manner, with so much pleasure. But the sea-sunsets, which give such splendour to the vale of Clwyd, Snowdon, the chair of Idris, the quiet village of Bethgelert, Menai and her Druids, the Alpine steeps of the Conway, and the still more interesting windings of the wizard stream of the Dee, remain yet untouched. Apprehensive that my pencil may never be exercised on these subjects, I cannot let slip this opportunity of thus publicly assuring you with how much affection and esteem
I am, dear Sir,
Most sincerely yours,
W. Wordsworth.
London, 1793.
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| Were there, below, a spot of holy ground Where from distress a refuge might be found, And solitude prepare the soul for heaven; Sure, nature's God that spot to man had given Where falls the purple morning far and wide In flakes of light upon the mountain-side; Where with loud voice the power of water shakes The leafy wood, or sleeps in quiet lakes. Yet not unrecompensed the man shall roam, Who at the call of summer quits his home, And plods through some wide realm o'er vale and height, Though seeking only holiday delight; At least, not owning to himself an aim To which the sage would give a prouder name. No gains too cheaply earned his fancy cloy, Though every passing zephyr whispers joy; Brisk toil, alternating with ready ease, Feeds the clear current of his sympathies. For him sod-seats the cottage-door adorn; And peeps the far-off spire, his evening bourn! Dear is the forest frowning o'er his head, And dear the velvet green-sward to his tread: Moves there a cloud o'er mid-day's flaming eye? Upward he looks—"and calls it luxury:" Kind Nature's charities his steps attend; In every babbling brook he finds a friend; While chastening thoughts of sweetest use, bestowed By wisdom, moralise his pensive road. Host of his welcome inn, the noon-tide bower, To his spare meal he calls the passing poor; He views the sun uplift his golden fire, Or sink, with heart alive like Memnon's lyre; Blesses the moon that comes with kindly ray, To light him shaken by his rugged way. Back from his sight no bashful children steal; He sits a brother at the cottage-meal; His humble looks no shy restraint impart; Around him plays at will the virgin heart. While unsuspended wheels the village dance, The maidens eye him with enquiring glance, Much wondering by what fit of crazing care, Or desperate love, bewildered, he came there. A hope, that prudence could not then approve, That clung to Nature with a truant's love, O'er Gallia's wastes of corn my footsteps led; Her files of road-elms, high above my head In long-drawn vista, rustling in the breeze; Or where her pathways straggle as they please By lonely farms and secret villages. But lo! the Alps ascending white in air, Toy with the sun and glitter from afar. And now, emerging from the forest's gloom, I greet thee, Chartreuse, while I mourn thy doom. Whither is fled that Power whose frown severe Awed sober Reason till she crouched in fear? That Silence, once in deathlike fetters bound, Chains that were loosened only by the sound Of holy rites chanted in measured round? —The voice of blasphemy the fane alarms, The cloister startles at the gleam of arms. The thundering tube the aged angler hears, Bent o'er the groaning flood that sweeps away his tears. Cloud-piercing pine-trees nod their troubled heads, Spires, rocks, and lawns a browner night o'erspreads; Strong terror checks the female peasant's sighs, And start the astonished shades at female eyes. From Bruno's forest screams the affrighted jay, And slow the insulted eagle wheels away. A viewless flight of laughing Demons mock The Cross, by angels planted on the aërial rock. The "parting Genius" sighs with hollow breath Along the mystic streams of Life and Death. Swelling the outcry dull, that long resounds Portentous through her old woods' trackless bounds, Vallombre, 'mid her falling fanes deplores For ever broke, the sabbath of her bowers. More pleased, my foot the hidden margin roves Of Como, bosomed deep in chestnut groves. No meadows thrown between, the giddy steeps Tower, bare or sylvan, from the narrow deeps. —To towns, whose shades of no rude noise complain, From ringing team apart and grating wain— To flat-roofed towns, that touch the water's bound, Or lurk in woody sunless glens profound, Or, from the bending rocks, obtrusive cling, And o'er the whitened wave their shadows fling— The pathway leads, as round the steeps it twines; And Silence loves its purple roof of vines. The loitering traveller hence, at evening, sees From rock-hewn steps the sail between the trees; Or marks, 'mid opening cliffs, fair dark-eyed maids Tend the small harvest of their garden glades; Or stops the solemn mountain-shades to view Stretch o'er the pictured mirror broad and blue, And track the yellow lights from steep to steep, As up the opposing hills they slowly creep. Aloft, here, half a village shines, arrayed In golden light; half hides itself in shade: While, from amid the darkened roofs, the spire, Restlessly flashing, seems to mount like fire: There, all unshaded, blazing forests throw Rich golden verdure on the lake below. Slow glides the sail along the illumined shore, And steals into the shade the lazy oar; Soft bosoms breathe around contagious sighs, And amorous music on the water dies. How blest, delicious scene! the eye that greets Thy open beauties, or thy lone retreats; Beholds the unwearied sweep of wood that scales Thy cliffs; the endless waters of thy vales; Thy lowly cots that sprinkle all the shore, Each with its household boat beside the door; Thy torrents shooting from the clear-blue sky; Thy towns, that cleave, like swallows' nests, on high; That glimmer hoar in eve's last light descried Dim from the twilight water's shaggy side, Whence lutes and voices down the enchanted woods Steal, and compose the oar-forgotten floods; —Thy lake, that, streaked or dappled, blue or grey, 'Mid smoking woods gleams hid from morning's ray Slow-travelling down the western hills, to' enfold Its green-tinged margin in a blaze of gold; Thy glittering steeples, whence the matin bell Calls forth the woodman from his desert cell, And quickens the blithe sound of oars that pass Along the steaming lake, to early mass. But now farewell to each and all—adieu To every charm, and last and chief to you, Ye lovely maidens that in noontide shade Rest near your little plots of wheaten glade; To all that binds the soul in powerless trance, Lip-dewing song, and ringlet-tossing dance; Where sparkling eyes and breaking smiles illume The sylvan cabin's lute-enlivened gloom. —Alas! the very murmur of the streams Breathes o'er the failing soul voluptuous dreams, While Slavery, forcing the sunk mind to dwell On joys that might disgrace the captive's cell, Her shameless timbrel shakes on Como's marge, And lures from bay to bay the vocal barge. Yet are thy softer arts with power indued To soothe and cheer the poor man's solitude. By silent cottage-doors, the peasant's home Left vacant for the day, I loved to roam. But once I pierced the mazes of a wood In which a cabin undeserted stood; There an old man an olden measure scanned On a rude viol touched with withered hand. As lambs or fawns in April clustering lie Under a hoary oak's thin canopy, Stretched at his feet, with stedfast upward eye, His children's children listened to the sound; —A Hermit with his family around! But let us hence; for fair Locarno smiles Embowered in walnut slopes and citron isles: Or seek at eve the banks of Tusa's stream, Where, 'mid dim towers and woods, her waters gleam. From the bright wave, in solemn gloom, retire The dull-red steeps, and, darkening still, aspire To where afar rich orange lustres glow Round undistinguished clouds, and rocks, and snow: Or, led where Via Mala's chasms confine The indignant waters of the infant Rhine, Hang o'er the abyss, whose else impervious gloom His burning eyes with fearful light illume. The mind condemned, without reprieve, to go O'er life's long deserts with its charge of woe, With sad congratulation joins the train Where beasts and men together o'er the plain Move on—a mighty caravan of pain: Hope, strength, and courage, social suffering brings, Freshening the wilderness with shades and springs. —There be whose lot far otherwise is cast: Sole human tenant of the piny waste, By choice or doom a gipsy wanders here, A nursling babe her only comforter; Lo, where she sits beneath yon shaggy rock, A cowering shape half hid in curling smoke! When lightning among clouds and mountain-snows Predominates, and darkness comes and goes, And the fierce torrent, at the flashes broad Starts, like a horse, beside the glaring road— She seeks a covert from the battering shower In the roofed bridge; the bridge, in that dread hour, Itself all trembling at the torrent's power. Nor is she more at ease on some still night, When not a star supplies the comfort of its light; Only the waning moon hangs dull and red Above a melancholy mountain's head, Then sets. In total gloom the Vagrant sighs, Stoops her sick head, and shuts her weary eyes; Or on her fingers counts the distant clock, Or, to the drowsy crow of midnight cock, Listens, or quakes while from the forest's gulf Howls near and nearer yet the famished wolf. From the green vale of Urseren smooth and wide Descend we now, the maddened Reuss our guide; By rocks that, shutting out the blessed day, Cling tremblingly to rocks as loose as they; By cells upon whose image, while he prays, The kneeling peasant scarcely dares to gaze; By many a votive death-cross planted near, And watered duly with the pious tear, That faded silent from the upward eye Unmoved with each rude form of peril nigh; Fixed on the anchor left by Him who saves Alike in whelming snows, and roaring waves. But soon a peopled region on the sight Opens—a little world of calm delight; Where mists, suspended on the expiring gale, Spread roof like o'er the deep secluded vale, And beams of evening slipping in between, Gently illuminate a sober scene:— Here, on the brown wood-cottages they sleep, There, over rock or sloping pasture creep. On as we journey, in clear view displayed, The still vale lengthens underneath its shade Of low-hung vapour: on the freshened mead The green light sparkles;—the dim bowers recede. While pastoral pipes and streams the landscape lull, And bells of passing mules that tinkle dull, In solemn shapes before the admiring eye Dilated hang the misty pines on high, Huge convent domes with pinnacles and towers, And antique castles seen through gleamy showers. From such romantic dreams, my soul, awake! To sterner pleasure, where, by Uri's lake In Nature's pristine majesty outspread, Winds neither road nor path for foot to tread: The rocks rise naked as a wall, or stretch, Far o'er the water, hung with groves of beech; Aerial pines from loftier steeps ascend, Nor stop but where creation seems to end. Yet here and there, if 'mid the savage scene Appears a scanty plot of smiling green, Up from the lake a zigzag path will creep To reach a small wood-hut hung boldly on the steep. —Before those thresholds (never can they know The face of traveller passing to and fro,) No peasant leans upon his pole, to tell For whom at morning tolled the funeral bell; Their watch-dog ne'er his angry bark foregoes, Touched by the beggar's moan of human woes; The shady porch ne'er offered a cool seat To pilgrims overcome by summer's heat. Yet thither the world's business finds its way At times, and tales unsought beguile the day, And there are those fond thoughts which Solitude, However stern, is powerless to exclude. There doth the maiden watch her lover's sail Approaching, and upbraid the tardy gale; At midnight listens till his parting oar, And its last echo, can be heard no more. And what if ospreys, cormorants, herons cry, Amid tempestuous vapours driving by, Or hovering over wastes too bleak to rear That common growth of earth, the foodful ear; Where the green apple shrivels on the spray, And pines the unripened pear in summer's kindliest ray; Contentment shares the desolate domain With Independence, child of high Disdain. Exulting 'mid the winter of the skies, Shy as the jealous chamois, Freedom flies, And grasps by fits her sword, and often eyes; And sometimes, as from rock to rock she bounds The Patriot nymph starts at imagined sounds, And, wildly pausing, oft she hangs aghast, Whether some old Swiss air hath checked her haste Or thrill of Spartan fife is caught between the blast. Swoln with incessant rains from hour to hour, All day the floods a deepening murmur pour: The sky is veiled, and every cheerful sight: Dark is the region as with coming night; But what a sudden burst of overpowering light! Triumphant on the bosom of the storm, Glances the wheeling eagle's glorious form! Eastward, in long perspective glittering, shine The wood-crowned cliffs that o'er the lake recline; Those lofty cliffs a hundred streams unfold, At once to pillars turned that flame with gold: Behind his sail the peasant shrinks, to shun The west, that burns like one dilated sun, A crucible of mighty compass, felt By mountains, glowing till they seem to melt. But, lo! the boatman, overawed, before The pictured fane of Tell suspends his oar; Confused the Marathonian tale appears, While his eyes sparkle with heroic tears. And who, that walks where men of ancient days Have wrought with godlike arm the deeds of praise, Feels not the spirit of the place control, Or rouse and agitate his labouring soul? Say, who, by thinking on Canadian hills, Or wild Aosta lulled by Alpine rills, On Zutphen's plain; or on that highland dell, Through which rough Garry cleaves his way, can tell What high resolves exalt the tenderest thought Of him whom passion rivets to the spot, Where breathed the gale that caught Wolfe's happiest sigh, And the last sunbeam fell on Bayard's eye; Where bleeding Sidney from the cup retired, And glad Dundee in "faint huzzas" expired? But now with other mind I stand alone Upon the summit of this naked cone, And watch the fearless chamois-hunter chase His prey, through tracts abrupt of desolate space, Through 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 Voice, and Motion sleep; Where silent Hours their death-like sway extend, Save when the avalanche breaks loose, to rend Its way with uproar, till the ruin, drowned In some dense wood or gulf of snow profound, Mocks the dull ear of Time with deaf abortive sound. —'Tis his, while wandering on from height to height, To see a planet's pomp and steady light In the least star of scarce-appearing night; While the pale moon moves near him, on the bound Of ether, shining with diminished round, And far and wide the icy summits blaze, Rejoicing in the glory of her rays: To him the day-star glitters small and bright, Shorn of its beams, insufferably white, And he can look beyond the sun, and view Those fast-receding depths of sable blue Flying till vision can no more pursue! —At once bewildering mists around him close, And cold and hunger are his least of woes; The Demon of the snow, with angry roar Descending, shuts for aye his prison door. Soon with despair's whole weight his spirits sink; Bread has he none, the snow must be his drink; And, ere his eyes can close upon the day, The eagle of the Alps o'ershades her prey. Now couch thyself where, heard with fear afar, Thunders through echoing pines the headlong Aar; Or rather stay to taste the mild delights Of pensive Underwalden's 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, Soft music o'er the aërial summit steal? While o'er the desert, answering every close, Rich steam of sweetest perfume comes and goes. —And sure there is a secret Power that reigns Here, where no trace of man the spot profanes, Nought but the chalets, flat and bare, on high Suspended 'mid the quiet of the sky; Or distant herds that pasturing upward creep, And, not untended, climb the dangerous steep. How still! no irreligious sound or sight Rouses the soul from her severe delight. An idle voice the sabbath region fills Of Deep that calls to Deep across the hills, And with that voice accords the soothing sound Of drowsy bells, for ever tinkling round; Faint wail of eagle melting into blue Beneath the cliffs, and pine-woods' steady sugh; The solitary heifer's deepened low; Or rumbling, heard remote, of falling snow. All motions, sounds, and voices, far and nigh, Blend in a music of tranquillity; Save when, a stranger seen below the boy Shouts from the echoing hills with savage joy. When, from the sunny breast of open seas, And bays with myrtle fringed, the southern breeze Comes on to gladden April with the sight Of green isles widening on each snow-clad height; When shouts and lowing herds the valley fill, And louder torrents stun the noon-tide hill, The pastoral Swiss begin the cliffs to scale, Leaving to silence the deserted vale; And like the Patriarchs in their simple age Move, as the verdure leads, from stage to stage; High and more high in summer's heat they go, And hear the rattling thunder far below; Or steal beneath the mountains, half-deterred, Where huge rocks tremble to the bellowing herd. One I behold who, 'cross the foaming flood, Leaps with a bound of graceful hardihood; Another high on that green ledge;—he gained The tempting spot with every sinew strained; And downward thence a knot of grass he throws, Food for his beasts in time of winter snows. —Far different life from what Tradition hoar Transmits of happier lot in times of yore! Then Summer lingered long; and honey flowed From out the rocks, the wild bees' safe abode: Continual waters welling cheered the waste, And plants were wholesome, now of deadly taste: Nor Winter yet his frozen stores had piled, Usurping where the fairest herbage smiled: Nor Hunger driven the herds from pastures bare, To climb the treacherous cliffs for scanty fare. Then the milk-thistle flourished through the land, And forced the full-swoln udder to demand, Thrice every day, the pail and welcome hand. Thus does the father to his children tell Of banished bliss, by fancy loved too well. Alas! that human guilt provoked the rod Of angry Nature to avenge her God. Still, Nature, ever just, to him imparts Joys only given to uncorrupted hearts. 'Tis morn: with gold the verdant mountain glows; More high, the snowy peaks with hues of rose. Far-stretched beneath the many-tinted hills, A mighty waste of mist the valley fills, A solemn sea! whose billows wide around Stand motionless, to awful silence bound: Pines, on the coast, through mist their tops uprear, That like to leaning masts of stranded ships appear. A single chasm, a gulf of gloomy blue, Gapes in the centre of the sea—and through That dark mysterious gulf ascending, sound Innumerable streams with roar profound. Mount through the nearer vapours notes of birds, And merry flageolet; the low of herds, The bark of dogs, the heifer's tinkling bell, Talk, laughter, and perchance a church-tower knell: Think not, the peasant from aloft has gazed And heard with heart unmoved, with soul unraised: Nor is his spirit less enrapt, nor less Alive to independent happiness, Then, when he lies, out-stretched, at even-tide Upon the fragrant mountain's purple side: For as the pleasures of his simple day Beyond his native valley seldom stray, Nought round its darling precincts can he find But brings some past enjoyment to his mind; While Hope, reclining upon Pleasure's urn, Binds her wild wreaths, and whispers his return. Once, Man entirely free, alone and wild, Was blest as free—for he was Nature's child. He, all superior but his God disdained, Walked none restraining, and by none restrained: Confessed no law but what his reason taught, Did all he wished, and wished but what he ought. As man in his primeval dower arrayed The image of his glorious Sire displayed, Even so, by faithful Nature guarded, here The traces of primeval Man appear; The simple dignity no forms debase; The eye sublime, and surly lion-grace: The slave of none, of beasts alone the lord, His book he prizes, nor neglects his sword; —Well taught by that to feel his rights, prepared With this "the blessings he enjoys to guard." And, as his native hills encircle ground For many a marvellous victory renowned, The work of Freedom daring to oppose, With few in arms, innumerable foes, When to those famous fields his steps are led, An unknown power connects him with the dead: For images of other worlds are there; Awful the light, and holy is the air. Fitfully, and in flashes, through his soul, Like sun-lit tempests, troubled transports roll; His bosom heaves, his Spirit towers amain, Beyond the senses and their little reign. And oft, when that dread vision hath past by, He holds with God himself communion high, There where the peal of swelling torrents fills The sky-roofed temple of the eternal hills; Or, when upon the mountain's silent brow Reclined, he sees, above him and below, Bright stars of ice and azure fields of snow; While needle peaks of granite shooting bare Tremble in ever-varying tints of air. And when a gathering weight of shadows brown Falls on the valleys as the sun goes down; And Pikes, of darkness named and fear and storms, Uplift in quiet their illumined forms, In sea-like reach of prospect round him spread, Tinged like an angel's smile all rosy red— Awe in his breast with holiest love unites, And the near heavens impart their own delights. When downward to his winter hut he goes, Dear and more dear the lessening circle grows; That hut which on the hills so oft employs His thoughts, the central point of all his joys. And as a swallow, at the hour of rest, Peeps often ere she darts into her nest, So to the homestead, where the grandsire tends A little prattling child, he oft descends, To glance a look upon the well-matched pair; Till storm and driving ice blockade him there. There, safely guarded by the woods behind, He hears the chiding of the baffled wind, Hears Winter calling all his terrors round, And, blest within himself, he shrinks not from the sound. Through Nature's vale his homely pleasures glide, Unstained by envy, discontent, and pride; The bound of all his vanity, to deck, With one bright bell, a favourite heifer's neck; Well pleased upon some simple annual feast, Remembered half the year and hoped the rest, If dairy-produce, from his inner hoard, Of thrice ten summers dignify the board. —Alas! in every clime a flying ray Is all we have to cheer our wintry way; And here the unwilling mind may more than trace The general sorrows of the human race: The churlish gales of penury, that blow Cold as the north-wind o'er a waste of snow, To them the gentle groups of bliss deny That on the noon-day bank of leisure lie. Yet more;—compelled by Powers which only deign That solitary man disturb their reign, Powers that support an unremitting strife With all the tender charities of life, Full oft the father, when his sons have grown To manhood, seems their title to disown; And from his nest amid the storms of heaven Drives, eagle-like, those sons as he was driven; With stern composure watches to the plain— And never, eagle-like, beholds again! When long familiar joys are all resigned, Why does their sad remembrance haunt the mind? Lo! where through flat Batavia's willowy groves, Or by the lazy Seine, the exile roves; O'er the curled waters Alpine measures swell, And search the affections to their inmost cell; Sweet poison spreads along the listener's veins, Turning past pleasures into mortal pains; Poison, which not a frame of steel can brave, Bows his young head with sorrow to the grave. Gay lark of hope, thy silent song resume! Ye flattering eastern lights, once more the hills illume! Fresh gales and dews of life's delicious morn, And thou, lost fragrance of the heart, return! Alas! the little joy to man allowed, Fades like the lustre of an evening cloud; Or like the beauty in a flower installed, Whose season was, and cannot be recalled. Yet, when opprest by sickness, grief, or care, And taught that pain is pleasure's natural heir, We still confide in more than we can know; Death would be else the favourite friend of woe. 'Mid savage rocks, and seas of snow that shine, Between interminable tracts of pine, Within a temple stands an awful shrine, By an uncertain light revealed, that falls On the mute Image and the troubled walls. Oh! give not me that eye of hard disdain That views, undimmed, Ensiedlen's wretched fane. While ghastly faces through the gloom appear, Abortive joy, and hope that works in fear; While prayer contends with silenced agony, Surely in other thoughts contempt may die. If the sad grave of human ignorance bear One flower of hope—oh, pass and leave it there! The tall sun, pausing on an Alpine spire, Flings o'er the wilderness a stream of fire: Now meet we other pilgrims ere the day Close on the remnant of their weary way; While they are drawing toward the sacred floor Where, so they fondly think, the worm shall gnaw no more. How gaily murmur and how sweetly taste The fountains reared for them amid the waste! Their thirst they slake:—they wash their toil-worn feet, And some with tears of joy each other greet. Yes, I must see you when ye first behold Those holy turrets tipped with evening gold, In that glad moment will for you a sigh Be heaved, of charitable sympathy; In that glad moment when your hands are prest In mute devotion on the thankful breast! Last, let us turn to Chamouny that shields With rocks and gloomy woods her fertile fields: Five streams of ice amid her cots descend, And with wild flowers and blooming orchards blend;— A scene more fair than what the Grecian feigns Of purple lights and ever-vernal plains; Here all the seasons revel hand in hand: 'Mid lawns and shades by breezy rivulets fanned They sport beneath that mountain's matchless height That holds no commerce with the summer night. From age to age, throughout his lonely bounds The crash of ruin fitfully resounds; Appalling havoc! but serene his brow, Where daylight lingers on perpetual snow; Glitter the stars, and all is black below. What marvel then if many a Wanderer sigh, While roars the sullen Arve in anger by, That not for thy reward, unrivall'd Vale! Waves the ripe harvest in the autumnal gale; That thou, the slave of slaves, art doomed to pine And droop, while no Italian arts are thine, To soothe or cheer, to soften or refine. Hail Freedom! whether it was mine to stray, With shrill winds whistling round my lonely way, On the bleak sides of Cumbria's heath-clad moors, Or where dank sea-weed lashes Scotland's shores; To scent the sweets of Piedmont's breathing rose, And orange gale that o'er Lugano blows; Still have I found, where Tyranny prevails, That virtue languishes and pleasure fails, While the remotest hamlets blessings share In thy loved presence known, and only there; Heart-blessings—outward treasures too which the eye Of the sun peeping through the clouds can spy, And every passing breeze will testify. There, to the porch, belike with jasmine bound Or woodbine wreaths, a smoother path is wound; The housewife there a brighter garden sees, Where hum on busier wing her happy bees; On infant cheeks there fresher roses blow; And grey-haired men look up with livelier brow,— To greet the traveller needing food and rest; Housed for the night, or but a half-hour's guest. And oh, fair France! though now the traveller sees Thy three-striped banner fluctuate on the breeze; Though martial songs have banished songs of love, And nightingales desert the village grove, Scared by the fife and rumbling drum's alarms, And the short thunder, and the flash of arms; That cease not till night falls, when far and nigh, Sole sound, the Sourd prolongs his mournful cry! —Yet, hast thou found that Freedom spreads her power Beyond the cottage-hearth, the cottage-door: All nature smiles, and owns beneath her eyes Her fields peculiar, and peculiar skies. Yes, as I roamed where Loiret's waters glide Through rustling aspens heard from side to side, When from October clouds a milder light Fell where the blue flood rippled into white; Methought from every cot the watchful bird Crowed with ear-piercing power till then unheard; Each clacking mill, that broke the murmuring streams, Rocked the charmed thought in more delightful dreams; Chasing those pleasant dreams, the falling leaf Awoke a fainter sense of moral grief; The measured echo of the distant flail Wound in more welcome cadence down the vale; With more majestic course the water rolled, And ripening foliage shone with richer gold. —But foes are gathering—Liberty must raise Red on the hills her beacon's far-seen blaze; Must bid the tocsin ring from tower to tower!— Nearer and nearer comes the trying hour! Rejoice, brave Land, though pride's perverted ire Rouse hell's own aid, and wrap thy fields in fire: Lo, from the flames a great and glorious birth; As if a new-made heaven were hailing a new earth! —All cannot be: the promise is too fair For creatures doomed to breathe terrestrial air: Yet not for this will sober reason frown Upon that promise, not the hope disown; She knows that only from high aims ensue Rich guerdons, and to them alone are due. Great God! by whom the strifes of men are weighed In an impartial balance, give thine aid To the just cause; and, oh! do thou preside Over the mighty stream now spreading wide: So shall its waters, from the heavens supplied In copious showers, from earth by wholesome springs, Brood o'er the long-parched lands with Nile-like wings! And grant that every sceptred child of clay Who cries presumptuous, "Here the flood shall stay," May in its progress see thy guiding hand, And cease the acknowledged purpose to withstand; Or, swept in anger from the insulted shore, Sink with his servile bands, to rise no more! To-night, my Friend, within this humble cot Be scorn and fear and hope alike forgot In timely sleep; and when, at break of day, On the tall peaks the glistening sunbeams play, With a light heart our course we may renew, The first whose footsteps print the mountain dew. |
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E F G H J K L M N P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Aa Bb Cc Dd Ee Ee Ee Ff Gg Hh |
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... a spot of holy ground, |
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Where the resounding power of water shakes |
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And not unrecompensed the man shall roam, |
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No sad vacuitiesi his heart annoy;— |
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And dear the green-sward to his velvet tread; |
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Whilst ... |
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... with kindest ray |
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With bashful fear no cottage children steal |
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Much wondering what sad stroke of crazing Care, |
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Me, lured by hope her sorrows to remove, |
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I sigh at hoary Chartreuse' doom. |
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That breathed a death-like silence wide around, |
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The cloister startles at the gleam of arms, |
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That ... |
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And swells the groaning torrent with his tears. |
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Nod the cloud-piercing pines their troubled heads, |
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The cross with hideous laughter Demons mock, |
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... sound ... |
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To ringing team unknown ... |
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Wild round the steeps the little pathway twines, |
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The viewless lingerer ... |
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Tracking the yellow sun from steep to steep, |
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Here half a village shines, in gold arrayed, |
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From the dark sylvan roofs the restless spire |
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... the waves ... |
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Th' unwearied sweep of wood thy cliffs that scales; |
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The cots, those dim religious groves embower, |
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... his ... |
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Whose flaccid sails in forms fantastic droop, |
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... like swallows' nests that cleave on high; |
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While Evening's solemn bird melodious weeps, |
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—Thy lake, mid smoking woods, that blue and grey |
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... to fold |
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From thickly-glittering spires the matin bell |
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Farewell those forms that in thy noon-tide shade, |
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Those charms that bind ... |
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And winds, ... |
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Yet arts are thine that soothe the unquiet heart, |
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Once did I pierce to where a cabin stood; |
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There, by the door a hoary-headed Sire |
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Beneath an old-grey oak, as violets lie, |
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... joined the holy sound; |
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While ... |
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Bend o'er th' abyss, the else impervious gloom |
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Freshening the waste of sand with shades and springs. |
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The Grison gypsey here her tent hath placed, |
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A giant moan along the forest swells |
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—Heavy, and dull, and cloudy is the night; |
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Now, passing Urseren's open vale serene, |
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By floods, that, thundering from their dizzy height, |
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On as we move a softer prospect opes, |
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While mists, suspended on the expiring gale, |
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The beams of evening, slipping soft between, |
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On the low brown wood-huts delighted sleep |
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Winding its dark-green wood and emerald glade, |
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... drizzling ... |
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... my soul awake, |
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Tower like a wall the naked rocks, or reach |
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More high, to where creation seems to end, |
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Yet, with his infants, man undaunted creeps |
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—Before those hermit doors, that never know |
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The grassy seat beneath their casement shade |
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—There, did the iron Genius not disdain |
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Mid stormy vapours ever driving by, |
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Where hardly given the hopeless waste to cheer, |
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Dwindles the pear on autumn's latest spray, |
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Ev'n here Content has fixed her smiling reign |
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And often grasps her sword, and often eyes: |
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'Tis storm; and, hid in mist from hour to hour, |
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Glances the fire-clad eagle's wheeling form; |
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Wide o'er the Alps a hundred streams unfold, |
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... strives to shun |
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Where in a mighty crucible expire |
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While burn in his full eyes the glorious tears. |
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Exalt, and agitate ... |
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On Zutphen's plain; or where, with soften'd gaze, |
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And watch, from pike to pike, amid the sky |
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Thro' worlds where Life, and Sound, and Motion sleep; |
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While the near moon, that coasts the vast profound, |
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Flying more fleet than vision can pursue! |
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Then with Despair's whole weight his spirits sink, |
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Hence shall we turn where, heard with fear afar, |
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... from ... |
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Nought but the herds that pasturing upward creep, |
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Broke only by the melancholy sound |
1815 |
| 1832 | |
Save that, the stranger seen below, ... |
1815 |
| 1836 | |
When warm from myrtle bays and tranquil seas, |
1815 |
When fragrant scents beneath th' enchanted tread |
Inserted in the editions 1815 to 1832. |
| 1836 | |
The pastoral Swiss begins the cliffs to scale, |
1815 |
| 1836 | |
Mounts, where the verdure leads, from stage to stage, |
1815 |
| 1836 | |
O'er lofty heights serene and still they go, |
1815 |
| 1836 (Omitting the first of the two following couplets:) | |
They cross the chasmy torrent's foam-lit bed, |
1815 |
| 1836 Lines 380-385 were previously: | |
—I see him, up the midway cliff he creeps |
1815 |
| 1836 | |
... to what tradition hoar |
1815 |
| 1845 | |
Then Summer lengthened out his season bland, |
1815 1836 |
| 1836 | |
Continual fountains ... |
1815 |
| 1836 | |
Nor Hunger forced the herds from pastures bare |
1815 |
| 1836 | |
Then the milk-thistle bade those herds demand |
1815 |
| 1836 | |
Thus does the father to his sons relate, |
1815 |
| 1836 | |
But human vices have provoked the rod |
1815 |
| 1836 | |
... whose vales and mountains round |
1820 |
| 1836 (Compressing eight lines into six:) | |
... to awful silence bound. |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
Mount thro' the nearer mist the chaunt of birds, |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
Think not, suspended from the cliff on high, |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
—No vulgar joy is his, at even tide |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
While Hope, that ceaseless leans on Pleasure's urn, |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
... by vestal ... |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
... native ... |
1820 |
| 1832 | |
He marches with his flute, his book, and sword; |
1820 |
| 1845 | |
... wonderous ... |
1820 |
| 1840 | |
... glorious ... |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
Uncertain thro' his fierce uncultured soul |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
And oft, when pass'd that solemn vision by, |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
Where the dread peal ... |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
—When the Sun bids the gorgeous scene farewell, |
1820 |
| 1845 | |
—Great joy, by horror tam'd, dilates his heart, |
1820 |
Fear in his breast with holy love unites, |
1836 |
| 1836 | |
That hut which from the hills his eyes employs |
1815 1832 |
| 1836 | |
And as a swift, by tender cares opprest, |
1820 |
| 1820 | |
Where, ... |
1815 |
| 1836 | |
Rush down the living rocks with whirlwind sound. |
1815 |
| 1820 | |
Content ... |
1815 |
| 1836 | |
... consecrate ... |
1815 |
"Here," cried a swain, whose venerable head |
1793 1820 1827 |
| 1836 | |
But, ah! the unwilling mind ... |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
The churlish gales, that unremitting blow |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
To us ... |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
... a never-ceasing ... |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
The father, as his sons of strength become |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
From his bare nest ... |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
His last dread pleasure! watches ... |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
When the poor heart has all its joys resigned, |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
Soft o'er the waters mournful measures swell, |
1820 1827 |
| 1836 | |
Fair smiling lights the purpled hills illume! |
1815 |
| 1836 | |
Soft .. |
1815 |
| 1836 | |
Soon flies the little joy to man allowed, |
1815 |
| 1836 (Expanding four lines into six:) | |
For come Diseases on, and Penury's rage, |
1815 |
| 1836 | |
A Temple stands; which holds an awful shrine, |
1815 |
| 1836 | |
Pale, dreadful faces round the Shrine appear, |
1815 |
| 1836 After this line the editions of 1815-1832 have the following couplet: | |
While strives a secret Power to hush the crowd, |
| 1836 From 1815 to 1832, the following two couplets followed line 546. The first of these was withdrawn in 1836. |
|
Mid muttering prayers all sounds of torment meet, |
1815 |
| 1836 | |
—The tall Sun, tiptoe ... |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
At such an hour there are who love to stray, |
1820 1827 |
| 1836 | |
For ye are drawing tow'rd that sacred floor, |
1820 1827 |
| 1827 | |
... for you ... |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
—Now with a tearful kiss each other greet, |
1820 1827 |
| 1836 | |
Yes I will see you when you first behold |
1820 1827 |
| 1836 | |
... the hands ... |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
Last let us turn to where Chamouny shields, |
1820 |
| 1827 | |
Bosomed in gloomy woods, ... |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
Here lawns and shades by breezy rivulets fann'd, |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
—Red stream the cottage-lights; the landscape fades, |
Inserted in the editions 1820 to 1832. |
| 1836 | |
Alone ascends that Mountain named of white, |
1820 1827 |
| 1836 | |
... amid ... |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
Mysterious ... |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
... 'mid ... |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
At such an hour I heaved a pensive sigh, |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
... delicious ... |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
Hard lot!—for no Italian arts are thine |
1820 1827 |
| 1836 | |
Beloved Freedom! were it mine to stray, |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
O'er ... |
1820 |
| 1836 (Compressing four lines into two:) | |
... o'er Lugano blows; |
1820 1827 |
| 1836 | |
In thy dear ... |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
The casement's shed more luscious woodbine binds, |
1820 |
| 1836 (Compressing six lines into two:) | |
At early morn, the careful housewife, led |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
Her infants' cheeks with fresher roses glow, |
1820 |
| 1836 (Compressing four lines into two:) | |
By clearer taper lit, a cleanlier board |
1820 |
| 1845 (Compressing four lines into two:) | |
And oh, fair France! though now along the shade |
1820 1827 1836 |
| 1836 | |
Though now no more thy maids their voices suit |
1820 1827 |
| 1836 | |
While, as Night bids the startling uproar die, |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
Chasing those long long dreams, ... |
1820 |
| 1845 | |
... fainter pang ... |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
A more majestic tidevi the water roll'd, |
1820 |
| 1836 (Compressing six lines into four:) | |
—Though Liberty shall soon, indignant, raise |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
Yet, yet rejoice, though Pride's perverted ire |
1820 |
| 1836 Lines 646-651 were previously: | |
Nature, as in her prime, her virgin reign |
1820 |
| 1836 (Expanding eight lines into nine:) | |
Oh give, great God, to Freedom's waves to ride |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
Swept in their anger from the affrighted shore, |
1820 |
| 1845 | |
Be the dead load of mortal ills forgot! |
1820 1836 |
| 1836 | |
Renewing, when the rosy summits glow |
1820 1827 |
A single taper in the vale profound |
1832 |
And, ... |
1832 |
... above yon ... |
1836 |
By the deep gloom appalled, the Vagrant sighs, |
1836 |
Or on her fingers ... |
1836 |
Behind the hill ... |
1836 |
Near and yet nearer, from the piny gulf |
1836 |
Blesses his stars, and thinks it luxury.Ed. return
He lifts the tube, and levels with his eye:Ed.
Straight a short thunder breaks the frozen sky:
And when he fa's,Ed.
His latest draught o' breathin' leaves him
In faint huzzas.
And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!Compare also Shelley's Mont Blanc.—Ed.
...
... Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?
...
O struggling with the darkness all the night,
And visited all night by troops of stars,
...
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly;
The meanest floweret of the vale,Ed.
The simplest note that swells the gale.
"Red came the river down, and loud, and oft(Home's Douglas.)
The angry Spirit of the water shriek'd."
Not less than one-third of the following poem, though it has from time to time been altered in the expression, was published so far back as the year 1798, under the title of The Female Vagrant. The extract is of such length that an apology seems to be required for reprinting it here; but it was necessary to restore it to its original position, or the rest would have been unintelligible. The whole was written before the close of the year 1794, and I will detail, rather as matter of literary biography than for any other reason, the circumstances under which it was produced.
During the latter part of the summer of 1793, having passed a month in the Isle of Wight, in view of the fleet which was then preparing for sea off Portsmouth at the commencement of the war, I left the place with melancholy forebodings. The American war was still fresh in memory. The struggle which was beginning, and which many thought would be brought to a speedy close by the irresistible arms of Great Britain being added to those of the allies, I was assured in my own mind would be of long continuance, and productive of distress and misery beyond all possible calculation. This conviction was pressed upon me by having been a witness, during a long residence in revolutionary France, of the spirit which prevailed in that country. After leaving the Isle of Wight, I spent twoA days in wandering on foot over Salisbury Plain, which, though cultivation was then widely spread through parts of it, had upon the whole a still more impressive appearance than it now retains.
The monuments and traces of antiquity, scattered in abundance over that region, led me unavoidably to compare what we know or guess of those remote times with certain aspects of modern society, and with calamities, principally those consequent upon war, to which, more than other classes of men, the poor are subject. In those reflections, joined with some particular facts that had come to my knowledge, the following stanzas originated.
In conclusion, to obviate some distraction in the minds of those who are well acquainted with Salisbury Plain, it may be proper to say, that of the features described as belonging to it, one or two are taken from other desolate parts of England.
Unwilling to be unnecessarily particular, I have assigned this poem to the dates 1793 and '94; but, in fact, much of the Female Vagrant's story was composed at least two years before. All that relates to her sufferings as a sailor's wife in America, and her condition of mind during her voyage home, were faithfully taken from the report made to me of her own case by a friend who had been subjected to the same trials, and affected in the same way. Mr. Coleridge, when I first became acquainted with him, was so much impressed with this poem, that it would have encouraged me to publish the whole as it then stood; but the mariner's fate appeared to me so tragical, as to require a treatment more subdued, and yet more strictly applicable in expression, than I had at first given to it. This fault was corrected nearly sixty years afterwards, when I determined to publish the whole. It may be worth while to remark, that, though the incidents of this attempt do only in a small degree produce each other, and it deviates accordingly from the general rule by which narrative pieces ought to be governed, it is not, therefore, wanting in continuous hold upon the mind, or in unity, which is effected by the identity of moral interest that places the two personages upon the same footing in the reader's sympathies. My ramble over many parts of Salisbury Plain put me, as mentioned in the preface, upon writing this poem, and left upon my mind imaginative impressions, the force of which I have felt to this day. From that district I proceeded to Bath, Bristol, and so on to the banks of the Wye; where I took again to travelling on foot. In remembrance of that part of my journey, which was in '93, I began the verses,—'Five years have passed,' etc.—I. F.
I find the date of this is placed in 1792, in contradiction, by mistake, to what I have asserted in Guilt and Sorrow. The correct date is 1793-4. The chief incidents of it, more particularly her description of her feelings on the Atlantic, are taken from life.—I. F.
| stanza | text | variant | footnote | line |
| I | A traveller on the skirt of Sarum's Plain Pursued his vagrant way, with feet half bare; Stooping his gait, but not as if to gain Help from the staff he bore; for mien and air Were hardy, though his cheek seemed worn with care Both of the time to come, and time long fled: Down fell in straggling locks his thin grey hair; A coat he wore of military red But faded, and stuck o'er with many a patch and shred. |
5 |
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| II | While thus he journeyed, step by step led on, He saw and passed a stately inn, full sure That welcome in such house for him was none. No board inscribed the needy to allure Hung there, no bush proclaimed to old and poor And desolate, "Here you will find a friend!" The pendent grapes glittered above the door;— On he must pace, perchance 'till night descend, Where'er the dreary roads their bare white lines extend. |
10 15 |
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| III | The gathering clouds grew red with stormy fire, In streaks diverging wide and mounting high; That inn he long had passed; the distant spire, Which oft as he looked back had fixed his eye, Was lost, though still he looked, in the blank sky. Perplexed and comfortless he gazed around, And scarce could any trace of man descry, Save cornfields stretched and stretching without bound; But where the sower dwelt was nowhere to be found. |
20 25 |
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| IV | No tree was there, no meadow's pleasant green, No brook to wet his lip or soothe his ear; Long files of corn-stacks here and there were seen, But not one dwelling-place his heart to cheer. Some labourer, thought he, may perchance be near; And so he sent a feeble shout—in vain; No voice made answer, he could only hear Winds rustling over plots of unripe grain, Or whistling thro' thin grass along the unfurrowed plain. |
30 35 |
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| V | Long had he fancied each successive slope Concealed some cottage, whither he might turn And rest; but now along heaven's darkening cope The crows rushed by in eddies, homeward borne. Thus warned he sought some shepherd's spreading thorn Or hovel from the storm to shield his head, But sought in vain; for now, all wild, forlorn, And vacant, a huge waste around him spread; The wet cold ground, he feared, must be his only bed. |
40 45 |
||
| VI | And be it so—for to the chill night shower And the sharp wind his head he oft hath bared; A Sailor he, who many a wretched hour Hath told; for, landing after labour hard, Full long endured in hope of just reward, He to an armčd fleet was forced away By seamen, who perhaps themselves had shared Like fate; was hurried off, a helpless prey, 'Gainst all that in his heart, or theirs perhaps, said nay. |
1 |
50 |
|
| VII | For years the work of carnage did not cease. And death's dire aspect daily he surveyed, Death's minister; then came his glad release, And hope returned, and pleasure fondly made Her dwelling in his dreams. By Fancy's aid The happy husband flies, his arms to throw Round his wife's neck; the prize of victory laid In her full lap, he sees such sweet tears flow As if thenceforth nor pain nor trouble she could know. |
55 60 |
||
| VIII | Vain hope! for fraud took all that he had earned. The lion roars and gluts his tawny brood Even in the desert's heart; but he, returned, Bears not to those he loves their needful food. His home approaching, but in such a mood That from his sight his children might have run, He met a traveller, robbed him, shed his blood; And when the miserable work was done He fled, a vagrant since, the murderer's fate to shun. |
65 70 |
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| IX | From that day forth no place to him could be So lonely, but that thence might come a pang Brought from without to inward misery. Now, as he plodded on, with sullen clang A sound of chains along the desert rang; He looked, and saw upon a gibbet high A human body that in irons swang, Uplifted by the tempest whirling by; And, hovering, round it often did a raven fly. |
C |
75 80 |
|
| X | It was a spectacle which none might view, In spot so savage, but with shuddering pain; Nor only did for him at once renew All he had feared from man, but roused a train Of the mind's phantoms, horrible as vain. The stones, as if to cover him from day, Rolled at his back along the living plain; He fell, and without sense or motion lay; But, when the trance was gone, feebly pursued his way. |
2 |
85 90 |
|
| XI | As one whose brain habitual frensy fires Owes to the fit in which his soul hath tossed Profounder quiet, when the fit retires, Even so the dire phantasma which had crossed His sense, in sudden vacancy quite lost, Left his mind still as a deep evening stream. Nor, if accosted now, in thought engrossed, Moody, or inly troubled, would he seem To traveller who might talk of any casual theme. |
3 | 95 |
|
| XII | Hurtle the clouds in deeper darkness piled, Gone is the raven timely rest to seek; He seemed the only creature in the wild On whom the elements their rage might wreak; Save that the bustard, of those regions bleak Shy tenant, seeing by the uncertain light A man there wandering, gave a mournful shriek, And half upon the ground, with strange affright, Forced hard against the wind a thick unwieldy flight. |
100 105 |
||
| XIII | All, all was cheerless to the horizon's bound; The weary eye—which, wheresoe'er it strays, Marks nothing but the red sun's setting round, Or on the earth strange lines, in former days Left by gigantic arms—at length surveys What seems an antique castle spreading wide; Hoary and naked are its walls, and raise Their brow sublime: in shelter there to bide He turned, while rain poured down smoking on every side. |
110 115 |
||
| XIV | Pile of Stone-henge! so proud to hint yet keep Thy secrets, thou that lov'st to stand and hear The Plain resounding to the whirlwind's sweep, Inmate of lonesome Nature's endless year; Even if thou saw'st the giant wicker rear For sacrifice its throngs of living men, Before thy face did ever wretch appear, Who in his heart had groaned with deadlier pain Than he who, tempest-driven, thy shelter now would gain? |
4 |
120 125 |
|
| XV | Within that fabric of mysterious form, Winds met in conflict, each by turns supreme; And, from the perilous ground dislodged, through storm And rain he wildered on, no moon to stream From gulf of parting clouds one friendly beam, Nor any friendly sound his footsteps led; Once did the lightning's faint disastrous gleam Disclose a naked guide-post's double head, Sight which tho' lost at once a gleam of pleasure shed. |
5 |
130 135 |
|
| XVI | No swinging sign-board creaked from cottage elm To stay his steps with faintness overcome; 'Twas dark and void as ocean's watery realm Roaring with storms beneath night's starless gloom; No gipsy cower'd o'er fire of furze or broom; No labourer watched his red kiln glaring bright, Nor taper glimmered dim from sick man's room; Along the waste no line of mournful light From lamp of lonely toll-gate streamed athwart the night. |
140 |
||
| XVII | At length, though hid in clouds, the moon arose; The downs were visible—and now revealed A structure stands, which two bare slopes enclose. It was a spot, where, ancient vows fulfilled, Kind pious hands did to the Virgin build A lonely Spital, the belated swain From the night terrors of that waste to shield: But there no human being could remain, And now the walls are named the "Dead House" of the plain. |
145 150 |
||
| XVIII | Though he had little cause to love the abode Of man, or covet sight of mortal face, Yet when faint beams of light that ruin showed, How glad he was at length to find some trace Of human shelter in that dreary place. Till to his flock the early shepherd goes, Here shall much-needed sleep his frame embrace. In a dry nook where fern the floor bestrows He lays his stiffened limbs,—his eyes begin to close; |
155 160 |
||
| XIX | When hearing a deep sigh, that seemed to come From one who mourned in sleep, he raised his head, And saw a woman in the naked room Outstretched, and turning on a restless bed: The moon a wan dead light around her shed. He waked her—spake in tone that would not fail, He hoped, to calm her mind; but ill he sped, For of that ruin she had heard a tale Which now with freezing thoughts did all her powers assail; |
165 170 |
||
| XX | Had heard of one who, forced from storms to shroud, Felt the loose walls of this decayed Retreat Rock to incessant neighings shrill and loud, While his horse pawed the floor with furious heat; Till on a stone, that sparkled to his feet, Struck, and still struck again, the troubled horse: The man half raised the stone with pain and sweat, Half raised, for well his arm might lose its force Disclosing the grim head of a late murdered corse. |
175 180 |
||
| XXI | Such tale of this lone mansion she had learned, And, when that shape, with eyes in sleep half drowned, By the moon's sullen lamp she first discerned, Cold stony horror all her senses bound. Her he addressed in words of cheering sound; Recovering heart, like answer did she make; And well it was that, of the corse there found, In converse that ensued she nothing spake; She knew not what dire pangs in him such tale could wake. |
185 |
||
| XXII | But soon his voice and words of kind intent Banished that dismal thought; and now the wind In fainter howlings told its rage was spent: Meanwhile discourse ensued of various kind, Which by degrees a confidence of mind And mutual interest failed not to create. And, to a natural sympathy resigned, In that forsaken building where they sate The Woman thus retraced her own untoward fate. |
6 |
190 195 |
|
| XXIII | "By Derwent's side my father dwelt—a man Of virtuous life, by pious parents bred; And I believe that, soon as I began To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed, And in his hearing there my prayers I said: And afterwards, by my good father taught, I read, and loved the books in which I read; For books in every neighbouring house I sought, And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought. |
7 |
200 205 |
|
| XXIV | "A little croft we owned—a plot of corn, A garden stored with peas, and mint, and thyme, And flowers for posies, oft on Sunday morn Plucked while the church bells rang their earliest chime. Can I forget our freaks at shearing time! My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied; The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy prime; The swans that with white chests upreared in pride Rushing and racing came to meet me at the water-side! |
8
9 |
210 215 |
|
| XXV | "The staff I well remember which upbore The bending body of my active sire; His seat beneath the honied sycamore Where the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire; When market-morning came, the neat attire With which, though bent on haste, myself I decked; Our watchful house-dog, that would tease and tire The stranger till its barking-fit I checked; The red-breast, known for years, which at my casement pecked. |
10 11 12 |
220 225 |
|
| XXVI | "The suns of twenty summers danced along,— Too little marked how fast they rolled away: But, through severe mischance and cruel wrong, My father's substance fell into decay: We toiled and struggled, hoping for a day When Fortune might put on a kinder look; But vain were wishes, efforts vain as they; He from his old hereditary nook Must part; the summons came;—our final leave we took. |
13 14 / 15 / 16 |
230 |
|
| XXVII | "It was indeed a miserable hour When, from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed, Peering above the trees, the steeple tower That on his marriage day sweet music made! Till then, he hoped his bones might there be laid Close by my mother in their native bowers: Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed;— I could not pray:—through tears that fell in showers Glimmered our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours! |
17 18 |
235 240 |
|
| XXVIII | "There was a Youth whom I had loved so long, That when I loved him not I cannot say: 'Mid the green mountains many a thoughtless song We two had sung, like gladsome birds in May; When we began to tire of childish play, We seemed still more and more to prize each other; We talked of marriage and our marriage day; And I in truth did love him like a brother, For never could I hope to meet with such another. |
19 20 |
245 250 |
|
| XXIX | "Two years were passed since to a distant town He had repaired to ply a gainful trade: What tears of bitter grief, till then unknown! What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed! To him we turned:—we had no other aid: Like one revived, upon his neck I wept; And her whom he had loved in joy, he said, He well could love in grief; his faith he kept; And in a quiet home once more my father slept. |
21 |
255 260 |
|
| XXX | "We lived in peace and comfort; and were blest With daily bread, by constant toil supplied. Three lovely babes had lain upon my breast; And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed, And knew not why. My happy father died, When threatened war reduced the children's meal: Thrice happy! that for him the grave could hide The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel, And tears that flowed for ills which patience might not heal. |
22 23 24 25 26 / 27 |
265 270 |
|
| XXXI | "'Twas a hard change; an evil time was come; We had no hope, and no relief could gain: But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum Beat round to clear the streets of want and pain. My husband's arms now only served to strain Me and his children hungering in his view; In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain: To join those miserable men he flew, And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we drew. |
28 29 |
275 |
|
| XXXII | "There were we long neglected, and we bore Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weighed Green fields before us, and our native shore, We breathed a pestilential air, that made Ravage for which no knell was heard. We prayed For our departure; wished and wished—nor knew, 'Mid that long sickness and those hopes delayed, That happier days we never more must view. The parting signal streamed—at last the land withdrew. |
30 31 |
280 285 |
|
| XXXIII | "But the calm summer season now was past. On as we drove, the equinoctial deep Ran mountains high before the howling blast, And many perished in the whirlwind's sweep. We gazed with terror on their gloomy sleep, Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue, Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap, That we the mercy of the waves should rue: We reached the western world, a poor devoted crew. |
32 33 34 |
290 295 |
|
| XXXIV | "The pains and plagues that on our heads came down, Disease and famine, agony and fear, In wood or wilderness, in camp or town, It would unman the firmest heart to hear. All perished—all in one remorseless year, Husband and children! one by one, by sword And ravenous plague, all perished: every tear Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored." |
35 |
300 305 |
|
| XXXV | Here paused she of all present thought forlorn, Nor voice, nor sound, that moment's pain expressed, Yet Nature, with excess of grief o'erborne, From her full eyes their watery load released. He too was mute: and, ere her weeping ceased, He rose, and to the ruin's portal went, And saw the dawn opening the silvery east With rays of promise, north and southward sent; And soon with crimson fire kindled the firmament. |
310 315 |
||
| XXXVI | "O come," he cried, "come, after weary night Of such rough storm, this happy change to view." So forth she came, and eastward looked; the sight Over her brow like dawn of gladness threw; Upon her cheek, to which its youthful hue Seemed to return, dried the last lingering tear, And from her grateful heart a fresh one drew: The whilst her comrade to her pensive cheer Tempered fit words of hope; and the lark warbled near. |
320 |
||
| XXXVII | They looked and saw a lengthening road, and wain That rang down a bare slope not far remote: The barrows glistered bright with drops of rain, Whistled the waggoner with merry note, The cock far off sounded his clarion throat; But town, or farm, or hamlet, none they viewed, Only were told there stood a lonely cot A long mile thence. While thither they pursued Their way, the Woman thus her mournful tale renewed. |
325 330 |
||
| XXXVIII | "Peaceful as this immeasurable plain Is now, by beams of dawning light imprest, In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main; The very ocean hath its hour of rest. I too forgot the heavings of my breast. How quiet 'round me ship and ocean were! As quiet all within me. I was blest, And looked, and fed upon the silent air Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair. |
36 37 38 |
335 340 |
|
| XXXIX | "Ah! how unlike those late terrific sleeps, And groans that rage of racking famine spoke; The unburied dead that lay in festering heaps, The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke, The shriek that from the distant battle broke, The mine's dire earthquake, and the pallid host Driven by the bomb's incessant thunder-stroke To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish tossed, Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost! |
39 40 |
345 350 |
|
| XL | "Some mighty gulf of separation passed, I seemed transported to another world; A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast The impatient mariner the sail unfurled, And, whistling, called the wind that hardly curled The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home And from all hope I was for ever hurled. For me—farthest from earthly port to roam Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might come. |
355 360 |
||
| XLI | "And oft I thought (my fancy was so strong) That I, at last, a resting-place had found; 'Here will I dwell,' said I, 'my whole life long, Roaming the illimitable waters round; Here will I live, of all but heaven disowned, And end my days upon the peaceful flood.'— To break my dream the vessel reached its bound; And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food. |
41 42 |
365 |
|
| XLII | "No help I sought; in sorrow turned adrift, Was hopeless, as if cast on some bare rock; Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift, Nor raised my hand at any door to knock. I lay where, with his drowsy mates, the cock From the cross-timber of an out-house hung: Dismally tolled, that night, the city clock! At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung, Nor to the beggar's language could I fit my tongue. |
43 44 45 46 |
370 375 |
|
| XLIII | "So passed a second day; and, when the third Was come, I tried in vain the crowd's resort. —In deep despair, by frightful wishes stirred, Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort; There, pains which nature could no more support, With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall; And, after many interruptions short Of hideous sense, I sank, nor step could crawl: Unsought for was the help that did my life recal. |
47 48 49 50 |
380 385 |
|
| XLIV | "Borne to a hospital, I lay with brain Drowsy and weak, and shattered memory; I heard my neighbours in their beds complain Of many things which never troubled me— Of feet still bustling round with busy glee, Of looks where common kindness had no part, Of service done with cold formality, Fretting the fever round the languid heart, And groans which, as they said, might make a dead man start. |
51 52 53 |
390 395 |
|
| XLV | "These things just served to stir the slumbering sense, Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. With strength did memory return; and, thence Dismissed, again on open day I gazed, At houses, men, and common light, amazed. The lanes I sought, and, as the sun retired, Came where beneath the trees a faggot blazed; The travellers saw me weep, my fate inquired, And gave me food—and rest, more welcome, more desired. |
54 55 56 57 |
400 405 |
|
| XLVI | "Rough potters seemed they, trading soberly With panniered asses driven from door to door; But life of happier sort set forth to me, And other joys my fancy to allure— The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor In barn uplighted; and companions boon, Well met from far with revelry secure Among the forest glades, while jocund June Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon. |
58 59 |
410 |
|
| XLVII | "But ill they suited me—those journeys dark O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch! To charm the surly house-dog's faithful bark, Or hang on tip-toe at the lifted latch. The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match. The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill, And ear still busy on its nightly watch, Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill: Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still. |
60 | 415 420 |
|
| XLVIII | "What could I do, unaided and unblest? My father! gone was every friend of thine: And kindred of dead husband are at best Small help; and, after marriage such as mine, With little kindness would to me incline. Nor was I then for toil or service fit; My deep-drawn sighs no effort could confine; In open air forgetful would I sit Whole hours, with idle arms in moping sorrow knit. |
61 62 63 64 |
425 430 |
|
| XLIX | "The roads I paced, I loitered through the fields; Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused, Trusted my life to what chance bounty yields, Now coldly given, now utterly refused. The ground I for my bed have often used: But what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth, Is that I have my inner self abused, Forgone the home delight of constant truth, And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth. |
65 66 |
435 440 |
|
| L | "Through tears the rising sun I oft have viewed, Through tears have seen him towards that world descend Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude: Three years a wanderer now my course I bend— Oh! tell me whither—for no earthly friend Have I."—She ceased, and weeping turned away; As if because her tale was at an end, She wept; because she had no more to say Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay. |
67 68 |
445 450 |
|
| LI | True sympathy the Sailor's looks expressed, His looks—for pondering he was mute the while. Of social Order's care for wretchedness, Of Time's sure help to calm and reconcile, Joy's second spring and Hope's long-treasured smile, 'Twas not for him to speak—a man so tried. Yet, to relieve her heart, in friendly style Proverbial words of comfort he applied, And not in vain, while they went pacing side by side. |
455 |
||
| LII | Ere long, from heaps of turf, before their sight, Together smoking in the sun's slant beam, Rise various wreaths that into one unite Which high and higher mounts with silver gleam: Fair spectacle,—but instantly a scream Thence bursting shrill did all remark prevent; They paused, and heard a hoarser voice blaspheme, And female cries. Their course they thither bent, And met a man who foamed with anger vehement. |
460 465 |
||
| LIII | A woman stood with quivering lips and pale, And, pointing to a little child that lay Stretched on the ground, began a piteous tale; How in a simple freak of thoughtless play He had provoked his father, who straightway, As if each blow were deadlier than the last, Struck the poor innocent. Pallid with dismay The Soldier's Widow heard and stood aghast; And stern looks on the man her grey-haired Comrade cast. |
470 475 |
||
| LIV | His voice with indignation rising high Such further deed in manhood's name forbade; The peasant, wild in passion, made reply With bitter insult and revilings sad; Asked him in scorn what business there he had; What kind of plunder he was hunting now; The gallows would one day of him be glad;— Though inward anguish damped the Sailor's brow, Yet calm he seemed as thoughts so poignant would allow. |
480 485 |
||
| LV | Softly he stroked the child, who lay outstretched With face to earth; and, as the boy turned round His battered head, a groan the Sailor fetched As if he saw—there and upon that ground— Strange repetition of the deadly wound He had himself inflicted. Through his brain At once the griding iron passage found; Deluge of tender thoughts then rushed amain, Nor could his sunken eyes the starting tear restrain. |
D |
490 495 |
|
| LVI | Within himself he said—What hearts have we! The blessing this a father gives his child! Yet happy thou, poor boy! compared with me, Suffering not doing ill—fate far more mild. The stranger's looks and tears of wrath beguiled The father, and relenting thoughts awoke; He kissed his son—so all was reconciled. Then, with a voice which inward trouble broke Ere to his lips it came, the Sailor them bespoke. |
500 |
||
| LVII | "Bad is the world, and hard is the world's law Even for the man who wears the warmest fleece; Much need have ye that time more closely draw The bond of nature, all unkindness cease, And that among so few there still be peace: Else can ye hope but with such numerous foes Your pains shall ever with your years increase?"— While from his heart the appropriate lesson flows, A correspondent calm stole gently o'er his woes. |
505 510 |
||
| LVIII | Forthwith the pair passed on; and down they look Into a narrow valley's pleasant scene Where wreaths of vapour tracked a winding brook, That babbled on through groves and meadows green; A low-roofed house peeped out the trees between; The dripping groves resound with cheerful lays, And melancholy lowings intervene Of scattered herds, that in the meadow graze, Some amid lingering shade, some touched by the sun's rays. |
515 520 |
||
| LIX | They saw and heard, and, winding with the road Down a thick wood, they dropt into the vale; Comfort by prouder mansions unbestowed Their wearied frames, she hoped, would soon regale. Erelong they reached that cottage in the dale: It was a rustic inn;—the board was spread, The milk-maid followed with her brimming pail, And lustily the master carved the bread, Kindly the housewife pressed, and they in comfort fed. |
525 530 |
||
| LX | Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, must part; Wanderers whose course no longer now agrees. She rose and bade farewell! and, while her heart Struggled with tears nor could its sorrow ease, She left him there; for, clustering round his knees, With his oak-staff the cottage children played; And soon she reached a spot o'erhung with trees And banks of ragged earth; beneath the shade Across the pebbly road a little runnel strayed. |
535 540 |
||
| LXI | A cart and horse beside the rivulet stood; Chequering the canvas roof the sunbeams shone. She saw the carman bend to scoop the flood As the wain fronted her,—wherein lay one, A pale-faced Woman, in disease far gone. The carman wet her lips as well behoved; Bed under her lean body there was none, Though even to die near one she most had loved She could not of herself those wasted limbs have moved. |
545 |
||
| LXII | The Soldier's Widow learned with honest pain And homefelt force of sympathy sincere, Why thus that worn-out wretch must there sustain The jolting road and morning air severe. The wain pursued its way; and following near In pure compassion she her steps retraced Far as the cottage. "A sad sight is here," She cried aloud; and forth ran out in haste The friends whom she had left but a few minutes past. |
550 555 |
||
| LXIII | While to the door with eager speed they ran, From her bare straw the Woman half upraised Her bony visage—gaunt and deadly wan; No pity asking, on the group she gazed With a dim eye, distracted and amazed; Then sank upon her straw with feeble moan. Fervently cried the housewife—"God be praised, I have a house that I can call my own; Nor shall she perish there, untended and alone!" |
560 565 |
||
| LXIV | So in they bear her to the chimney seat, And busily, though yet with fear, untie Her garments, and, to warm her icy feet And chafe her temples, careful hands apply. Nature reviving, with a deep-drawn sigh She strove, and not in vain, her head to rear; Then said—"I thank you all; if I must die, The God in heaven my prayers for you will hear; Till now I did not think my end had been so near. |
570 575 |
||
| LXV | "Barred every comfort labour could procure, Suffering what no endurance could assuage, I was compelled to seek my father's door, Though loth to be a burthen on his age. But sickness stopped me in an early stage Of my sad journey; and within the wain They placed me—there to end life's pilgrimage, Unless beneath your roof I may remain: For I shall never see my father's door again. |
580 585 |
||
| LXVI | "My life, Heaven knows, hath long been burthensome; But, if I have not meekly suffered, meek May my end be! Soon will this voice be dumb: Should child of mine e'er wander hither, speak Of me, say that the worm is on my cheek.— Torn from our hut, that stood beside the sea Near Portland lighthouse in a lonesome creek, My husband served in sad captivity On shipboard, bound till peace or death should set him free. |
590 |
||
| LXVII | "A sailor's wife I knew a widow's cares, Yet two sweet little ones partook my bed; Hope cheered my dreams, and to my daily prayers Our heavenly Father granted each day's bread; Till one was found by stroke of violence dead, Whose body near our cottage chanced to lie; A dire suspicion drove us from our shed; In vain to find a friendly face we try, Nor could we live together those poor boys and I; |
595 600 |
||
| LXVIII | "For evil tongues made oath how on that day My husband lurked about the neighbourhood; Now he had fled, and whither none could say, And he had done the deed in the dark wood— Near his own home!—but he was mild and good; Never on earth was gentler creature seen; He'd not have robbed the raven of its food. My husband's loving kindness stood between Me and all worldly harms and wrongs however keen." |
605 610 |
||
| LXIX | Alas! the thing she told with labouring breath The Sailor knew too well. That wickedness His hand had wrought; and when, in the hour of death, He saw his Wife's lips move his name to bless With her last words, unable to suppress His anguish, with his heart he ceased to strive; And, weeping loud in this extreme distress, He cried—"Do pity me! That thou shouldst live I neither ask nor wish—forgive me, but forgive!" |
615 620 |
||
| LXX | To tell the change that Voice within her wrought Nature by sign or sound made no essay; A sudden joy surprised expiring thought, And every mortal pang dissolved away. Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay; Yet still while over her the husband bent, A look was in her face which seemed to say, "Be blest: by sight of thee from heaven was sent Peace to my parting soul, the fulness of content." |
625 630 |
||
| LXXI | She slept in peace,—his pulses throbbed and stopped, Breathless he gazed upon her face,—then took Her hand in his, and raised it, but both dropped, When on his own he cast a rueful look. His ears were never silent; sleep forsook His burning eyelids stretched and stiff as lead; All night from time to time under him shook The floor as he lay shuddering on his bed; And oft he groaned aloud, "O God, that I were dead!" |
635 |
||
| LXXII | The Soldier's Widow lingered in the cot; And, when he rose, he thanked her pious care Through which his Wife, to that kind shelter brought, Died in his arms; and with those thanks a prayer He breathed for her, and for that merciful pair. The corse interred, not one hour he remained Beneath their roof, but to the open air A burthen, now with fortitude sustained, He bore within a breast where dreadful quiet reigned. |
640 645 |
||
| LXXIII | Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared For act and suffering, to the city straight He journeyed, and forthwith his crime declared: "And from your doom," he added, "now I wait, Nor let it linger long, the murderer's fate." Not ineffectual was that piteous claim: "O welcome sentence which will end though late," He said, "the pangs that to my conscience came Out of that deed. My trust, Saviour! is in thy name!" |
650 655 |
||
| LXXIV | His fate was pitied. Him in iron case (Reader, forgive the intolerable thought) They hung not:—no one on his form or face Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought; No kindred sufferer, to his death-place brought By lawless curiosity or chance, When into storm the evening sky is wrought, Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance, And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable trance. |
660 665 |
| 1845 | |
Three years ... |
1842 |
| 1845 | |
... rose and pursued ... |
1842 |
| 1845 | |
... demoniac ... |
1842 |
| 1845 | |
Than he who now at night-fall treads thy bare domain! |
1842 |
| 1845 | |
And, from its perilous shelter driven, ... |
1842 |
By Derwent's side my Father's cottage stood, |
1798 1800 |
| 1842 | |
My father was a good and pious man, |
1798 |
| 1842 | |
Can I forget what charms did once adorn |
1798 1836 1820 1836 |
| 1842 | |
... yet ... |
1798 |
| 1802 | |
When ... |
1798 |
| 1836 | |
My watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire, |
1798 |
| 1845 | |
... would ... |
1842 |
| 1845 | |
... summer ... |
1842 |
| 1845 | |
The suns of twenty summers danced along,— |
1798 1800 1820 |
But, when he had refused the proffered gold, |
1798 1802-5 |
| 1820 | |
Can I forget that miserable hour, |
1798 1802 |
| 1798 | |
I saw our own dear home, that was ... |
1802 |
| 1827 | |
... many and many a song |
1798 |
| 1800 | |
... little birds ... |
1798 |
| 1836 | |
His father said, that to a distant town |
1798 1802 |
| 1802 | |
Four years each day with daily bread was blest, |
1798 |
| 1836 | |
Three lovely infants lay upon my breast; |
1798 |
| 1842 | |
When sad distress... |
1798 |
| 1836 | |
... from him the grave did hide . ... for him ... |
1798 1820 |
| 1798 | |
... which ... |
Only in 1820. |
| 1836 | |
... could ... |
1798 |
| 1798 | |
But soon, day after day, ... |
1802 |
| 1836 | |
... to sweep ... |
1798 |
| 1836 | |
There foul neglect for months and months we bore, |
1798 1802 |
| 1802 | |
Green fields before us and our native shore, |
1798 |
| 1802 | |
But from delay the summer calms were past. |
1798 |
| 1802 | |
We gazed with terror on the gloomy sleep |
1798 |
Oh! dreadful price of being to resign |
Only in the editions of 1798 and 1800. |
| 1842 | |
It would thy brain unsettle even to hear. |
1798 |
| 1842 | |
Peaceful as some immeasurable plain |
1798 |
| 1827 | |
... has its hour of rest, |
1798 1802 |
| 1842 | |
Remote from man, and storms of mortal care, |
1798 1802 1815 1827 |
| 1800 | |
Where looks inhuman dwelt on festering heaps! |
1798 |
Yet does that burst of woe congeal my frame, |
1798 1802-5 |
| 1802 | |
And oft, robb'd of my perfect mind, I thought |
1798 |
| 1842 | |
Here watch, of every human friend disowned, |
1798 1802 1815 |
| 1842 | |
By grief enfeebled was I turned adrift, |
1798 1836 |
| 1842 | |
Nor dared ... |
1798 |
| 1802 | |
How dismal ... |
1798 |
| 1832 | |
... frame ... |
1798 |
| 1836 | |
So passed another day, and so the third: |
1798 |
| 1827 | |
Dizzy my brain, with interruption short |
1798 1802 |
| 1802 | |
... sunk ... |
1798 |
| 1827 | |
And thence was borne away to neighbouring hospital. |
1798 1802 |
| 1827 | |
Recovery came with food: but still, my brain |
1798 |
| 1842 | |
... with careless cruelty, |
1798 |
| 1815 | |
... would ... |
1798 |
| 1836 | |
... torpid ... |
1798 |
| 1827 | |
Memory, though slow, returned with strength; ... |
1798 1802 |
| 1802 | |
The wild brood ... |
1798 |
My heart is touched to think that men like these, |
1798 1802 1802 |
| 1836 | |
Semblance, with straw and pannier'd ass, they made |
1798 1802 |
| 1836 | |
In depth of forest glade, when ... |
1798 1802 |
| 1802 | |
But ill it suited me, in journey dark |
1798 |
| 1802 | |
Poor father! ... |
1798 |
| 1842 | |
Ill was I ... |
1798 |
| 1842 | |
With tears whose course no effort could confine, |
1798 1802 1836 |
| 1836 | |
... my ... |
1798 |
| 1836 | |
I lived upon the mercy of the fields, |
1798 1802 |
| 1802 | |
The fields ... |
1798 |
| 1836 | |
Three years a wanderer, often have I view'd, |
1798 1802 |
| 1836 | |
And now across this moor my steps I bend— |
1798 |