 |
Included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Old Age."—Ed.
O now that the genius of Bewick [A] were mine, And the skill which he learned on the banks of the Tyne, Then the Muses might deal with me just as they chose, For I'd take my last leave both of verse and of prose. [1]
What feats would I work with my magical hand! 5 Book-learning and books should be banished the land: [2] And, for hunger and thirst and such troublesome calls, Every ale-house should then have a feast on its walls.
The traveller would hang his wet clothes on a chair; Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw. Would he care! 10 For the Prodigal Son, Joseph's Dream and his sheaves, Oh, what would they be to my tale of two Thieves?
The One, yet unbreeched, is not three birthdays old,[3] His Grandsire that age more than thirty times told; There are ninety good seasons of fair and foul weather 15 Between them, and both go a-pilfering [4] together.
With chips is the carpenter strewing his floor? Is a cart-load of turf [5] at an old woman's door? Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide! And his Grandson's as busy at work by his side. 20
Old Daniel begins; he stops short—and his eye, Through the lost look of dotage, is cunning and sly: 'Tis a look which at this time is hardly his own, But tells a plain tale of the days that are flown.
He once [6] had a heart which was moved by the wires 25 Of manifold pleasures and many desires: And what if he cherished his purse? 'Twas no more Than treading a path trod by thousands before.
'Twas a path trod by thousands; but Daniel is one Who went something farther than others have gone, [7] 30 And now with old Daniel you see how it fares; You see to what end he has brought his grey hairs.
The pair sally forth hand in hand: ere the sun Has peered o'er the beeches, their work is begun: And yet, into whatever sin they may fall, 35 This child but half knows it, and that not at all.
They hunt through the streets [8] with deliberate tread, And each, in his turn, becomes leader or led; [9] And, wherever they carry their plots and their wiles, Every face in the village is dimpled with smiles. 40
Neither checked by the rich nor the needy they roam; For the grey-headed Sire [10] has a daughter at home, Who will gladly repair all the damage that's done; And three, were it asked, would be rendered for one.
Old Man! whom so oft I with pity have eyed, 45 I love thee, and love the sweet Boy at thy side: Long yet may'st thou live! for a teacher we see That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee. [B]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1800.
Oh! now that the boxwood and graver were mine, Of the Poet who lives on the banks of the Tyne, Who has plied his rude tools with more fortunate toil Than Reynolds e'er brought to his canvas and oil. MS. 1798.]
[Variant 2:
1800.
Then Books, and Book-learning, I'd ring out your knell, The Vicar should scarce know an A from an L. MS. 1798.]
[Variant 3:
1820.
Little Dan is unbreech'd, he is three birth-days old, 1800.]
[Variant 4:
1837.
... a-stealing ... 1800.]
[Variant 5:
1827.
... of peats ... 1800.]
[Variant 6:
1820.
Dan once ... 1800.]
[Variant 7:
1800.
'Twas a smooth pleasant pathway, a gentle descent, And leisurely down it, and down it, he went. MS. 1798.]
[Variant 8:
1802.
... street ... 1800.]
[Variant 9:
1837.
... is both leader and led; 1800.]
[Variant 10:
1837.
For grey-headed Dan ... 1800.
The grey-headed Sire ... 1820.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: Thomas Bewick, the wood engraver, born at Cherryburn, near Newcastle-on-Tyne, in 1753, died 1828. He revived the art of wood engraving in England. His illustrations—drawn for the 'General History of British Quadrupeds' (1790), and for his own 'History of British Birds' (1797 and 1804)—were unrivalled in their way.—Ed.]
[Footnote B: Charles Lamb, writing to Wordsworth in 1815, spoke of
"that delicacy towards aberrations from the strict path, which is so fine in the 'Old Thief and the Boy by his side,' which always brings water into my eyes."
(See 'Letters of Charles Lamb', edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i. p. 287.)—Ed.]
* * * * *
WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL UPON A STONE, THE LARGEST OF A HEAP LYING NEAR A DESERTED QUARRY, UPON ONE OF THE ISLANDS [A] AT RYDAL
Composed 1798.—Published 1800
Included among the "Inscriptions."—Ed.
Stranger! this hillock of mis-shapen stones Is not a Ruin spared or made by time, [1] Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn Of some old British Chief: 'tis nothing more Than the rude embryo of a little Dome 5 Or Pleasure-house, once destined to be built [2] Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle. [3] But, as it chanced, Sir William having learned That from the shore a full-grown man might wade, And make himself a freeman of this spot 10 At any hour he chose, the prudent Knight [4] Desisted, and the quarry and the mound Are monuments of his unfinished task. The block on which these lines are traced, perhaps, Was once selected as the corner-stone 15 Of that [5] intended Pile, which would have been Some quaint odd plaything of elaborate skill, So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush, And other little builders who dwell here, Had wondered at the work. But blame him not, 20 For old Sir William was a gentle Knight, Bred in this vale, to which he appertained [6] With all his ancestry. Then peace to him, And for the outrage which he had devised Entire forgiveness!—But if thou art one 25 On fire with thy impatience to become An inmate of these mountains,—if, disturbed By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn Out of the quiet rock the elements Of thy trim Mansion destined soon to blaze 30 In snow white splendour, [B] [7]—think again; and, taught By old Sir William and his quarry, leave Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose; There let the vernal slow warm sun himself, And let the redbreast hop from stone to stone. 35
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1837.
Is not a ruin of the ancient time, 1800.
... antique ... MS.]
[Variant 2:
1802.
... which was to have been built 1800.]
[Variant 3:
1800.
Of some old British warrior: so, to speak The honest truth, 'tis neither more nor less Than the rude germ of what was to have been A pleasure-house, and built upon this isle. MS.]
[Variant 4:
1837.
... the Knight forthwith 1800.]
[Variant 5:
1837.
Of the ... 1800.]
[Variant 6:
1800.
Bred here, and to this valley appertained MS. 1798.]
[Variant 7:
1800.
... glory, ... 1802.
The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: In a MS. copy this is given as "the lesser Island."—Ed.]
[Footnote B: Compare Wordsworth's
"objections to white, as a colour, in large spots or masses in landscape,"
in his 'Guide through the district of the Lakes' (section third).—Ed.]
* * * * *
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: The lyric beginning, "I travelled among unknown men," which was first published in the "Poems" of 1807; and two fragments from 'The Prelude', viz. 'The Influence of Natural Objects' (which appeared in 'The Friend' in 1809), and 'The Simplon Pass' (first published in the 8vo edition of the Poems in 1845).
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.
* * * * *
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 FRIEND."[A]]
Composed 1799.—Published 1809
It was included by Wordsworth among the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."—Ed.
Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought! And giv'st [1] to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion! not in vain, By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn 5 Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me The passions that build up our human soul; Not [2] with the mean and vulgar works of Man: But with high objects, with enduring things, With life and nature: purifying thus 10 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 15 With stinted kindness. In November days, When vapours rolling down the valleys [3] 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, 20 Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went [4] In solitude, such intercourse was mine: Mine was it in the fields [5] both day and night, And by the waters, all the summer long. And in the frosty season, when the sun 25 Was set, and, visible for many a mile, The cottage-windows through the twilight blazed, [6] I heeded not the summons: happy time It was indeed for all of us; for me [7] It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud 30 The village-clock tolled six—I wheeled about, Proud and exulting like an untired horse That cares not for his home. [8]—All shod with steel We hissed along the polished ice, in games Confederate, imitative of the chase 35 And woodland pleasures,—the resounding horn, The pack loud-chiming, [9] and the hunted hare. So through the darkness and the cold we flew, And not a voice was idle: with the din Smitten, [10] the precipices rang aloud; 40 The leafless trees and every icy crag Tinkled like iron; while far-distant hills [11] Into the tumult sent an alien sound Of melancholy, not unnoticed while the stars, Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west 45 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 [12] of a star; 50 Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed Upon the glassy plain: and oftentimes, [13] When we had given our bodies to the wind, And all the shadowy banks on either side Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still 55 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! 60 Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. [14]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1809.
That givest ... 'The Prelude', 1850.]
[Variant 2:
1815.
Nor ... 1809.]
[Variant 3:
1809.
... valley ... The Prelude', 1850.]
[Variant 4:
1836.
... I homeward went 1809.]
[Variant 5:
1845.
'Twas mine among the fields ... 1809.]
[Variant 6:
1809.
... blazed through twilight gloom, 'The Prelude', 1850.]
[Variant 7:
1815.
... to me 1809.]
[Variant 8:
1827.
... car'd not for its home—... 1809.
... cares not ... 1815.]
[Variant 9:
1840.
... loud bellowing ... 1809.]
[Variant 10:
1836.
Meanwhile ... 1809.]
[Variant 11:
1845.
... while the distant hills 1809.]
[Variant 12:
1827.
To cut across the image ... 1809.
To cross the bright reflection ... 1820.]
[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.]
[Variant 14:
1809.
... as a dreamless sleep. 'The Prelude', 1850.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[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.]
* * * * *
THE SIMPLON PASS [A]
Composed 1799.—Published 1845
Included among the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.
—Brook and road Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass, [1] And with them did we journey several hours At a slow step. [2] The immeasurable height Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, 5 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, 10 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—15 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. 20
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1845.
... gloomy strait, 'The Prelude', 1850.]
[Variant 2:
1845.
... pace ... 'The Prelude', 1850.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[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.]
* * * * *
NUTTING
Composed 1799.—Published 1800
[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.
—It seems a day (I speak of one from many singled out) One of those heavenly days that [1] cannot die; When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, [2] I left our cottage-threshold, [A] sallying forth [3] 5 With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, [4] A nutting-crook in hand; and turned [5] my steps Tow'rd some far-distant wood, [6] a Figure quaint, Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds Which for that service had been husbanded, 10 By exhortation of my frugal Dame—[7] 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, 15 Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook [8] 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 [9] hung, 20 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 25 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 30 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 35 That, fleeced with moss, under [10] 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, 40 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 45 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 [11] 50 Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, I felt a sense of pain when I beheld The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky.—[12] Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand 55 Touch—for there is a spirit in the woods.
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.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1836.
... which ... 1800.]
[Variant 2: This line was added in the edition of 1827.]
[Variant 3:
1827.
When forth I sallied from our cottage-door, 1800.]
[Variant 4:
1832.
And with a wallet o'er my shoulder slung, 1800.
With a huge wallet o'er my shoulder slung, 1815.]
[Variant 5:
1815.
... I turn'd ... 1800.]
[Variant 6:
1836.
Towards the distant woods, ... 1800.
Toward ... 1832.]
[Variant 7:
1815.
... of Beggar's weeds Put on for the occasion, by advice And exhortation ... 1800.]
[Variant 8:
1836.
... Among the woods, And o'er the pathless rocks, I forc'd my way Until, at length, I came ... 1800.]
[Variant 9:
1845.
... milk-white clusters ... 1800.]
[Variant 10:
1845.
... beneath ... 1800.]
[Variant 11:
1836.
Even then, when from the bower I turn'd away, 1800.]
[Variant 12:
1836.
... and the intruding sky.—1800.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: The house at which I was boarded during the time I was at School.—W. W. 1800.]
* * * * *
WRITTEN IN GERMANY, ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY
Composed 1799.—Published 1800
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.]
One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection." Wordsworth originally gave to this poem the title "The Fly," but erased it before publication.—Ed.
A plague on [1] 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 [2] dreary dull plate of black metal. 5 [3] See that Fly, [4]—a disconsolate creature! perhaps A child of the field or the grove; And, sorrow for him! the [5] dull treacherous heat Has seduced the poor fool from his winter retreat, And he creeps to the edge of my stove. 10
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, [6] And now on the brink of the iron. 15
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 [7] the south and the north But he finds neither guide-post nor guide. 20
His spindles [8] 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. 25
No brother, no mate [9] 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. 30
Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing! Thy life I would gladly sustain Till summer come [10] 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! 35
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1820.
A fig for ... 1800.]
[Variant 2:
1800.
On his ... 1827.
The text of 1837 returns to that of 1800.]
[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.]
[Variant 4:
1820.
Here's a Fly, ... 1800.]
[Variant 5:
1827.
... this ... 1800.]
[Variant 6:
1837.
... and not back to the wall, 1800.]
[Variant 7:
1827.
... and the South ... 1800.]
[Variant 8:
1845.
See! his spindles ... 1800.
How his spindles ... 1827.]
[Variant 9:
1827.
... no Friend ... 1800.
No brother has he, no companion, while I MS.]
[Variant 10:
1837.
... comes ... 1800.]
* * * * *
A POET'S EPITAPH
Composed 1799.—Published 1800
One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."—Ed.
Art thou a Statist [1] in the van Of public conflicts [2] 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! 5 Go, carry to some fitter place The keenness of that practised eye, The hardness of that sallow face. [3]
Art thou a Man of purple cheer? A rosy Man, right plump to see? 10 Approach; yet, Doctor, [A] not too near, This grave no cushion is for thee.
Or art thou one of gallant pride, [4] A Soldier and no man of chaff? Welcome!—but lay thy sword aside, 15 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? 20
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! [5]
A Moralist perchance appears; 25 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 [6] small; 30 A reasoning, self-sufficing [7] 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 35 Near this unprofitable dust.
But who is He, with modest looks, And clad in homely russet brown? [B] He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own. 40
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, 45 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,—50 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 55 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. 60
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.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1837.
... Statesman, ... 1800.]
[Variant 2:
1837.
Of public business ... 1800.]
[Variant 3:
1820.
... to some other place The hardness of thy coward eye, The falsehood of thy sallow face. 1800.]
[Variant 4:
1820.
Art thou a man of gallant pride, 1800.]
[Variant 5:
1837.
Thy pin-point of a soul away! 1800.
That abject thing, thy soul, away! 1815.]
[Variant 6:
1837.
... nor ... 1800.]
[Variant 7:
1800.
... self-sufficient ... 1802.
The edition of 1815 returns to the text of 1800.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: D. D., not M. D. The physician is referred to in the fifth stanza.—Ed.]
[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.]
* * * * *
"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.
Strange fits of passion have I known: [1] 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 5 Fresh as a rose in June, [2] I to her cottage bent my way, Beneath an [3] evening moon.
Upon the moon I fixed my eye, All over the wide lea; 10 With quickening pace my horse drew nigh [4] 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 15 Came near, and nearer still. [5]
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. 20
My horse moved on; hoof after hoof He raised, and never stopped: When down behind the cottage roof, At once, the bright moon dropped. [6]
What fond and wayward thoughts will slide 25 Into a Lover's head! "O mercy!" to myself I cried, "If Lucy should be dead!"
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1832.
... I have known, 1800.]
[Variant 2:
1836.
When she I lov'd, was strong and gay And like a rose in June, 1800.]
[Variant 3:
1836.
... the ... 1800.]
[Variant 4:
1836.
My horse trudg'd on, and we drew nigh 1800.]
[Variant 5:
1836.
Towards the roof of Lucy's cot The moon descended still. [a] 1800.]
[Variant 6:
1815.
... the planet dropp'd. 1800.]
* * * * *
SUB-FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[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.]
* * * * *
"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.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love: [1]
A violet by a mossy stone 5 Half hidden from the eye! —Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.
She lived [2] unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; 10 But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me!
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1800.
A very few ... 1802.
The text of the edition of 1805 returns to that of 1800.]
[Variant 2: The word "lived" was italicised in the edition of 1800 only.]
* * * * *
"I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN"
Composed 1799.-Published 1807
One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."—Ed.
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! 5 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; [1] 10 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 15 That Lucy's eyes surveyed. [2] [A]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
The gladness of desire; MS.]
[Variant 2:
1836.
And thine is, too, the last green field Which ... 1807.
That ... 1815.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[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.]
* * * * *
"THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN AND SHOWER"
Composed 1799.—Published 1800
[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.
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 5 A Lady of my own.
"Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse: [1] and with me The Girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 10 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; 15 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; 20 Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the Storm Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form [2] By silent sympathy.
"The stars of midnight shall be dear 25 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 [A] Shall pass into her face. 30
"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 35 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; 40 The memory of what has been, And never more will be. [B]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
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.]
[Variant 2:
1800.
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.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: Compare Dryden's 'Indian Emperor', iv. 3.—Ed.]
[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.]
* * * * *
"A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL"
Composed 1799.—Published 1800
[Written in Germany.—I.F.]
Included among the "Poems of the Imagination." [A]—Ed.
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; 5 She neither hears nor sees; Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees. [B]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[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.]
[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.]
* * * * *
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.
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; 5 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 10 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. 15
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 20 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. 25
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, 30 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, 35 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. 40
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, 45 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, 50 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 55 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. 60
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, 65 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 70 Comes in the promise from the Cross, Shining upon thy happy grave.
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.
* * * * *
MATTHEW
Composed 1799.—Published 1800
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.
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 5 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 10 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 15 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. 20
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 [1] of gladness.
Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup 25 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 30 That these two words of glittering gold Are all that must remain of thee? [2]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1815.
... the oil ... 1800.]
[Variant 2:
1800.
... to thee? 1805, and MS.
The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[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.]
* * * * *
THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS
Composed 1799.—Published 1800
One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."—Ed.
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, 5 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, 10 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, 15 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: 20
"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 25 Such colours, and no other, Were in the sky, that April morn, Of this the very brother. [1]
"With rod and line I sued the sport Which that sweet season gave, [2] 30 And, to the church-yard come, [3] stopped short Beside my daughter's grave.
"Nine summers had she scarcely seen, The pride of all the vale; And then she sang [4];—she would have been 35 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. 40
"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; 45 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; 50 She seemed as happy as a wave That dances on the sea. [A]
"There came from me a sigh of pain Which I could ill confine; I looked at her, and looked again: 55 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 [5] Of wilding in his hand. 60
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
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.]
[Variant 2:
1815.
With rod and line my silent sport I plied by Derwent's wave, 1800.]
[Variant 3:
1837.
And, coming to the church, ... 1800.]
[Variant 4:
1800.
... sung;—... 1802.
The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.]
[Variant 5:
1820.
... his bough 1800.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[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.]
* * * * *
THE FOUNTAIN
A CONVERSATION
Composed 1799.—Published 1800
One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."—Ed.
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, 5 Beside a mossy seat; And from the turf a fountain broke, And gurgled at our feet.
"Now, Matthew!" said I, "let us match [1] This water's pleasant tune 10 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 15 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: 20
"No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears; [2] How merrily it goes! 'Twill murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows.
"And here, on this delightful day, 25 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, 30 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 35 Than what it leaves behind. [A]
"The blackbird amid leafy trees, The lark above the hill, [3] Let loose their carols when they please, Are quiet when they will. 40
"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; 45 And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy, because We have been glad of yore.
"If there be [4] one who need bemoan His kindred laid in earth, 50 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 55 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; 60
"And, Matthew, for thy children dead I'll be a son to thee!" At this he grasped my hand, [5] and said, "Alas! that cannot be."
We rose up from the fountain-side; 65 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 70 About the crazy old church-clock, And the bewildered chimes.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1820.
Now, Matthew, let us try to match 1800.]
[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.]
[Variant 3:
1837.
The blackbird in the summer trees, The lark upon the hill, 1800.]
[Variant 4:
1832.
... is .... 1800 and MS.]
[Variant 5:
1815.
... his hands, ... 1800.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[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 memoriae polliceretur, Oblivionis, inquit, mallem; nam memini etiam quae nolo, oblivisci non possum quae volo."
Cicero, 'De Finibus', II. 32.—Ed.]
* * * * *
TO A SEXTON
Composed 1799.—Published 1800
[Written in Germany, 1799.—I.F.]
One of the "Poems of the Fancy."—Ed.
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, 5 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, 10 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, 15 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! 20 By the heart of Man, his tears, By his hopes and by his fears, Thou, too heedless, [1] art the Warden Of a far superior garden.
Thus then, each to other dear, 25 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, 30 O Sexton, do not then remove her, Let one grave hold the Loved and Lover!
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1845.
Thou, old Grey-beard! ... 1800.]
* * * * *
THE DANISH BOY
A FRAGMENT
Composed 1799.—Published 1800
[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.
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 5 There is a tempest-stricken tree; A corner-stone by lightning cut, The last stone of a lonely hut; [1] And in this dell you see A thing no storm can e'er destroy, 10 The shadow of a Danish Boy. [A]
II In clouds above, the lark is heard, But drops not here to earth for rest; [2] Within [3] this lonesome nook the bird Did never build her [4] nest. 15 No beast, no bird hath here his home; Bees, wafted on [5] the breezy air, Pass high above those fragrant bells To other flowers:—to other dells Their burthens do they bear; [6] 20 The Danish Boy walks here alone: The lovely dell is all his own.
III A Spirit of noon-day is he; Yet seems [7] a form of flesh and blood; Nor piping shepherd shall he be, 25 Nor herd-boy of the wood. [8] A regal vest of fur he wears, In colour like a raven's wing; It fears not [9] rain, nor wind, nor dew; But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue 30 As budding pines in spring; His helmet has a vernal grace, Fresh as the bloom upon his face.
IV A harp is from his shoulder slung; Resting the harp upon his knee; 35 To words of a forgotten tongue, He suits its melody. [10] Of flocks upon the neighbouring hill [11] He is the darling and the joy; And often, when no cause appears, 40 The mountain-ponies prick their ears, —They hear the Danish Boy, While in the dell he sings [12] alone Beside the tree and corner-stone. [13]
V There sits he; in his face you spy 45 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: 50 From bloody deeds his thoughts are far; And yet he warbles songs of war, That seem [14] like songs of love, For calm and gentle is his mien; Like a dead Boy he is serene. 55
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1836.
... a cottage hut; 1800.]
[Variant 2:
1827.
He sings his blithest and his best; 1800.
She sings, regardless of her rest, 1820.]
[Variant 3:
1827.
But in ... 1800.]
[Variant 4:
1820.
... his ... 1800.]
[Variant 5:
1827.
The bees borne on ... 1800.]
[Variant 6:
1827.
Nor ever linger there. 1800.]
[Variant 7:
1836.
He seems ... 1800.]
[Variant 8:
1802.
A piping Shepherd he might be, A Herd-boy of the wood. 1800.]
[Variant 9:
1802.
... nor ... 1800.]
[Variant 10:
1836.
He rests the harp upon his knee, And there in a forgotten tongue He warbles melody. 1800.]
[Variant 11:
1827.
Of flocks and herds both far and near 1800.
Of flocks upon the neighbouring hills 1802.]
[Variant 12:
1845.
... sits ... 1800.]
[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.]
[Variant 14:
1815.
They seem ... 1800.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[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.]
* * * * *
LUCY GRAY; OR, SOLITUDE
Composed 1799.—Published 1800
[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.
Oft I had heard [1] 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; 5 She dwelt on a wide moor, [2] —The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door!
You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; 10 But the sweet [3] 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 15 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!" 20
At this the Father raised his hook, And snapped [4] a faggot-band; He plied his work;—and Lucy took The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe: 25 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; 30 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 35 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. 40
They wept—and, turning homeward, cried, [5] "In heaven we all shall meet;" —When in the snow the mother spied [6] The print of Lucy's feet.
Then downwards [7] from the steep hill's edge 45 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; 50 They tracked them on, nor ever lost; And [8] to the bridge they came.
They followed from the snowy bank Those [9] footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank; 55 And further there were [10] none!
—Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild. 60
O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. [A]
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.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1800.
Oft had I heard ...
Only in the second issue of 1800.]
[Variant 2:
1800 (2nd issue).
She dwelt on a wild Moor 1800.
She lived on a wide Moor MS.]
[Variant 3:
1800.
... bright ... C.]
[Variant 4:
1800.
He snapped ... MS.]
[Variant 5:
1827.
And now they homeward turn'd, and cry'd 1800.
And, turning homeward, now they cried 1815.]
[Variant 6:
1800.
The Mother turning homeward cried, "We never more shall meet," When in the driven snow she spied MS.]
[Variant 7:
1840.
Then downward ... 1800.
Half breathless ... 1827.]
[Variant 8:
1800.
... and never lost Till ... MS.]
[Variant 9:
1827.
The ... 1800.]
[Variant 10:
1800.
... was ... 1802.
The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[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.]
* * * * *
RUTH
Composed 1799.—Published 1800
[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.
When Ruth was left half desolate, Her Father took another Mate; And Ruth, not seven years old, A slighted child, at her own will [1] Went wandering over dale and hill, 5 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; [2] Had built a bower upon the green, 10 As if she from her birth had been An infant of the woods.
Beneath her father's roof, alone [3] She seemed to live; her thoughts her own; Herself her own delight; 15 Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay; And, passing thus the live-long day, She grew to woman's height. [4]
There came a Youth from Georgia's shore— A military casque he wore, 20 With splendid feathers drest; [A] He brought them from the Cherokees; The feathers nodded in the breeze, And made a gallant crest.
From Indian blood you deem him sprung: 25 But no! [5] he spake the English tongue, And bore [6] a soldier's name; And, when America was free From battle and from jeopardy, He 'cross the ocean came. 30
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, 35 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, 40 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; 45 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, 50 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 55 Their blossoms, through a boundless range Of intermingling hues; [7] [B] With budding, fading, faded flowers They stand the wonder of the bowers From morn to evening dews, [C] 60 [8] He told of the magnolia, [D] spread High as a cloud, high over head! The cypress and her spire; [E] —Of flowers [F] that with one scarlet gleam Cover a hundred leagues, and seem 65 To set the hills on fire. [G]
The Youth of green savannahs spake, And many an endless, endless lake, With all its fairy crowds Of islands, that together lie 70 As quietly as spots of sky Among the evening clouds. [H]
"How pleasant," then he said, "it were [9] A fisher or a hunter there, In sunshine or in shade 75 To wander with an easy mind; And build a household fire, and find [10] A home in every glade!
"What days and what bright [11] years! Ah me! Our life were life indeed, with thee 80 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 85 Fond [12] 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. 90
"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, 95 And drive the flying deer!
"Beloved Ruth!"—No more he said. The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed [13] A solitary tear: She thought again—and did agree 100 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." 105 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 110 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, 115 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. 120
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, 125 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 130 To his own powers, and justified The workings of his heart.
Nor less, to feed voluptuous [14] thought, The beauteous forms of nature wrought, Fair trees and gorgeous [15] flowers; 135 The breezes their own languor lent; The stars had feelings, which they sent Into those favored [16] bowers.
Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween That sometimes [17] there did intervene 140 Pure hopes of high intent: For passions linked to forms so fair And stately, needs must have their share [18] Of noble sentiment.
But ill he lived, [19] much evil saw, 145 With men to whom no better law Nor better life was known; Deliberately, and undeceived, Those wild men's vices he received, And gave them back his own. 150
His genius and his moral frame Were thus impaired, and he became The slave of low desires: A Man who without self-control Would seek what the degraded soul 155 Unworthily admires.
And yet he with no feigned delight Had wooed the Maiden, day and night Had loved her, night and morn: What could he less than love a Maid 160 Whose heart with so much nature played So kind and so forlorn!
Sometimes, most earnestly, he said, "O Ruth! I have been worse than dead; False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain, 165 Encompassed me on every side When I, in confidence and pride, Had crossed the Atlantic main. [20]
"Before me shone a glorious world— Fresh as a banner bright, unfurled 170 To music suddenly: [21] I looked upon those hills and plains, And seemed as if let loose from chains, To live at liberty. [22] "No more of this; for now, by thee, 175 Dear Ruth! more happily set free With nobler zeal I burn; [23] My soul from darkness is released, Like the whole sky when to the east [24] The morning doth return." 180 [25] Full soon that better mind was gone; [26] No hope, no wish remained, not one,— They stirred him now no more; New objects did new pleasure give, And once again he wished to live 185 As lawless as before.
Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, They for the voyage were prepared, And went to the sea-shore, But, when they thither came, the Youth 190 Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth Could never find him more.
God help thee, Ruth!-Such pains she had, That she in half a year was mad, And in a prison housed; 195 And there, with many a doleful song Made of wild words, her cup of wrong She fearfully caroused. [27]
Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, 200 Nor pastimes of the May; —They all were with her in her cell; And a clear brook [28] with cheerful knell Did o'er the pebbles play.
When Ruth three seasons thus had lain, 205 There came a respite to her pain; She from her prison fled; But of the Vagrant none took thought; And where it liked her best she sought Her shelter and her bread. 210
Among the fields she breathed again: The master-current of her brain Ran permanent and free; And, coming to the Banks of Tone, [I] There did she rest; and dwell alone [29] 215 Under the greenwood tree.
The engines of her pain, [30] the tools That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools, And airs that gently stir The vernal leaves—she loved them still; 220 Nor ever taxed them with the ill Which had been done to her.
A Barn her winter bed supplies; But, till the warmth of summer skies And summer days is gone, 225 (And all do in this tale agree) [31] She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, And other home hath none.
An innocent life, yet far astray! And Ruth will, long before her day, [32] 230 Be broken down and old: Sore aches she needs must have! but less Of mind, than body's wretchedness, From damp, and rain, and cold. [33]
If she is prest by want of food, 235 She from her dwelling in the wood Repairs to a road-side; And there she begs at one steep place Where up and down with easy pace The horsemen-travellers ride. 240
That oaten pipe of hers is mute, Or thrown away; but with a flute Her loneliness she cheers: This flute, made of a hemlock stalk, At evening in his homeward walk 245 The Quantock woodman hears.
I, too, have passed her on the hills Setting her little water-mills By spouts and fountains wild— Such small machinery as she turned 250 Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned, A young and happy Child!
Farewell! and when thy days are told, Ill-fated Ruth, in hallowed mould Thy corpse shall buried be, 255 For thee a funeral bell shall ring, And all the congregation sing A Christian psalm for thee.
The following extract from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal gives the date of the stanzas added to 'Ruth' in subsequent editions:
"Sunday, March 8th, 1802.—I stitched up 'The Pedlar,' wrote out 'Ruth', read it with the alterations.... William brought two new stanzas of 'Ruth'."
The transpositions of stanzas, and their omission from certain editions and their subsequent re-introduction, in altered form, in later ones, make it extremely difficult to give the textual history of 'Ruth' in footnotes. They are even more bewildering than the changes introduced into 'Simon Lee'.—Ed.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1802.
And so, not seven years old, The slighted Child ... 1800.]
[Variant 2:
1836.
And from that oaten pipe could draw All sounds ... 1800.]
[Variant 3: This stanza was added in the edition of 1802.]
[Variant 4:
1827.
She pass'd her time; and in this way Grew up to Woman's height. 1802.]
[Variant 5:
1836.
Ah no! ... 1800.]
[Variant 6:
1805.
... bare ... 1800.]
[Variant 7:
1836.
He spake of plants divine and strange That ev'ry day their blossoms change, Ten thousand lovely hues! 1800.
... every hour ... 1802.]
[Variant 8:
Of march and ambush, siege and fight, Then did he tell; and with delight The heart of Ruth would ache; Wild histories they were, and dear: But 'twas a thing of heaven to hear When of himself he spake!
Only in the editions of 1802 and 1805.
The following is the order of the stanzas in the edition of 1802. The first, fifth, and last had not appeared before.
Sometimes most earnestly he said; "O Ruth! I have been worse than dead: False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain Encompass'd me on every side When I, in thoughtlessness and pride, Had cross'd the Atlantic Main.
Whatever in those Climes I found Irregular in sight or sound Did to my mind impart A kindred impulse, seem'd allied To my own powers, and justified The workings of my heart.
Nor less to feed unhallow'd thought The beauteous forms of nature wrought, Fair trees and lovely flowers; The breezes their own languor lent; The stars had feelings which they sent Into those magic bowers.
Yet, in my worst pursuits, I ween, That often there did intervene Pure hopes of high intent; My passions, amid forms so fair And stately, wanted not their share Of noble sentiment.
So was it then, and so is now: For, Ruth! with thee I know not how I feel my spirit burn Even as the east when day comes forth; And to the west, and south, and north, The morning doth return.
It is a purer better mind: O Maiden innocent and kind What sights I might have seen! Even now upon my eyes they break!" —And he again began to speak Of Lands where he had been.
The last stanza is only in the editions of 1802-1805. [a]]
[Variant 9:
1836.
And then he said "How sweet it were 1800.]
[Variant 10:
1845.
A gardener in the shade, Still wandering with an easy mind To build ... 1800.
In sunshine or through shade To wander with an easy mind; And build ... 1836.]
[Variant 11:
1836.
... sweet ... 1800.]
[Variant 12:
1832.
Dear ... 1800.]
[Variant 13:
1820.
Sweet Ruth alone at midnight shed 1800.]
[Variant 14:
1800.
... unhallow'd ... 1802 and MS.
The edition of 1805 returns to the reading of 1800.]
[Variant 15:
1845.
... lovely ... 1800.]
[Variant 16:
1845.
... magic ... 1800.
... gorgeous ... 1815.]
[Variant 17:
1800.
That often ... 1802.
The text of 1805 returns to that of 1800.]
[Variant 18:
1800.
For passions, amid forms so fair And stately, wanted not their share 1802.
The text of 1805 returns to that of 1800.]
[Variant 19:
1800.
Ill did he live ... 1802.
The text of 1805 returns to that of 1800.]
[Variant 20:
1805.
When I, in thoughtlessness and pride, Had crossed ... 1802.
When first, in confidence and pride, I crossed ... 1820.
C., and the edition of 1840, revert to the reading of 1805.]
[Variant 21:
1840 and C.
"It was a fresh and glorious world, A banner bright that was unfurled Before me suddenly: 1805.
A banner bright that shone unfurled 1836.]
[Variant 22: Lines 163-168, and 175-180, were added in 1802. Lines 169-174 were added in 1805. All these were omitted in 1815, but were restored in 1820.]
[Variant 23:
1845
So was it then, and so is now: For, Ruth! with thee I know not how I feel my spirit burn 1802.
"But wherefore speak of this? for now, Sweet Ruth! with thee, ... 1805.
Dear Ruth! with thee ... 1836.]
[Variant 24:
1836.
Even as the east when day comes forth; And to the west, and south, and north, 1802.]
[Variant 25:
It is my purer better mind O maiden innocently kind What sights I might have seen! Even now upon my eyes they break! And then the youth began to speak Of lands where he had been. MS.]
[Variant 26:
1845.
But now the pleasant dream was gone, 1800.
Full soon that purer mind ... 1820.]
[Variant 27:
1836.
And there, exulting in her wrongs, Among the music of her songs She fearfully carouz'd. [b] 1800.
And there she sang tumultuous songs, By recollection of her wrongs, To fearful passion rouzed. 1820.]
[Variant 28:
1836.
wild brook ... 1800.]
[Variant 29:
1802.
And to the pleasant Banks of Tone She took her way, to dwell alone 1800.]
[Variant 30:
1802.
... grief, ... 1800.]
[Variant 31:
1805.
(And in this tale we all agree) 1800.]
[Variant 32:
1805.
The neighbours grieve for her, and say That she will ... 1802.]
[Variant 33: This stanza first appeared in the edition of 1802.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: Taken from the portrait of the chief in Bartram's frontispiece.—Ed.]
[Footnote B:
"The tall aspiring Gordonia lacianthus ... gradually changing colour, from green to golden yellow, from that to a scarlet, from scarlet to crimson, and lastly to a brownish purple, ... so that it may be said to change and renew its garments every morning throughout the year."
See 'Travels through North and South Carolina, Georgia, East Florida, the Cherokee Country', etc., by William Bartram (1791), pp. 159, 160.—Ed.]
[Footnote C:
"Its thick foliage of a dark green colour is flowered over with large milk-white, fragrant blossoms, ... renewed every morning, and that in such incredible profusion that the tree appears silvered over with them, and the ground beneath covered with the fallen flowers. It, at the same time, continually pushes forth new twigs, with young buds on them."
(Bartram's 'Travels', etc., p. 159.)—Ed.]
[Footnote D: Magnolia grandiflora.—W. W. 1800; and Bartram's 'Travels', p. 8.—Ed.]
[Footnote E:
"The Cypressus distichia stands in the first order of North American trees. Its majestic stature, lifting its cumbrous top towards the skies, and casting a wide shade upon the ground, as a dark intervening cloud," etc.
(Bartram's 'Travels', p. 88).—Ed.]
[Footnote F: The splendid appearance of these scarlet flowers, which are scattered with such profusion over the Hills in the Southern parts of North America is frequently mentioned by Bartram in his 'Travels'.—W. W. 1800.]
[Footnote G: Mr. Ernest Coleridge tells me he
"has traced, to a note-book of Coleridge's in the British Museum, the source from which Wordsworth derived his description of Georgian scenery in 'Ruth'. He does, I know, refer to Bartram, but the whole passage is a poetical rendering, and a pretty close one, of Bartram's poetical narrative. I have a portrait—the frontispiece of Bartram's 'Travels'—of Mico Chlucco, king of the Seminoles, whose feathers nod in the breeze just as did the military casque of the 'youth from Georgia's shore.'"
Ed.]
[Footnote H:
"North and south almost endless green plains and meadows, embellished with islets and projecting promontories of high dark forests, where the pyramidal Magnolia grandiflora ... conspicuously towers."
(Bartram's 'Travels', p. 145).—Ed.]
[Footnote I: The Tone is a River of Somersetshire, at no great distance from the Quantock Hills. These Hills, which are alluded to a few stanzas below, are extremely beautiful, and in most places richly covered with Coppice woods. W. W. 1800.]
* * * * *
SUB-FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Sub-Footnote a: The edition of 1805 substitutes the stanzas beginning,
'It was a fresh and glorious world'
for stanzas 2, 3, and 4 of the above six in this note, but it inserts these omitted stanzas later on as Nos. 27, 28, 29.—Ed.]
[Sub-Footnote b: Wordsworth wrote to Barren Field in 1828 that this stanza
"was altered, Lamb having observed that it was not English. I like it better myself;'
(i.e. the version of 1800)
"but certainly to carouse cups—that is to empty them—is the genuine English."
Ed.]
* * * * *
1800
Towards the close of December 1799, Wordsworth came to live at Dove Cottage, Town-end, Grasmere. The poems written during the following year (1800), are more particularly associated with that district of the Lakes. Two of them were fragments of a canto of 'The Recluse', entitled "Home at Grasmere," referring to his settlement at Dove Cottage. Others, such as 'Michael', and 'The Brothers'—classed by him afterwards among the "Poems founded on the Affections,"—deal with incidents in the rural life of the dalesmen of Westmoreland and Cumberland. Most of the "Poems on the Naming of Places" were written during this year; and the "Places" are all in the neighbourhood of Grasmere. To these were added several "Pastoral Poems"—such as 'The Idle Shepherd Boys; or, Dungeon-Ghyll Force'—sundry "Poems of the Fancy," and one or two "Inscriptions." In all, twenty-five poems were written in the year 1800; and, with the exception of the two fragments of 'The Recluse', they were published during the same year in the second volume of the second edition of "Lyrical Ballads." It is impossible to fix the precise date of the composition of the fragments of 'The Recluse'; but, as they refer to the settlement at Dove Cottage—where Wordsworth went to reside with his sister, on the 21st of December 1799—they may fitly introduce the poems belonging to the year 1800. They were first published in 1851 in the 'Memoirs of Wordsworth' (vol. i. pp. 157 and 155 respectively), by the poet's nephew, the late Bishop of Lincoln. The entire canto of 'The Recluse', entitled "Home at Grasmere," will be included in this edition.
The first two poems which follow, as belonging to the year 1800, are parts of 'The Recluse', viz. "On Nature's invitation do I come," (which is ll. 71-97, and 110-125), and "Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak," (which is ll. 152-167). They are not reprinted from the 'Memoirs' of 1851, because the text there given was, in several instances, inaccurately reproduced from the original MS., which has been re-examined. They were printed here, in 'The Recluse '(1888), and in my 'Life of Wordsworth' (vol. i. 1889).—Ed.
* * * * *
"ON NATURE'S INVITATION DO I COME"
Composed (probably) in 1800.—Published 1851
On Nature's invitation do I come, By Reason sanctioned. Can the choice mislead, That made the calmest, fairest spot of earth, With all its unappropriated good, My own, and not mine only, for with me 5 Entrenched—say rather peacefully embowered— Under yon orchard, in yon humble cot, A younger orphan of a home extinct, The only daughter of my parents dwells: Aye, think on that, my heart, and cease to stir; 10 Pause upon that, and let the breathing frame No longer breathe, but all be satisfied. Oh, if such silence be not thanks to God For what hath been bestowed, then where, where then Shall gratitude find rest? Mine eyes did ne'er 15 Fix on a lovely object, nor my mind Take pleasure in the midst of happy thoughts, But either she, whom now I have, who now Divides with me this loved abode, was there, Or not far off. Where'er my footsteps turned, 20 Her voice was like a hidden bird that sang; The thought of her was like a flash of light Or an unseen companionship, a breath Or fragrance independent of the wind. In all my goings, in the new and old 25 Of all my meditations, and in this Favourite of all, in this the most of all.... Embrace me then, ye hills, and close me in. Now in the clear and open day I feel Your guardianship: I take it to my heart; 30 'Tis like the solemn shelter of the night. But I would call thee beautiful; for mild, And soft, and gay, and beautiful thou art, Dear valley, having in thy face a smile, Though peaceful, full of gladness. Thou art pleased, 35 Pleased with thy crags, and woody steeps, thy lake, Its one green island, and its winding shores, The multitude of little rocky hills, Thy church, and cottages of mountain-stone Clustered like stars some few, but single most, 40 And lurking dimly in their shy retreats, Or glancing at each other cheerful looks, Like separated stars with clouds between.
This Grasmere cottage is identified, much more than Rydal Mount, with Wordsworth's "poetic prime." It had once been a public-house, bearing the sign of the Dove and Olive Bough—and as such is referred to in 'The Waggoner'—from which circumstance it was for a long time, and is now usually, called "Dove Cottage." A small two storied house, it is described somewhat minutely—as it was in Wordsworth's time—by De Quincey, in his 'Recollections of the Lakes', and by the late Bishop of Lincoln, in the 'Memoirs' of his uncle.
"The front of it faces the lake; behind is a small plot of orchard and garden ground, in which there is a spring and rocks; the enclosure shelves upwards towards the woody sides of the mountains above it." [A]
The following is De Quincey's description of it, as he saw it in the summer of 1807.
"A white cottage, with two yew trees breaking the glare of its white walls" (these yews still stand on the eastern side of the cottage). "A little semi-vestibule between two doors prefaced the entrance into what might be considered the principal room of the cottage. It was an oblong square, not above eight and a half feet high, sixteen feet long, and twelve broad; wainscoted from floor to ceiling with dark polished oak, slightly embellished with carving. One window there was—a perfect and unpretending cottage window, with little diamond panes, embowered at almost every season of the year with roses; and, in the summer and autumn, with a profusion of jasmine, and other fragrant shrubs.... I was ushered up a little flight of stairs, fourteen in all, to a little drawing-room, or whatever the reader chooses to call it. Wordsworth himself has described the fireplace of this room as his
'Half-kitchen and half-parlour fire.'
It was not fully seven feet six inches high, and in other respects pretty nearly of the same dimensions as the rustic hall below. There was, however, in a small recess, a library of perhaps three hundred volumes, which seemed to consecrate the room as the poet's study and composing room, and such occasionally it was. But far oftener he both studied, as I found, and composed on the high road." [B]
Other poems of later years refer, much more fully than the above, to this cottage, and its orchard ground, where so many of Wordsworth's lyrics were composed.
The "orchard ground," which was for the most part in grass, sloped upwards; but a considerable portion of the natural rock was exposed; and on its face, some rough stone steps were cut by Wordsworth, helped by a near neighbour of his—John Fisher—so as more conveniently to reach the upper terrace, where the poet built for himself a small arbour. All this garden and orchard ground is not much altered since 1800. The short terrace walk is curved, with a sloping bank of grass above, shaded by apple trees, hazel, holly, laburnum, laurel, and mountain ash. Below the terrace is the well, which supplied the cottage in Wordsworth's time; and there large leaved primroses still grow, doubtless the successors of those planted by his own and his sister's hands. Above, and amongst the rocks, are the daffodils, which they also brought to their "garden-ground;" the Christmas roses, which they planted near the well, were removed to the eastern side of the garden, where they flourished luxuriantly in 1882; but have now, alas! disappeared. The box-wood planted by the poet grows close to the cottage. The arbour is now gone; but, in the place where it stood, a seat is erected. The hidden brook still sings its under-song, as it used to do, "its quiet soul on all bestowing," and the green linnet may doubtless be seen now, as it used to be in 1803. The allusions to the garden ground at Dove Cottage, in the poems which follow, will be noted as they occur.—Ed.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote A: See the 'Memoirs of Wordsworth', vol. i. p. 156.—Ed.]
[Footnote B: See 'Recollections of the Lakes', etc., pp. 130-137, Works, vol. ii., edition of 1862.—Ed.]
* * * * *
"BLEAK SEASON WAS IT, TURBULENT AND BLEAK" [A]
Composed (probably) in 1800.—Published 1851
Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak, When hitherward we journeyed, side by side, Through burst of sunshine and through flying showers, Paced the long vales, how long they were, and yet How fast that length of way was left behind, 5 Wensley's rich vale and Sedbergh's naked heights. The frosty wind, as if to make amends For its keen breath, was aiding to our steps, And drove us onward like two ships at sea; Or, like two birds, companions in mid-air, 10 Parted and reunited by the blast. Stern was the face of nature; we rejoiced In that stern countenance; for our souls thence drew A feeling of their strength. The naked trees, The icy brooks, as on we passed, appeared 15 To question us, "Whence come ye? To what end?"
This poem refers to a winter journey on foot, which Wordsworth and his sister took from Sockburn to Grasmere, by Wensleydale and Askrigg; and, since he has left us an account of this journey, in a letter to Coleridge, written a few days after their arrival at Grasmere—a letter in which his characterisation of Nature is almost as happy as it is in his best poems—some extracts from it may here be appended.
"We left Sockburn last Tuesday morning. We crossed the Tees by moonlight in the Sockburn fields, and after ten good miles riding came in sight of the Swale. It is there a beautiful river, with its green banks and flat holms scattered over with trees. Four miles further brought us to Richmond, with its huge ivied castle, its friarage steeple, its castle tower resembling a huge steeple.... We were now in Wensleydale, and D. and I set off side by side to foot it as far as Kendal.... We reached Askrigg, twelve miles, before six in the evening, having been obliged to walk the last two miles over hard frozen roads.... Next morning the earth was thinly covered with snow, enough to make the road soft and prevent its being slippery. On leaving Askrigg we turned aside to see another waterfall. It was a beautiful morning, with driving snow showers, which disappeared by fits, and unveiled the east, which was all one delicious pale orange colour. After walking through two small fields we came to a mill, which we passed, and in a moment a sweet little valley opened before us, with an area of grassy ground, and a stream dashing over various laminae of black rocks close under a bank covered with firs; the bank and stream on our left, another woody bank on our right, and the flat meadow in front, from which, as at Buttermere, the stream had retired, as it were, to hide itself under the shade. As we walked up this delightful valley we were tempted to look back perpetually on the stream, which reflected the orange lights of the morning among the gloomy rocks, with a brightness varying with the agitation of the current. The steeple of Askrigg was between us and the east, at the bottom of the valley; it was not a quarter of a mile distant.... The two banks seemed to join before us with a facing of rock common to them both. When we reached this bottom the valley opened out again; two rocky banks on each side, which, hung with ivy and moss, and fringed luxuriantly with brushwood, ran directly parallel to each other, and then approaching with a gentle curve at their point of union, presented a lofty waterfall, the termination of the valley. It was a keen frosty morning, showers of snow threatening us, but the sun bright and active. We had a task of twenty-one miles to perform in a short winter's day.... On a nearer approach the waters seemed to fall down a tall arch or niche that had shaped itself by insensible moulderings in the wall of an old castle. We left this spot with reluctance, but highly exhilarated.... It was bitter cold, the wind driving the snow behind us in the best style of a mountain storm. We soon reached an inn at a place called Hardrane, and descending from our vehicles, after warming ourselves by the cottage fire, we walked up the brook-side to take a view of a third waterfall. We had not walked above a few hundred yards between two winding rocky banks before we came full upon the waterfall, which seemed to throw itself in a narrow line from a lofty wall of rock, the water, which shot manifestly to some distance from the rock, seeming to be dispersed into a thin shower scarcely visible before it reached the bason. We were disappointed in the cascade itself, though the introductory and accompanying banks were an exquisite mixture of grandeur and beauty.... After cautiously sounding our way over stones of all colours and sizes, encased in the clearest water formed by the spray of the fall, we found the rock, which before had appeared like a wall, extending itself over our heads, like the ceiling of a huge cave, from the summit of which the waters shot directly over our heads into a bason, and among fragments wrinkled over with masses of ice as white as snow, or rather, as Dorothy says, like congealed froth. The water fell at least ten yards from us, and we stood directly behind it, the excavation not so deep in the rock as to impress any feeling of darkness, but lofty and magnificent; but in connection with the adjoining banks excluding as much of the sky as could well be spared from a scene so exquisitely beautiful. The spot where we stood was as dry as the chamber in which I am now sitting, and the incumbent rock, of which the groundwork was limestone, veined and dappled with colours which melted into each other with every possible variety of colour. On the summit of the cave were three festoons, or rather wrinkles, in the rock, run up parallel like the folds of a curtain when it is drawn up. Each of these was hung with icicles of various length, and nearly in the middle of the festoon, in the deepest valley of the waves that ran parallel to each other, the stream shot from the rows of icicles in irregular fits of strength, and with a body of water that varied every moment. Sometimes the stream shot into the bason in one continued current; sometimes it was interrupted almost in the midst of its fall, and was blown towards part of the waterfall at no great distance from our feet like the heaviest thunder shower. In such a situation you have at every moment a feeling of the presence of the sky. Large fleecy clouds drove over our heads above the rush of the water, and the sky appeared of a blue more than usually brilliant. The rocks on each side, which, joining with the side of this cave, formed the vista of the brook, were chequered with three diminutive waterfalls, or rather courses of water. Each of these was a miniature of all that summer and winter can produce of delicate beauty. The rock in the centre of the falls, where the water was most abundant, a deep black, the adjoining parts yellow, white, purple, and dove colour, covered with water—plants of the most vivid green, and hung with streaming icicles, that in some places seem to conceal the verdure of the plants and the violet and yellow variegation of the rocks; and in some places render the colours more brilliant. I cannot express to you the enchanting effect produced by this Arabian scene of colour as the wind blew aside the great waterfall behind which we stood, and alternately hid and revealed each of these fairy cataracts in irregular succession, or displayed them with various gradations of distinctness as the intervening spray was thickened or dispersed. What a scene too in summer! In the luxury of our imagination we could not help feeding upon the pleasure which this cave, in the heat of a July noon, would spread through a frame exquisitely sensible. That huge rock on the right, the bank winding round on the left with all its living foliage, and the breeze stealing up the valley, and bedewing the cavern with the freshest imaginable spray. And then the murmur of the water, the quiet, the seclusion, and a long summer day."
Ed.
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT:
[Footnote A: This is a fragment of 'The Recluse', ll. 152-167; but it was originally published in the 'Memoirs of Wordsworth' by his nephew (1851).—Ed.]
* * * * *
ELLEN IRWIN; OR, THE BRAES OF KIRTLE [A]
Composed 1800.—Published 1800
[It may be worth while to observe that as there are Scotch Poems on this subject in simple ballad strain, I thought it would be both presumptuous and superfluous to attempt treating it in the same way; and, accordingly, I chose a construction of stanza quite new in our language; in fact, the same as that of Buerger's 'Leonora', except that the first and third lines do not, in my stanzas, rhyme. At the outset I threw out a classical image to prepare the reader for the style in which I meant to treat the story, and so to preclude all comparison.—I.F.]
In the editions of 1815 and 1820 this was included among the "Poems founded on the Affections." In 1827 it was placed in the "Memorials of a Tour in Scotland, 1803."—Ed.
Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate Upon the braes of Kirtle, Was lovely as a Grecian maid Adorned with wreaths of myrtle; Young Adam Bruce beside her lay, 5 And there did they beguile the day With love and gentle speeches, Beneath the budding beeches.
From many knights and many squires The Bruce had been selected; 10 And Gordon, fairest of them all, By Ellen was rejected. Sad tidings to that noble Youth! For it may be proclaimed with truth, If Bruce hath loved sincerely, 15 That Gordon [1] loves as dearly.
But what are Gordon's form and face, His shattered hopes and crosses, To them, 'mid Kirtle's pleasant braes, Reclined on flowers and mosses? [2] 20 Alas that ever he was born! The Gordon, couched behind a thorn, Sees them and their caressing; Beholds them blest and blessing.
Proud Gordon, maddened by the thoughts [3] 25 That through his brain are travelling, Rushed forth, and at the heart of Bruce [4] He launched a deadly javelin! Fair Ellen saw it as it came, And, starting up to meet the same, [5] 30 Did with her body cover The Youth, her chosen lover. |
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