Wordsworth's Poetical Works, Volume 2: 1799



Edited by William Knight

1896



Table of Contents





1799


The poems belonging to the year 1799 were chiefly, if not wholly, composed at Goslar, in Germany; and all, with three exceptions, appeared in the second edition of Lyrical Ballads (1800). The exceptions were the following: Wordsworth reached Goslar on the 6th of October 1798, and left it on the 10th of February 1799. It is impossible to determine the precise order in which the nineteen or twenty poems associated with that city were composed. But it is certain that the fragment on the immortal boy of Windermere —whom its cliffs and islands knew so well—was written in 1798, and not in 1799 (as Wordsworth himself states); because Coleridge sent a letter to his friend, thanking him for a MS. copy of these lines, and commenting on them, of which the date is "Ratzeburg, Dec. 10, 1798." For obvious reasons, however, I place the fragments originally meant to be parts of The Recluse together; and, since Wordsworth gave the date 1799 to the others, it would be gratuitous to suppose that he erred in reference to them all, because we know that his memory failed him in reference to one of the series. Therefore, although he spent more than twice as many days in 1798 as in 1799 at Goslar, I set down this group of poems as belonging to 1799, rather than to the previous year. It will be seen that, after placing all the poems of this Goslar period in the year to which they belong, it is possible also to group them according to their subject matter, without violating chronological order. I therefore put the fragments, afterwards incorporated in The Prelude, together. These are naturally followed by Nutting—a poem intended for The Prelude, but afterwards excluded, as inappropriate. The five poems referring to "Lucy" are placed in sequence, and the same is done with the four "Matthew" poems. A small group of four poems follows appropriately, viz. To a Sexton, The Danish Boy, Lucy Gray, and Ruth; while the Fenwick note almost necessitates our placing the Poet's Epitaph immediately after the Lines Written in Germany; and, with Wordsworth's life at Goslar, we naturally associate five things—the cold winter, The Prelude, the "Lucy" and the "Matthew" poems, and the Poet's Epitaph.—Ed.


1799 Contents
Main Contents



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

From an Unpublished Poem

[This extract is reprinted from The FriendA.]

Composed 1799.—Published 1809

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




The Poem


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

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

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



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Variant 1:  
1809
That givest ...
The Prelude, 1850.
return


Variant 2:  
1815
Nor ...
 1809
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Variant 3:  
1809
... valley ...
The Prelude, 1850.
return


Variant 4:  
1836
... I homeward went
 1809
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Variant 5:  
1845
'Twas mine among the fields ...
 1809
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Variant 6:  
1809
... blazed through twilight gloom,
 The Prelude, 1850.
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Variant 7:  
1815
... to me
1809
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Variant 8:  
1827
... car'd not for its home— ...
 1809
... cares not ...
1815
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Variant 9:  
1840
... loud bellowing ...
1809
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Variant 10:  
1836
Meanwhile ...
 1809
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Variant 11:  
1845
... while the distant hills
 1809
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Variant 12:  
1827
To cut across the image ...
1809
To cross the bright reflection ...
 1820
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Variant 13:  
1820
That gleam'd upon the ice; and oftentimes
1809 (This line occupied the place
of lines 51-52 of the final text.)
That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed
Upon the glassy plain; and oftentimes,
The Prelude, 1850.
return


Variant 14:  
1809
... as a dreamless sleep.
 The Prelude, 1850.
return




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

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


1799 Contents
Main Contents



The Simplon PassA

Composed 1799.—Published 1845

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




The Poem


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



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Variant 1:  
1845
... gloomy strait,
 The Prelude, 1850
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Variant 2:  
1845
... pace ...
 The Prelude, 1850
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Footnote A:   This is an extract from the sixth book of The Prelude, l. 621. It refers to Wordsworth's first experience of Switzerland, when he crossed the Alps by the Simplon route, in 1790, in company with his friend Robert Jones.—Ed.
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Nutting

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

The Poem

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

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




The Poem


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



Contents


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Variant 1:  
1836
... which ...
1800
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Variant 2:  
This line was added in the edition of 1827.
return


Variant 3:  
1827
When forth I sallied from our cottage-door,
1800
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Variant 4:  
1832
And with a wallet o'er my shoulder slung,
 1800
With a huge wallet o'er my shoulder slung,
 1815
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Variant 5:  
1815
... I turn'd ...
 1800
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Variant 6:  
1836
Towards the distant woods, ...
 1800
Toward ...
 1832
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Variant 7:  
1815
... of Beggar's weeds
Put on for the occasion, by advice
And exhortation ...

1800
return


Variant 8:  
1836
... Among the woods,
And o'er the pathless rocks, I forc'd my way
Until, at length, I came ...


1800
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Variant 9:  
1845
... milk-white clusters ...
 1800
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Variant 10:  
1845
... beneath ...
1800
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Variant 11:  
1836
Even then, when from the bower I turn'd away,
1800
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Variant 12:  
1836
... and the intruding sky.—
 1800
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Footnote A:   The house at which I was boarded during the time I was at School.—W. W. 1800.
return to footnote mark




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


1799 Contents
Main Contents



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

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

The Poem

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

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

return to note after The Poet's Epitaph.

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




The Poem


text variant footnote line number
A plague on your languages, German and Norse!
Let me have the song of the kettle;
And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse
That gallops away with such fury and force
On this dreary dull plate of black metal.

See that Fly,—a disconsolate creature! perhaps
A child of the field or the grove;
And, sorrow for him! the dull treacherous heat
Has seduced the poor fool from his winter retreat,
And he creeps to the edge of my stove.

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

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

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

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

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



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1820
A fig for ...
 1800
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Variant 2:  
1800
On his ...
1827
The text of 1837 returns to that of 1800.
return


Variant 3:  
Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff,
But her pulses beat slower and slower,
The weather in Forty was cutting and rough,
And then, as Heaven knows, the glass stood low enough,
And now it is four degrees lower.
This stanza occurs only in the editions of 1800 to 1815.
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Variant 4:  
1820
Here's a Fly, ...
1800
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Variant 5:  
1827
... this ...
 1800
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Variant 6:  
1837
... and not back to the wall,
1800
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Variant 7:  
1827
... and the South ...
 1800
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Variant 8:  
1845
See! his spindles ...
 1800
How his spindles ...
 1827
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Variant 9:  
1827
... no Friend ...
 1800
No brother has he, no companion, while I
MS.
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Variant 10:  
1837
... comes ...
 1800
return


1799 Contents
Main Contents



A Poet's Epitaph

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

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




The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Art thou a Statist in the van
Of public conflicts trained and bred?
—First learn to love one living man;
Then may'st thou think upon the dead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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Variant 1:  
1837
... Statesman, ...
1800
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Variant 2:  
1837
Of public business ...
1800
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Variant 3:  
1820
... to some other place
The hardness of thy coward eye,
The falsehood of thy sallow face.


1800
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Variant 4:  
1820
Art thou a man of gallant pride,
 1800
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Variant 5:  
1837
Thy pin-point of a soul away!
 1800
That abject thing, thy soul, away!
 1815
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Variant 6:  
1837
... nor ...
1800
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Variant 7:  
1800
... self-sufficient ...
 1802
The edition of 1815 returns to the text of 1800.
return




Footnote A:   D. D., not M. D. The physician is referred to in the fifth stanza.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   Compare Thomson's description of the Bard, in his Castle of Indolence (canto ii., stanza xxxiii.):
'He came, the bard, a little Druid wight,
Of withered aspect; but his eye was keen,
With sweetness mixed. In russet brown bedight,
He crept along, etc.'
Ed.
return




Note:   See the Fenwick note to the poem, Written in Germany, on one of the coldest Days of the Century (p. 73).
"The Poet's Epitaph is disfigured to my taste by the common satire upon parsons and lawyers in the beginning, and the coarse epithet of "pin-point," in the sixth stanza. All the rest is eminently good, and your own."
(Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth, January 1801.)—Ed.


1799 Contents
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"Strange fits of passion have I known"

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

[Written in Germany, 1799.—I. F.]

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


The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Strange fits of passion have I known:
And I will dare to tell,
But in the Lover's ear alone,
What once to me befel.

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

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

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

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

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

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



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Variant 1:  
1832
... I have known,
 1800
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Variant 2:  
1836
When she I lov'd, was strong and gay
And like a rose in June,
1800
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Variant 3:  
1836
... the ...
 1800
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Variant 4:  
1836
My horse trudg'd on, and we drew nigh
 1800
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Variant 5:  
1836
Towards the roof of Lucy's cot
The moon descended stilla.
1800
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Variant 6:  
1815
... the planet dropp'd.
1800
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Sub-Footnote a:   Compare the lines in Arthur Hugh Clough's poem, The Stream of Life:
'And houses stand on either hand
And thou descendest still.'
Ed.
return to footnote mark


1799 Contents
Main Contents



"She dwelt among the untrodden ways"

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

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




The Poem


text variant footnote line number
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:

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

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



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Variant 1:  
1800
A very few ...
 1802
The text of the edition of 1805 returns to that of 1800.
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Variant 2:  
The word "lived" was italicised in the edition of 1800 only.
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1799 Contents
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"I travelled among unknown men"

Composed 1799.-Published 1807

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




The Poem


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

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

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

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



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Variant 1:  
The gladness of desire;
MS.
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Variant 2:  
1836
And thine is, too, the last green field
Which ...

1807
That ...
 1815
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Footnote A:   Compare Sara Coleridge's comment on this poem in the Biographia Literaria (1847), vol. ii. chap. ix. p. 173. Also Mrs. Oliphant's remarks in her Literary History of the Nineteenth Century, vol. i. pp. 306-9.—Ed.
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"Three years she grew in sun and shower"

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

The Poem

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

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




The Poem


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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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1800
Her Teacher I myself will be, She is my darling;— ...
 MS. 1801, and the edition of 1802.
The edition of 1805 returns to the text of 1800.
return


Variant 2:   A reading—printed in the edition of 1800, but replaced in its list of errata by that given in the text—may be quoted here,
A beauty that shall mould her form ... 1800
return




Footnote A:   Compare Dryden's Indian Emperor, iv. 3.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   On Oct 9, 1800, S. T. Coleridge, in writing to Sir Humphry Davy of his own Christabel, said,
"I would rather have written Ruth, and Nature's Lady, than a million such poems."
This poem was printed in The Morning Post, March 2nd, 1801.—Ed.
return


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"A slumber did my spirit seal"

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

[Written in Germany.—I. F.]

Included among the "Poems of the Imagination."A—Ed.




The Poem


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

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



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


Footnote B:   Compare Suckling's Fragmenta Aurea (The Tragedy of Brennoralt), p. 170, edition 1658.
Heavens! shall this fresh ornament of the world,
These precious love-lines, pass with other common things,
Amongst the wastes of time? What pity 'twere.
Ed.
return


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Address to the Scholars of the Village School of ——

Composed 1798 or 1799.—Published 1842

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

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




The Poem


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

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

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


Dirge

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

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

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

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

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

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


By the Side of the Grave Some Years After

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

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

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

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


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Note:  To this poem, when first published in the "Poems of Early and Late Years" (1842), Wordsworth appended the note,
"See, upon the subject of the three foregoing pieces, The Fountain [p. 91], etc. etc. in the fifth volume of the Author's Poems."
He thus connects it with the poems referring to Matthew in such a way that it may be said to belong to that series; and, while he assigned it to the year 1798, both in the edition of 1845, and in that of 1849-50, it is quite possible that it was written in 1799. "The village school" was the Grammar School of Hawkshead, where Wordsworth spent his boyhood; and the schoolmaster was the Rev. William Taylor, M. A., Emmanuel College, Cambridge, who was the third of the four masters who taught in it during Wordsworth's residence there. He was master from 1782 to 1786. Just before his death he sent for the upper boys of the school (amongst whom was Wordsworth), and calling them into his room, took leave of them with a solemn blessing. This farewell doubtless suggested the lines:
the blessing which to you
Our common Friend and Father sent.
Mr. Taylor was buried in Cartmell Churchyard. In The Prelude, Wordsworth writes of him as "an honoured teacher of my youth;" and there describes, with some minuteness, a visit to his grave. (See book x. l. 532.) It will be seen, however, from the Fenwick note to Matthew, that the Hawkshead Schoolmaster, like the Wanderer in The Excursion, was "made up of several both of his class and men of other occupations;" but of the four masters who taught Wordsworth at Hawkshead—Peake, Christian, Taylor, and Bowman—Taylor was far the ablest, the most interesting, and the most beloved by the boys, and it was doubtless the memory of this man that gave rise to the above poem, and the four which follow it. He was but thirty-two years old when he died, 12th June, 1786. This fact, taken in connection with line 14 of the Address, may illustrate the composite character of Matthew.—Ed.


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Matthew

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

The Poem

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

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

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


The Poem


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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1815
... the oil ...
1800
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Variant 2:  
1800
... to thee?
 1805, and MS.
The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.
return




Footnote A:   On the 27th March 1843, Wordsworth wrote to Professor Henry Reed of Philadelphia:
"The character of the schoolmaster, had like the Wanderer in The Excursion a solid foundation in fact and reality, but like him it was also in some degree a composition: I will not, and need not, call it an invention—it was no such thing."
Ed.
return to footnote mark


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The Two April Mornings

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

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




The Poem


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

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

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

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

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

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

"And just above yon slope of corn
Such colours, and no other,
Were in the sky, that April morn,
Of this the very brother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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1802
And on that slope of springing corn
The self-same crimson hue
Fell from the sky that April morn,
The same which now I view!



1800
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Variant 2:  
1815
With rod and line my silent sport
I plied by Derwent's wave,
1800
return


Variant 3:  
1837
And, coming to the church, ...
1800
return


Variant 4:  
1800
... sung;— ...
 1802
The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.
return


Variant 5:  
1820
... his bough
 1800
return




Footnote A:   Compare the Winters Tale, act IV. scene iii. ll. 140-2:
'when you do dance, I wish you
A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that, etc.'
Ed.
return to footnote mark


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The Fountain

A Conversation

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

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




The Poem


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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1820
Now, Matthew, let us try to match
 1800
return


Variant 2:  
1837
Down to the vale this water steers,
1800
Down to the vale with eager speed
Behold this streamlet run,
From subterranean bondage freed,
And glittering in the sun.



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

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



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


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


C.
return


Variant 3:  
1837
The blackbird in the summer trees,
The lark upon the hill,
1800
return


Variant 4:  
1832
... is ....
 1800 and MS.
return


Variant 5:  
1815
... his hands, ...
 1800
return




Footnote A:  
"Pour me plaindre a moy, regarde noti tant ce qu'on moste, que ce qui me reste de sauvre, et dedans et dehors."
Montaigne, Essais, iii. 12.

Compare also:
"Themistocles quidem, cum ei Simonides, an quis alius artem memoriæ polliceretur, Oblivionis, inquit, mallem; nam memini etiam quæ nolo, oblivisci non possum quæ volo."
Cicero, De Finibus, II. 32.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


1799 Contents
Main Contents



To a Sexton

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

[Written in Germany, 1799.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Fancy."—Ed.




The Poem


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

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

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

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



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Thou, old Grey-beard! ...
1800
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The Danish Boy

A Fragment

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

The Poem

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

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




The Poem


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






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II In clouds above, the lark is heard,
But drops not here to earth for rest;
Within this lonesome nook the bird
Did never build her nest.
No beast, no bird hath here his home;
Bees, wafted on the breezy air,
Pass high above those fragrant bells
To other flowers:—to other dells
Their burthens do they bear;
The Danish Boy walks here alone:
The lovely dell is all his own.
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III A Spirit of noon-day is he;
Yet seems a form of flesh and blood;
Nor piping shepherd shall he be,
Nor herd-boy of the wood.
A regal vest of fur he wears,
In colour like a raven's wing;
It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew;
But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue
As budding pines in spring;
His helmet has a vernal grace,
Fresh as the bloom upon his face.
7

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


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



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Variant 1:  
1836
... a cottage hut;
 1800
return


Variant 2:  
1827
He sings his blithest and his best;
 1800
She sings, regardless of her rest,
 1820
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Variant 3:  
1827
But in ...
1800
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Variant 4:  
1820
... his ...
 1800
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Variant 5:  
1827
The bees borne on ...
 1800
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Variant 6:  
1827
Nor ever linger there.
1800
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Variant 7:  
1836
He seems ...
1800
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Variant 8:  
1802
A piping Shepherd he might be,
A Herd-boy of the wood.

1800
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Variant 9:  
1802
... nor ...
 1800
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Variant 10:  
1836
He rests the harp upon his knee,
And there in a forgotten tongue
He warbles melody.


1800
return


Variant 11:  
1827
Of flocks and herds both far and near
 1800
Of flocks upon the neighbouring hills
 1802
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Variant 12:  
1845
... sits ...
 1800
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Variant 13:  
When near this blasted tree you pass,
Two sods are plainly to be seen
Close at its root, and each with grass
Is cover'd fresh and green.
Like turf upon a new-made grave
These two green sods together lie,
Nor heat, nor cold, nor rain, nor wind
Can these two sods together bind,
Nor sun, nor earth, nor sky,
But side by side the two are laid,
As if just sever'd by the spade.
This stanza occurs only in the edition of 1800.
return


Variant 14:  
1815
They seem ...
 1800
return




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

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

The Poem

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

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




The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.

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

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

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

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

At this the Father raised his hook,
And snapped a faggot-band;
He plied his work;—and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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60





Variant 1:  
1800
Oft had I heard ...
 Only in the second issue of 1800.
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Variant 2:  
1800 (2nd issue).
She dwelt on a wild Moor
 1800
She lived on a wide Moor
 MS.
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Variant 3:  
1800
... bright ...
C.
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Variant 4:  
1800
He snapped ...
 MS.
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Variant 5:  
1827
And now they homeward turn'd, and cry'd
 1800
And, turning homeward, now they cried
 1815
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Variant 6:  
1800
The Mother turning homeward cried,
"We never more shall meet,"
When in the driven snow she spied


MS.
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Variant 7:  
1840
Then downward ...
1800
Half breathless ...
 1827
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Variant 8:  
1800
... and never lost
Till ...
MS.
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Variant 9:  
1827
The ...
 1800
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Variant 10:  
1800
... was ...
1802
The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.
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Footnote A:   Compare Gray's ode, On a Distant Prospect of Eton College, II. 38-9:
'Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind.'
Ed.
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Note:   This poem was illustrated by Sir George Beaumont, in a picture of some merit, which was engraved by J. C. Bromley, and published in the collected editions of 1815 and 1820. Henry Crabb Robinson wrote in his Diary, September 11, 1816 (referring to Wordsworth):
"He mentioned the origin of some poems. Lucy Gray, that tender and pathetic narrative of a child lost on a common, was occasioned by the death of a child who fell into the lock of a canal. His object was to exhibit poetically entire solitude, and he represents the child as observing the day-moon, which no town or village girl would ever notice."
A contributor to Notes and Queries, May 12, 1883, whose signature is F., writes:
"The Scene of Lucy Gray.—In one of the editions of Wordsworth's works the scene of this ballad is said to have been near Halifax, in Yorkshire. I do not think the poet was acquainted with the locality beyond a sight of the country in travelling through on some journey. I know of no spot where all the little incidents mentioned in the poem would exactly fit in, and a few of the local allusions are evidently by a stranger. There is no 'minster'; the church at Halifax from time immemorial has always been known as the 'parish church,' and sometimes as the 'old church,' but has never been styled 'the minster.' The 'mountain roe,' which of course may be brought in as poetically illustrative, has not been seen on these hills for generations, and I scarcely think even the 'fawn at play' for more than a hundred years. These misapplications, it is almost unnecessary to say, do not detract from the beauty of the poetry. Some of the touches are graphically true to the neighbourhood, as, for instance, 'the wide moor,' the 'many a hill,' the 'steep hill's edge,' the 'long stone wall,' and the hint of the general loneliness of the region where Lucy 'no mate, no comrade, knew.' I think I can point out the exact spot—no longer a 'plank,' but a broad, safe bridge—where Lucy fell into the water. Taking a common-sense view, that she would not be sent many miles at two o'clock on a winter afternoon to the town (Halifax, of course), over so lonely a mountain moor—bearing in mind also that this moor overlooked the river, and that the river was deep and strong enough to carry the child down the current—I know only one place where such an accident could have occurred. The clue is in this verse:
'At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door.'
The hill I take to be the high ridge of Greetland and Norland Moor, and the plank she had to cross Sterne Mill Bridge, which there spans the Calder, broad and rapid enough at any season to drown either a young girl or a grown-up person. The mountain burns, romantic and wild though they be, are not dangerous to cross, especially for a child old enough to go and seek her mother. To sum up the matter, the hill overlooking the moor, the path to and distance from the town, the bridge, the current, all indicate one point, and one point only, where this accident could have happened, and that is the bridge near Sterne Mill. This bridge is so designated from the Sterne family, a branch of whom in the last century resided close by. The author of Tristram Shandy spent his boyhood here; and Lucy Gray, had she safely crossed the plank, would immediately have passed Wood Hall, where the boy Laurence had lived, and, pursuing her way to Halifax, would have gone through the meadows in which stood Heath School, where young Sterne had been educated. The mill-weir at Sterne Mill Bridge was, I believe, the scene of Lucy Gray's death."
Sterne Mill Bridge, however, crosses the river Calder, while Wordsworth tells us that the girl lost her life by falling "into the lock of a canal." The Calder runs parallel with the canal near Sterne Mill Bridge. See J.R. Tutin's Wordsworth in Yorkshire.—Ed.


1799 Contents
Main Contents



Ruth

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

The Poem

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

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


The Poem


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He spake of plants that hourly change
Their blossoms, through a boundless range
Of intermingling hues;
With budding, fading, faded flowers
They stand the wonder of the bowers
From morn to evening dews,

He told of the magnolia, spread
High as a cloud, high over head!
The cypress and her spire;
—Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam
Cover a hundred leagues, and seem
To set the hills on fire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought,
The be