"Feb. 1, 1802.—William worked hard at The Pedlar, and tired himself.Similar records occur each day in the Journal from the 10th to the 14th Feb. 1802.—Ed.
2nd Feb.—Wm. worked at The Pedlar. I read aloud the 11th book of Paradise Lost.
Thursday, 4th.—William thought a little about The Pedlar.
5th.—Wm. sate up late at The Pedlar.
7th.—W. was working at his poem. Wm. read The Pedlar, thinking it was done. But lo! ... it was uninteresting, and must be altered."
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| One morning (raw it was and wet— A foggy day in winter time) A Woman on the road I met, Not old, though something past her prime: Majestic in her person, tall and straight; And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait. The ancient spirit is not dead; Old times, thought I, are breathing there; Proud was I that my country bred Such strength, a dignity so fair: She begged an alms, like one in poor estate; I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate. When from these lofty thoughts I woke, "What is it," said I, "that you bear, Beneath the covert of your Cloak, Protected from this cold damp air?" She answered, soon as she the question heard, "A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird." And, thus continuing, she said, "I had a Son, who many a day Sailed on the seas, but he is dead; In Denmark he was cast away: And I have travelled weary miles to see If aught which he had owned might still remain for me. "The bird and cage they both were his: 'Twas my Son's bird; and neat and trim He kept it: many voyages The singing-bird had gone with him; When last he sailed, he left the bird behind; From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind. "He to a fellow-lodger's care Had left it, to be watched and fed, And pipe its song in safety;—there I found it when my Son was dead; And now, God help me for my little wit! I bear [8] it with me, Sir;—he took so much delight in it." Note Contents 1802 Main Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 |
| 1815 | |
... in ... |
1807 |
| 1836 | |
... I woke, |
1807 |
"What treasure," said I,"do you bear, |
1820 |
| 1807 | |
"I had a Son,—the waves might roar, |
1820 |
... cross the deep ... |
1827 |
| 1827 | |
And I have been as far as Hull, to see |
1807 |
And I have travelled far as Hull, to see |
1815 |
And I have travelled many miles to see |
1820 |
| 1845 | |
This Singing-bird hath gone ... |
1807 |
... had gone ... |
1820 |
| 1827 | |
As it might be, perhaps, from bodings of his mind. |
1807 |
| 1827 | |
Till he came back again; and there |
1807 |
| 1827 | |
I trail ... |
1807 |
"Thursday (March 11th).—A fine morning. William worked at the poem of The Singing Bird. ..."(Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal.)—Ed.
"Friday (March 12th).—William finished his poem of The Singing Bird."
"Feb. 16, 1802.—Mr. Graham said he wished William had been with him the other day. He was riding in a post-chaise, and he heard a strange cry that he could not understand. The sound continued, and he called to the chaise-driver to stop. It was a little girl that was crying as if her heart would burst. She had got up behind the chaise, and her cloak had been caught by the wheel, and was jammed in, and it hung there. She was crying after it, poor thing. Mr. Graham took her into the chaise, and her cloak was released from the wheel, but the child's misery did not cease, for her cloak was torn to rags. It had been a miserable cloak before; but she had no other, and it was the greatest sorrow that could befall her. Her name was Alice Fell. She had no parents, and belonged to the next town. At the next town Mr. G. left money to buy her a new cloak."Ed.
"Friday (March 12).—In the evening after tea William wrote Alice Fell."
"Saturday Morning (13th March).—William finished Alice Fell...."
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| The post-boy drove with fierce career, For threatening clouds the moon had drowned; When, as we hurried on, my ear Was smitten with a startling sound. As if the wind blew many ways, I heard the sound,—and more and more; It seemed to follow with the chaise, And still I heard it as before. At length I to the boy called out; He stopped his horses at the word, But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout, Nor aught else like it, could be heard. The boy then smacked his whip, and fast The horses scampered through the rain; But, hearing soon upon the blast The cry, I bade him halt again. Forthwith alighting on the ground, "Whence comes," said I, "this piteous moan?" And there a little Girl I found, Sitting behind the chaise, alone. "My cloak!" no other word she spake, But loud and bitterly she wept, As if her innocent heart would break; And down from off her seat she leapt. "What ails you, child?"—she sobbed "Look here!" I saw it in the wheel entangled, A weather-beaten rag as e'er From any garden scare-crow dangled. There, twisted between nave and spoke, It hung, nor could at once be freed; But our joint pains unloosed the cloak, A miserable rag indeed! "And whither are you going, child, To-night along these lonesome ways?" "To Durham," answered she, half wild— "Then come with me into the chaise." Insensible to all relief Sat the poor girl, and forth did send Sob after sob, as if her grief Could never, never have an end. "My child, in Durham do you dwell?" She checked herself in her distress, And said, "My name is Alice Fell; I'm fatherless and motherless. "And I to Durham, Sir, belong." Again, as if the thought would choke Her very heart, her grief grew strong; And all was for her tattered cloak! The chaise drove on; our journey's end Was nigh; and, sitting by my side, As if she had lost her only friend She wept, nor would be pacified. Up to the tavern-door we post; Of Alice and her grief I told; And I gave money to the host, To buy a new cloak for the old. "And let it be of duffil grey, As warm a cloak as man can sell!" Proud creature was she the next day, The little orphan, Alice Fell! Note Contents 1802 Main Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 |
| 1845 | |
When suddenly I seem'd to hear |
1807 |
| 1845 | |
And soon I heard upon the blast |
1807 |
| 1845 | |
Said I, alighting on the ground, |
1807 |
Forthwith alighted on the ground |
C. |
| 1836 | |
"My Cloak!" the word was last and first, |
1807 |
"My cloak, my cloak" she cried, and spake |
C. |
| 1815 | |
... off the Chaise ... |
1807 |
| 1845 | |
'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke; |
1807 |
... between ... |
1840 |
| 1836 | |
A wretched, wretched rag indeed! |
1807 |
| 1845 | |
She sate like one past all relief; |
1807 |
| 1836 | |
And then, ... |
1807 |
| 1836 | |
... she'd lost ... |
1807 |
"I am glad that you have not sacrificed a verse to those scoundrels. I would not have had you offer up the poorest rag that lingered upon the stript shoulders of little Alice Fell, to have atoned all their malice; I would not have given 'em a red cloak to save their souls."See Letters of Charles Lamb (Ainger), vol. i. p. 283.—Ed.
"his poems are sometimes little more than poetical versions of her descriptions of the objects which she had seen, and he treated them as seen by himself."(See Memoirs of Wordsworth, vol. i. pp. 180-1.)
"Saturday (March 13, 1802).—William wrote the poem of the Beggar Woman, taken from a woman whom I had seen in May (now nearly two years ago), when John and he were at Gallow Hill. I sat with him at intervals all the morning, and took down his stanzas. After tea I read W. the account I had written of the little boy belonging to the tall woman: and an unlucky thing it was, for he could not escape from those very words, and so he could not write the poem. He left it unfinished, and went tired to bed. In our walk from Rydal he had got warmed with the subject, and had half cast the poem."The following is the "account" written in her Journal on Tuesday, May 23, 1800:
"Sunday Morning (March 14). —William had slept badly. He got up at 9 o'clock, but before he rose he had finished the Beggar Boy."
"A very tall woman, tall much beyond the measure of tall women, called at the door. She had on a very long brown cloak, and a very white cap, without bonnet. Her face was brown, but it had plainly once been fair. She led a little barefooted child about two years old by the hand, and said her husband, who was a tinker, was gone before with the other children. I gave her a piece of bread. Afterwards, on my road to Ambleside, beside the bridge at Rydal, I saw her husband sitting at the roadside, his two asses standing beside him, and the two young children at play upon the grass. The man did not beg. I passed on, and about a quarter of a mile farther I saw two boys before me, one about ten, the other about eight years old, at play, chasing a butterfly. They were wild figures, not very ragged, but without shoes and stockings. The hat of the elder was wreathed round with yellow flowers; the younger, whose hat was only a rimless crown, had stuck it round with laurel leaves. They continued at play till I drew very near, and then they addressed me with the begging cant and the whining voice of sorrow. I said, 'I served your mother this morning' (the boys were so like the woman who had called at our door that I could not be mistaken). 'O,' says the elder, 'you could not serve my mother, for she's dead, and my father's in at the next town; he's a potter.' I persisted in my assertion, and that I would give them nothing. Says the elder, 'Come, let's away,' and away they flew like lightning. They had, however, sauntered so long in their road that they did not reach Ambleside before me, and I saw them go up to Mathew Harrison's house with their wallet upon the elder's shoulder, and creeping with a beggar's complaining foot. On my return through Ambleside I met, in the street, the mother driving her asses, in the two panniers of one of which were the two little children, whom she was chiding and threatening with a wand with which she used to drive on her asses, while the little things hung in wantonness over the pannier's edge. The woman had told me in the morning that she was of Scotland, which her accent fully proved, and that she had lived (I think at Wigtown); that they could not keep a house, and so they travelled."This was one of the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.
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| She had a tall man's height or more; Her face from summer's noontide heat No bonnet shaded, but she wore A mantle, to her very feet Descending with a graceful flow, And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen snow. Her skin was of Egyptian brown: Haughty, as if her eye had seen Its own light to a distance thrown, She towered, fit person for a Queen To lead those ancient Amazonian files; Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian isles. Advancing, forth she stretched her hand And begged an alms with doleful plea That ceased not; on our English land Such woes, I knew, could never be; And yet a boon I gave her, for the creature Was beautiful to see—a weed of glorious feature. I left her, and pursued my way; And soon before me did espy A pair of little Boys at play, Chasing a crimson butterfly; The taller followed with his hat in hand, Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land. The other wore a rimless crown With leaves of laurel stuck about; And, while both followed up and down, Each whooping with a merry shout, In their fraternal features I could trace Unquestionable lines of that wild Suppliant's face. Yet they, so blithe of heart, seemed fit For finest tasks of earth or air: Wings let them have, and they might flit Precursors to Aurora's car, Scattering fresh flowers; though happier far, I ween, To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock and level green. They dart across my path—but lo, Each ready with a plaintive whine! Said I, "not half an hour ago Your Mother has had alms of mine." "That cannot be," one answered—"she is dead:"— I looked reproof—they saw—but neither hung his head. "She has been dead, Sir, many a day."— "Hush, boys! you're telling me a lie; It was your Mother, as I say!" And, in the twinkling of an eye, "Come! come!" cried one, and without more ado, Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew! Contents 1802 Main Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 |
B C |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 |
| 1845 | |
She had a tall Man's height, or more; |
1807 |
Before me as the Wanderer stood, |
1827 |
Before my eyes a Wanderer stood; |
1832 |
No bonnet shaded, nor the hood |
1836 |
She had a tall man's height or more; |
C. |
She had a tall man's height or more; |
C. |
| 1827 | |
In all my walks, through field or town, |
1807 |
Such figure had I never seen |
C. |
| 1836 | |
To head ... |
1807 |
| 1845 | |
Before me begging did she stand, |
1807 |
Her suit no faltering scruples checked; |
1827 |
She begged an alms; no scruple checked |
1832 |
Before me begging did she stand |
C. |
| 1807 | |
With yellow flowers around, as with a golden band. |
C. |
| 1827 | |
And they both ... |
1807 |
| 1820 | |
Two Brothers seem'd they, eight and ten years old; |
1807 |
| This stanza was added in the edition of 1827. |
| 1836 | |
Precursors of ... |
1827 |
| 1827 | |
They bolted on me thus, and lo! |
1807 |
| 1827 | |
"Nay but I gave her pence, and she will buy you bread." |
1807 |
| 1845 | |
"Sweet Boys, you're telling me a lie; |
1807 |
... Heaven hears that rash reply; |
1827 |
| 1827 | |
... they both together flew. |
1807 |
... the thoughtless vagrants flew. |
C. |
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| Where are they now, those wanton Boys? For whose free range the dædal earth Was filled with animated toys, And implements of frolic mirth; With tools for ready wit to guide; And ornaments of seemlier pride, More fresh, more bright, than princes wear; For what one moment flung aside, Another could repair; What good or evil have they seen Since I their pastime witnessed here, Their daring wiles, their sportive cheer? I ask—but all is dark between! They met me in a genial hour, When universal nature breathed As with the breath of one sweet flower,— A time to overrule the power Of discontent, and check the birth Of thoughts with better thoughts at strife, The most familiar bane of life Since parting Innocence bequeathed Mortality to Earth! Soft clouds, the whitest of the year, Sailed through the sky—the brooks ran clear; The lambs from rock to rock were bounding; With songs the budded groves resounding; And to my heart are still endeared The thoughts with which it then was cheered; The faith which saw that gladsome pair Walk through the fire with unsinged hair. Or, if such faith must needs deceive— Then, Spirits of beauty and of grace, Associates in that eager chase; Ye, who within the blameless mind Your favourite seat of empire find— Kind Spirits! may we not believe That they, so happy and so fair Through your sweet influence, and the care Of pitying Heaven, at least were free From touch of deadly injury? Destined, whate'er their earthly doom, For mercy and immortal bloom? Contents 1802 Main Contents |
1 2 3 |
A |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 |
Spirits of beauty and of grace! |
| 1836 | |
And to my heart is still endeared |
1827 |
| 1836 | |
... such thoughts ... |
1827 |
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| Stay near me—do not take thy flight! A little longer stay in sight! Much converse do I find in thee, Historian of my infancy! Float near me; do not yet depart! Dead times revive in thee: Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art! A solemn image to my heart, My father's family! Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days, The time, when, in our childish plays, My sister Emmeline and I Together chased the butterfly! A very hunter did I rush Upon the prey:—with leaps and springs I followed on from brake to bush; But she, God love her! feared to brush The dust from off its wings. Note Contents 1802 Main Contents |
A |
5 10 15 |
"While we were at breakfast he" (William) "wrote the poem To a Butterfly. He ate not a morsel, but sate with his shirt neck unbuttoned, and his waistcoat open when he did it. The thought first came upon him as we were talking about the pleasure we both always felt at the sight of a butterfly. I told him that I used to chase them a little, but that I was afraid of brushing the dust off their wings, and did not catch them. He told me how he used to kill all the white ones when he went to school, because they were Frenchmen. Mr. Simpson came in just as he was finishing the poem. After he was gone, I wrote it down, and the other poems, and I read them all over to him.... William began to try to alter The Butterfly, and tired himself."Compare the later poem To a Butterfly (2) (April 20), p. 297. —Ed.
"Tuesday (March 16).—William went up into the orchard, and wrote a part of The Emigrant Mother."This poem was included among those "founded on the Affections."—Ed.
"Wednesday.—William went up into the orchard, and finished the poem.... I went and sate with W., and walked backwards and forwards in the orchard till dinner-time. He read me his poem."
| stanza | text | variant | footnote | line number |
| Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned In which a Lady driven from France did dwell; The big and lesser griefs with which she mourned, In friendship she to me would often tell. |
||||
| This Lady, dwelling upon British ground, Where she was childless, daily would repair To a poor neighbouring cottage; as I found, For sake of a young Child whose home was there. |
1 / 2 3 |
5 | ||
| Once having seen her clasp with fond embrace This Child, I chanted to myself a lay, Endeavouring, in our English tongue, to trace Such things as she unto the Babe might say: And thus, from what I heard and knew, or guessed, My song the workings of her heart expressed. |
4 5 |
10 |
||
| I | "Dear Babe, thou daughter of another, One moment let me be thy mother! An infant's face and looks are thine And sure a mother's heart is mine: Thy own dear mother's far away, At labour in the harvest field: Thy little sister is at play;— What warmth, what comfort would it yield To my poor heart, if thou wouldst be One little hour a child to me! |
15 20 |
||
| II | "Across the waters I am come, And I have left a babe at home: A long, long way of land and sea! Come to me—I'm no enemy: I am the same who at thy side Sate yesterday, and made a nest For thee, sweet Baby!—thou hast tried, Thou know'st the pillow of my breast; Good, good art thou:—alas! to me Far more than I can be to thee. |
25 30 |
||
| III | "Here, little Darling, dost thou lie; An infant thou, a mother I! Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears; Mine art thou—spite of these my tears. Alas! before I left the spot, My baby and its dwelling-place; The nurse said to me, 'Tears should not Be shed upon an infant's face, It was unlucky'—no, no, no; No truth is in them who say so! |
35 40 |
||
| IV | "My own dear Little-one will sigh, Sweet Babe! and they will let him die. 'He pines,' they'll say, 'it is his doom, And you may see his hour is come.' Oh! had he but thy cheerful smiles, Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay, Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles, And countenance like a summer's day, They would have hopes of him;—and then I should behold his face again! |
45 50 |
||
| V | "'Tis gone—like dreams that we forget; There was a smile or two—yet—yet I can remember them, I see The smiles, worth all the world to me. Dear Baby! I must lay thee down; Thou troublest me with strange alarms; Smiles hast thou, bright ones of thy own; I cannot keep thee in my arms; For they confound me;—where—where is That last, that sweetest smile of his? |
6 7 8 |
55 60 |
|
| VI | "Oh! how I love thee!—we will stay Together here this one half day. My sister's child, who bears my name, From France to sheltering England came; She with her mother crossed the sea; The babe and mother near me dwell: Yet does my yearning heart to thee Turn rather, though I love her well: Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here! Never was any child more dear! |
9 10 |
65 70 |
|
| VII | "—I cannot help it; ill intent I've none, my pretty Innocent! I weep—I know they do thee wrong, These tears—and my poor idle tongue. Oh, what a kiss was that! my cheek How cold it is! but thou art good; So Thine eyes are on me—they would speak, I think, to help me if they could. Blessings upon that soft, warm face, My heart again is in its place! |
11 12 |
75 80 |
|
| VIII | "While thou art mine, my little Love, This cannot be a sorrowful grove; Contentment, hope, and mother's glee, I seem to find them all in thee: Here's grass to play with, here are flowers; I'll call thee by my darling's name; Thou hast, I think, a look of ours, Thy features seem to me the same; His little sister thou shalt be; And, when once more my home I see, I'll tell him many tales of Thee." Contents 1802 Main Contents |
13 14 |
85 90 95 |
| 1807 | |
This Mother ... |
MS. |
| 1845 | |
... English ... |
1807 |
| 1827 | |
... did ... |
1807 |
| 1845 | |
Once did I see her clasp the Child about, |
1807 |
Once did I see her take with fond embrace |
1820 |
Once, having seen her take with fond embrace |
1827 |
| 1845 | |
And thus, from what I knew, had heard, and guess'd, |
1807 |
| 1820 | |
'Tis gone—forgotten—let me do |
1807 |
| 1827 | |
... sweet ... |
1807 |
| 1836 | |
For they confound me: as it is, |
1807 |
For they bewilder me—even now |
1820 |
By those bewildering glances crost |
1827 |
| 1827 | |
From France across the Ocean came; |
1807 |
| 1845 | |
My Darling, she is not to me |
1807 |
But to my heart she cannot be |
1836 |
| 1807 | |
And I grow happy while I speak, |
MS. |
| 1820 | |
... that quiet face, |
1807 |
| 1807 | |
A Joy, a Comforter thou art; |
MS. |
| 1807 | |
My yearnings are allayed by thee, |
MS. |
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| O blithe New-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear, From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off, and near. Though babbling only to the Vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery; The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen. And I can listen to thee yet; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again. O blessed Bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial, faery place; That is fit home for Thee! Note Contents 1802 Main Contents |
1 2 3 |
A |
5 10 15 20 25 30 |
| 1845 | |
While I am lying on the grass, |
1807 |
Thy loud note smites my ear!— |
1815 |
Thy loud note smites my ear! |
1820 |
Thy twofold shout I hear, |
1827 |
| 1827 | |
To me, no Babbler with a tale |
1807 |
I hear thee babbling to the Vale |
1815 |
But unto me .... |
1820 |
| 1836 | |
No Bird; but an invisible Thing, |
1807 |
"Vox et praterea nihil. See Lipsius 'of the Nightingale.'"Barron Field.—Ed.
"A mild morning. William worked at the Cuckoo poem.... At the closing in of day, went to sit in the orchard. William came to me, and walked backwards and forwards. W. repeated the poem to me. I left him there; and in 20 minutes he came in, rather tired with attempting to write."It is therefore evident that it belongs to the year 1802; although it may have been altered and readjusted in 1804. The connection of the seventh stanza of this poem with the first of that which follows it, "My heart leaps up," etc., and of both with the Ode, Intimations of Immortality (vol. viii.), is obvious.—Ed.
"Friday (March 25).—A beautiful morning. William worked at The Cuckoo."
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| My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. Note Contents 1802 Main Contents |
A |
5 |
'The childhood shews the man,Dryden's All for Love, act IV. scene I:
As morning shews the day.'
'Men are but children of a larger growth.'And Pope's Essay on Man, Ep. iv. l. 175:
'The boy and man an individual makes.'Also Chatterton's Fragment (Aldine edition, vol. 1. p. 132):
'Nature in the infant marked the man.'Ed.
"March 26, 1802.—While I was getting into bed he" (W.) "wrote The Rainbow."(Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal.) This poem was known familiarly in the household as "The Rainbow," although not printed under that title. The text was never changed.
"May 14th.— ... William very nervous. After he was in bed, haunted with altering The Rainbow."
"Men laugh at the falsehoods imposed on them during their childhood, because they are not good and wise enough to contemplate the past in the present, and so to produce that continuity in their self-consciousness, which Nature has made the law of their animal life. Men are ungrateful to others, only when they have ceased to look back on their former selves with joy and tenderness. They exist in fragments."He then quotes the above poem, and adds:
"I am informed that these lines have been cited as a specimen of despicable puerility. So much the worse for the citer; not willingly in his presence would I behold the sun setting behind our mountains.... But let the dead bury their dead! The poet sang for the living.... I was always pleased with the motto placed under the figure of the rosemary in old herbals:Compare the passage in The Excursion (book ix. l. 36) beginning:'Sus, apage! Haud tibi spiro.'"
'... Ah! why in agealso that in The Prelude (book v. l. 507) beginning:
Do we revert so fondly, etc.'
'Our childhood sits.'
| text | variant | footnote | line number |
| The Cock is crowing, The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter, The green field sleeps in the sun; The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest; The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising; There are forty feeding like one! Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill; The Ploughboy is whooping—anon—anon: There's joy in the mountains; There's life in the fountains; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone! Note Contents 1802 Main Contents |
A |
5 10 15 20 |
"Friday, 16th April (Good Friday).—... When we came to the foot of Brothers Water, I left William sitting on the bridge, and went along the path on the right side of the lake through the wood. I was delighted with what I saw: the water under the boughs of the bare old trees, the simplicity of the mountains, and the exquisite beauty of the path. There was one grey cottage. I repeated The Glowworm as I walked along. I hung over the gate, and thought I could have stayed for ever. When I returned, I found William writing a poem descriptive of the sights and sounds we saw and heard. There was the gentle flowing of the stream, the glittering lively lake, green fields, without a living creature to be seen on them; behind us, a flat pasture with forty-two cattle feeding; to our left, the road leading to the hamlet. No smoke there, the sun shone on the bare roofs. The people were at work, ploughing, harrowing, and sowing; lasses working; a dog barking now and then; cocks crowing, birds twittering; the snow in patches at the top of the highest hills; yellow palms, purple and green twigs on the birches, ashes with their glittering stems quite bare. The hawthorn a bright green, with black stems under the oak. The moss of the oaks glossy.... As we went up the vale of Brothers Water, more and more cattle feeding, a hundred of them. William finished his poem before we got to the foot of Kirkstone. There were hundreds of cattle in the vale.... The walk up Kirkstone was very interesting. The becks among the rocks were all alive. William shewed me the little mossy streamlet which he had before loved, when he saw its bright green track in the snow. The view above Ambleside very beautiful. There we sate, and looked down on the green vale. We watched the crows at a little distance from us become white as silver, as they flew in the sunshine; and, when they went still farther, they looked like shapes of water passing over the green fields."Ed.
"A mild grey morning with rising vapours. We sate in the orchard. William wrote the poem on the Robin and the Butterfly.... W. met me at Rydal with the conclusion of the poem to the Robin. I read it to him in bed. We left out some lines."Ed.
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| Art thou the bird whom Man loves best, The pious bird with the scarlet breast, Our little English Robin; The bird that comes about our doors When Autumn-winds are sobbing? Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors? Their Thomas in Finland, And Russia far inland? The bird, that by some name or other All men who know thee call their brother, The darling of children and men? Could Father Adam open his eyes And see this sight beneath the skies, He'd wish to close them again. —If the Butterfly knew but his friend, Hither his flight he would bend; And find his way to me, Under the branches of the tree: In and out, he darts about; Can this be the bird, to man so good, That, after their bewildering, Covered with leaves the little children, So painfully in the wood? What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue A beautiful creature, That is gentle by nature? Beneath the summer sky From flower to flower let him fly; 'Tis all that he wishes to do. The cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness, He is the friend of our summer gladness: What hinders, then, that ye should be Playmates in the sunny weather, And fly about in the air together! His beautiful wings in crimson are drest, A crimson as bright as thine own: Would'st thou be happy in thy nest, O pious Bird! whom man loves best, Love him, or leave him alone! Contents 1802 Main Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 |
B C |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 |
| 1849 | |
... whom ... |
1807 |
... who ... |
1827 |
| 1815 | |
In and out, he darts about; |
1807 |
... Robin! Robin! |
MS. |
| 1832 | |
Did cover ... |
1807 |
| 1815 | |
... Like thine own breast |
MS. |
Like the hues of thy breast |
1807 |
... in the air together! |
1832 |
| 1836 | |
If thou would'st be ... |
1807 |
'And Robin Redbreasts whom men praise,Ed.
For pious birds.'
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| I've watch'd you now a full half-hour, Self-poised upon that yellow flower; And, little Butterfly! indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless!—not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again! This plot of orchard-ground is ours; My trees they are, my Sister's flowers; Here rest your wings when they are weary; Here lodge as in a sanctuary! Come often to us, fear no wrong; Sit near us on the bough! We'll talk of sunshine and of song, And summer days, when we were young; Sweet childish days, that were as long As twenty days are now. Note Contents 1802 Main Contents |
1 2 |
5 10 15 |
| 1807 | |
... short ... |
1836 |
| 1815 | |
Stop here whenever you are weary, |
1807 |
And feed ... |
MS. |
"William wrote a conclusion to the poem of The Butterfly, 'I've watch'd you now a full half-hour.'"This, and the structure of the two poems, makes it probable that the latter was originally meant to be a sort of conclusion to the former (p. 283); but they were always printed as separate poems.
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| That is work of waste and ruin— Do as Charles and I are doing! Strawberry-blossoms, one and all, We must spare them—here are many: Look at it—the flower is small, Small and low, though fair as any: Do not touch it! summers two I am older, Anne, than you. Pull the primrose, sister Anne! Pull as many as you can. —Here are daisies, take your fill; Pansies, and the cuckoo-flower: Of the lofty daffodil Make your bed, or make your bower; Fill your lap, and fill your bosom; Only spare the strawberry-blossom! Primroses, the Spring may love them— Summer knows but little of them: Violets, a barren kind, Withered on the ground must lie; Daisies leave no fruit behind When the pretty flowerets die; Pluck them, and another year As many will be blowing here. God has given a kindlier power To the favoured strawberry-flower. Hither soon as spring is fled You and Charles and I will walk; Lurking berries, ripe and red, Then will hang on every stalk, Each within its leafy bower; And for that promise spare the flower! Note Contents 1802 Main Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 |
5 10 15 20 25 30 |
| 1815 | |
That is work which I am rueing— |
1807 |
| 1836 | |
... and ... |
1807 |
| 1815 | |
Violets, do what they will, |
1807 |
| This last stanza was added in the edition of 1815. |
| 1836 | |
When the months of spring are fled |
1815 |
"Wednesday, 28th April (1802).—Copied the Prioress's Tale. William was in the orchard. I went to him; he worked away at his poem, though he was ill, and tired. I happened to say that when I was a child I would not have pulled a strawberry blossom; I left him, and wrote out the Manciple's Tale. At dinner time he came in with the poem of Children gathering Flowers, but it was not quite finished, and it kept him long from his dinner. It is now done. He is working at The Tinker."At an earlier date in the same year,—Jan. 31st, 1802,—the following occurs:
"I found a strawberry blossom in a rock. The little slender flower had more courage than the green leaves, for they were but half expanded and half grown, but the blossom was spread full out. I uprooted it rashly, and I felt as if I had been committing an outrage; so I planted it again. It will have but a stormy life of it, but let it live if it can."With this poem compare a parallel passage in Marvel's The Picture of T. C. in a Prospect of Flowers:
'But oh, young beauty of the woods,Ed.
Whom nature courts with fruits and flowers,
Gather the flowers, but spare the buds;
Lest Flora, angry at thy crime
To kill her infants in their prime,
Should quickly make the example yours;
And, ere we see,
Nip in the blossom all our hopes in thee.'
"We came into the orchard directly after breakfast, and sat there. The lake was calm, the sky cloudy. William began to write the poem of The Celandine.... I walked backwards and forwards with William. He repeated his poem to me, then he got to work again, and would not give over."Ed.
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| Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises; Long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory; Long as there are violets, They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine. Eyes of some men travel far For the finding of a star; Up and down the heavens they go, Men that keep a mighty rout! I'm as great as they, I trow, Since the day I found thee out, Little Flower!—I'll make a stir, Like a sage astronomer. Modest, yet withal an Elf Bold, and lavish of thyself; Since we needs must first have met I have seen thee, high and low, Thirty years or more, and yet 'Twas a face I did not know; Thou hast now, go where I may, Fifty greetings in a day. Ere a leaf is on a bush, In the time before the thrush Has a thought about her nest, Thou wilt come with half a call, Spreading out thy glossy breast Like a careless Prodigal; Telling tales about the sun, When we've little warmth, or none. Poets, vain men in their mood! Travel with the multitude: Never heed them; I aver That they all are wanton wooers; But the thrifty cottager, Who stirs little out of doors, Joys to spy thee near her home; Spring is coming, Thou art come! Comfort have thou of thy merit, Kindly, unassuming Spirit! Careless of thy neighbourhood, Thou dost show thy pleasant face On the moor, and in the wood, In the lane;—there's not a place, Howsoever mean it be, But 'tis good enough for thee. Ill befal the yellow flowers, Children of the flaring hours! Buttercups, that will be seen, Whether we will see or no; Others, too, of lofty mien; They have done as worldlings do, Taken praise that should be thine, Little, humble Celandine! Prophet of delight and mirth, Ill-requited upon earth; Herald of a mighty band, Of a joyous train ensuing, Serving at my heart's command, Tasks that are no tasks renewing, I will sing, as doth behove, Hymns in praise of what I love! Contents 1802 Main Contents |
1 2 3 4 |
B |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 |
| 1836 | |
... great ... |
1807 |
| 1832 | |
... it's ... |
1807 |
| 1836 | |
Scorn'd and slighted ... |
1807 |
| 1836 | |
Singing at my heart's command, |
1807 |
'Drawn by what peculiar spell,In 1845 it was transferred to the following poem, where it will be found, with a change of text.—Ed.
By what charm for sight or smell,
Do those wingèd dim-eyed creatures,
Labourers sent from waxen cells,
Settle on thy brilliant features,
In neglect of buds and bells
Opening daily at thy side,
By the season multiplied?'
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| Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet: February last, my heart First at sight of thee was glad; All unheard of as thou art, Thou must needs, I think, have had, Celandine! and long ago, Praise of which I nothing know. I have not a doubt but he, Whosoe'er the man might be, Who the first with pointed rays (Workman worthy to be sainted) Set the sign-board in a blaze, When the rising sun he painted, Took the fancy from a glance At thy glittering countenance. Soon as gentle breezes bring News of winter's vanishing, And the children build their bowers, Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mould All about with full-blown flowers, Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold! With the proudest thou art there, Mantling in the tiny square. Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure, Sighed to think, I read a book Only read, perhaps, by me; Yet I long could overlook Thy bright coronet and Thee, And thy arch and wily ways, And thy store of other praise. Blithe of heart, from week to week Thou dost play at hide-and-seek; While the patient primrose sits Like a beggar in the cold, Thou, a flower of wiser wits, Slip'st into thy sheltering hold; Liveliest of the vernal train When ye all are out again. Drawn by what peculiar spell, By what charm of sight or smell, Does the dim-eyed curious Bee, Labouring for her waxen cells, Fondly settle upon Thee Prized above all buds and bells Opening daily at thy side, By the season multiplied? Thou art not beyond the moon, But a thing "beneath our shoon:" Let the bold Discoverer thrid In his bark the polar sea; Rear who will a pyramid; Praise it is enough for me, If there be but three or four Who will love my little Flower. Note Contents 1802 Main Contents |
1 2 3 4 5 |
A |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 |
| 1836 | |
... risen ... |
1807 |
| 1832 | |
... shelter'd ... |
1807 |
| 1845 | |
Bright as any of the train |
1807 |
| This stanza was added in 1845. (See note, p. 302.)] |
| 1845 | |
Let, as old Magellen did, |
1807 |
Let, with bold advent'rous skill, |
1820 |
Let the bold Adventurer thrid |
1827 |
"A heavenly morning. We went into the garden, and sowed the scarlet beans about the house. It was a clear sky. I sowed the flowers, William helped me. We then went and sat in the orchard till dinner time. It was very hot. William wrote The Celandine (second part). We planned a shed, for the sun was too much for us."Ed.
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| Within our happy Castle there dwelt One Whom without blame I may not overlook; For never sun on living creature shone Who more devout enjoyment with us took: Here on his hours he hung as on a book, On his own time here would he float away, As doth a fly upon a summer brook; But go to-morrow, or belike to-day, Seek for him,—he is fled; and whither none can say. Thus often would he leave our peaceful home, And find elsewhere his business or delight; Out of our Valley's limits did he roam: Full many a time, upon a stormy night, His voice came to us from the neighbouring height: Oft could we see him driving full in view At midday when the sun was shining bright; What ill was on him, what he had to do, A mighty wonder bred among our quiet crew. Ah! piteous sight it was to see this Man When he came back to us, a withered flower,— Or like a sinful creature, pale and wan. Down would he sit; and without strength or power Look at the common grass from hour to hour: And oftentimes, how long I fear to say, Where apple-trees in blossom made a bower, Retired in that sunshiny shade he lay; And, like a naked Indian, slept himself away. Great wonder to our gentle tribe it was Whenever from our Valley he withdrew; For happier soul no living creature has Than he had, being here the long day through. Some thought he was a lover, and did woo: Some thought far worse of him, and judged him wrong; But verse was what he had been wedded to; And his own mind did like a tempest strong Come to him thus, and drove the weary Wight along. With him there often walked in friendly guise, Or lay upon the moss by brook or tree, A noticeable Man with large grey eyes, And a pale face that seemed undoubtedly As if a blooming face it ought to be; Heavy his low-hung lip did oft appear, Deprest by weight of musing Phantasy; Profound his forehead was, though not severe; Yet some did think that he had little business here: Sweet heaven forefend! his was a lawful right; Noisy he was, and gamesome as a boy; His limbs would toss about him with delight Like branches when strong winds the trees annoy. Nor lacked his calmer hours device or toy To banish listlessness and irksome care; He would have taught you how you might employ Yourself; and many did to him repair,— And certes not in vain; he had inventions rare. Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried: Long blades of grass, plucked round him as he lay, Made, to his ear attentively applied, A pipe on which the wind would deftly play; Glasses he had, that little things display, The beetle panoplied in gems and gold, A mailed angel on a battle-day; The mysteries that cups of flowers enfold, And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold. He would entice that other Man to hear His music, and to view his imagery: And, sooth, these two were each to the other dear: No livelier love in such a place could be: There did they dwell-from earthly labour free, As happy spirits as were ever seen; If but a bird, to keep them company, Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween, As pleased as if the same had been a Maiden-queen. Note Contents 1802 Main Contents |
1 2 3 4 |
A B C |
5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 |
| 1836 | |
... did ... |
1815 |
| 1827 | |
The beetle with his radiance manifold, |
1815 |
| 1827 | |
And cups of flowers, and herbage green and gold; |
1815 |
| 1836 | |
And, sooth, these two did love each other dear, |
1815 |
'And oft he traced the uplands to survey,Beattie's Minstrel, book I, st. 20.
When o'er the sky advanced the kindling dawn,
The crimson cloud.'
'And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climbBook I. st. 21. '
When all in mist the world below was lost.'
And of each gentle, and each dreadful sceneBook I. st. 22. Ed.
In darkness, and in storm, he found delight.'
'He is retired as noontide dew.'Ed.
"In truth he was a strange and wayward wight,"and adds
"That verse of Beattie's Minstrel always reminds me of him, and indeed the whole character of Edwin resembles much what William was when I first knew him after leaving Halifax."Mr. T. Hutchinson called the attention of Professor Dowden to the same resemblance between the two pictures. With lines 35, 36, compare in Shelley's Adonais, stanza xxxi.:
'And his own thoughts, along that rugged way,Ed.
Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey.'
"9th May (1802).-After tea he (W.) wrote two stanzas in the manner of Thomson's Castle of Indolence, and was tired out.From these extracts two things are evident,
"10th May.—William still at work, though it is past ten o'clock ... William did not sleep till three o'clock."
"11th May.—William finished the stanzas about C. and himself. He did not go out to-day. ... He completely finished his poem. He went to bed at twelve o'clock."
"October 10th.—I have passed a great many hours to-day with Wordsworth in his home. I stumbled on him with proof sheets before him. He read me nearly all the sweet stanzas written in his copy of the Castle of Indolence, describing himself and my uncle; and he and Mrs. W. both assured me the description of the latter at that time was perfectly accurate; and he was almost as a great boy in feelings, and had all the tricks and fancies there described. Mrs. W. seemed to look back on him, and those times, with the fondest affection."I think "the neighbouring height" referred to is the height of White Moss Common, behind the Fir-Grove, where Wordsworth was often heard murmuring out his verses," booing" as the country folks said: and the
'driving full in viewaptly describes his habits as recorded in his sister's Journal, and elsewhere. The "withered flower," the "creature pale and wan," are significant of those terrible reactions of spirit, which followed his joyous hours of insight and inspiration. Stanzas IV. to VII. of Resolution and Independence (p. 314), in which Wordsworth undoubtedly described himself, may be compared with stanza III. of this poem. The lines
At midday when the sun was shining bright,'
'Down would he sit; and without strength or powerare aptly illustrated by such passages in his sister's Journal, as the following, of 29th April 1802:
Look at the common grass from hour to hour,'
"We went to John's Grove, sate a