 |
And, falling into Bruce's arms, Thus died the beauteous Ellen, Thus, from the heart of her True-love, 35 The mortal spear repelling. And Bruce, as soon as he had slain The Gordon, sailed away to Spain; And fought with rage incessant Against the Moorish crescent. 40
But many days, and many months, And many years ensuing, This wretched Knight did vainly seek The death that he was wooing. So, coming his last help to crave, 45 Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave [6] His body he extended, And there his sorrow ended.
Now ye, who willingly have heard The tale I have been telling, 50 May in Kirkonnel churchyard view The grave of lovely Ellen: By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid; And, for the stone upon his head, May no rude hand deface it, 55 And its forlorn Hic jacet.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1815.
The Gordon ... 1800.]
[Variant 2:
1837.
But what is Gordon's beauteous face? And what are Gordon's crosses To them who sit by Kirtle's Braes Upon the verdant mosses? 1800.]
[Variant 3:
1837.
Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts 1800.]
[Variant 4:
1837.
And, starting up, to Bruce's heart 1800.]
[Variant 5:
1837.
Fair Ellen saw it when it came, And, stepping forth ... 1800.]
[Variant 6:
1827.
So coming back across the wave, Without a groan on Ellen's grave 1800.
And coming back ... 1802.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote A: The Kirtle is a River in the Southern part of Scotland, on whose banks the events here related took place.—W. W. 1800.]
No Scottish ballad is superior in pathos to 'Helen of Kirkconnell'. It is based on a traditionary tale—the date of the event being lost—but the locality, in the parish of Kirkpatrick-Fleming in Dumfriesshire, is known; and there the graves of "Burd Helen" and her lover are still pointed out.
The following is Sir Walter Scott's account of the story:
"A lady of the name of Helen Irving, or Bell (for this is disputed by the two clans), daughter of the laird of Kirkconnell in Dumfriesshire, and celebrated for her beauty, was beloved by two gentlemen in the neighbourhood. The name of the favoured suitor was Adam Fleming of Kirkpatrick: that of the other has escaped tradition, although it has been alleged he was a Bell of Blackel-house. The addresses of the latter were, however, favoured by the friends of the lady, and the lovers were therefore obliged to meet in secret, and by night, in the Churchyard of Kirkconnell, a romantic spot, surrounded by the river Kirtle. During one of their private interviews, the jealous and despised lover suddenly appeared on the opposite bank of the stream, and levelled his carbine at the breast of his rival. Helen threw herself before her lover, received in her bosom the bullet, and died in his arms. A desperate and mortal combat ensued between Fleming and the murderer, in which the latter was cut to pieces."
See 'Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border', vol. ii. p. 317.
The original ballad—well known though it is—may be quoted as an admirable illustration of the different types of poetic genius in dealing with the same, or a kindred, theme.
I wish I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries; O that I were where Helen lies, On fair Kirkconnell lee!
Cursed be the heart that thought the thought, And curst the hand that fired the shot, When in my arms burd Helen dropt, And died to succour me!
Oh think ye na my heart was sair, When my love dropt down and spake nae mair! There did she swoon wi' meikle care, On fair Kirkconnell lee.
As I went down the water side, None but my foe to be my guide, None but my foe to be my guide, On fair Kirkconnell lee—
I lighted down, my sword did draw, I hacked him in pieces sma', I hacked him in pieces sma', For her sake that died for me.
Oh, Helen fair, beyond compare! I'll weave a garland of thy hair Shall bind my heart for evermair, Until the day I dee!
Oh that I were where Helen lies! Day and night on me she cries; Out of my bed she bids me rise, Says, "Haste, and come to me!"
O Helen fair! O Helen chaste! Were I with thee I would be blest, Where thou lies low and takes thy rest, On fair Kirkconnell lee.
I wish my grave were growing green, A winding sheet drawn o'er my e'en, And I in Helen's arms lying On fair Kirkconnell lee.
I wish I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries, And I am weary of the skies, For her sake that died for me!
Ed.
* * * * *
HART-LEAP WELL
Composed 1800.—Published 1800
Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles from Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road which leads from Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a remarkable chace, the memory of which is preserved by the monuments spoken of in the second Part of the following Poem, which monuments do now exist as I have there described them.—W. W. 1800.
[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The first eight stanzas were composed extempore one winter evening in the cottage, when, after having tired myself with labouring at an awkward passage in 'The Brothers', I started with a sudden impulse to this to get rid of the other, and finished it in a day or two. My sister and I had passed the place a few weeks before in our wild winter journey from Sockburn on the banks of the Tees to Grasmere. A peasant whom we met near the spot told us the story so far as concerned the name of the Well, and the Hart, and pointed out the Stones. Both the stones and the well are objects that may easily be missed. The tradition by this time may be extinct in the neighbourhood. The man who related it to us was very old.—I. F.]
Included among the "Poems of the Imagination,"—Ed.
The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor With the slow motion of a summer's cloud And now, as he approached a vassal's door, "Bring forth another horse!" he cried aloud. [1]
"Another horse!"—That shout the vassal heard 5 And saddled his best Steed, a comely grey; Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third Which he had mounted on that glorious day.
Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes; The horse and horseman are a happy pair; 10 But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies, There is a doleful silence in the air.
A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall, That as they galloped made the echoes roar; But horse and man are vanished, one and all; 15 Such race, I think, was never seen before.
Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind, Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain: Blanch, [2] Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind, Follow, and up the weary mountain strain. 20
The Knight hallooed, he cheered and chid them on [3] With suppliant gestures [4] and upbraidings stern; But breath and eyesight fail; and, one by one, The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern.
Where is the throng, the tumult of the race? [5] 25 The bugles that so joyfully were blown? —This chase it looks not like an earthly chase; [6] Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.
The poor Hart toils along the mountain-side; I will not stop to tell how far he fled, 30 Nor will I mention by what death he died; But now the Knight beholds him lying dead.
Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn; He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy: He neither cracked [7] his whip, nor blew his horn, 35 But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.
Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned, Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat; [8] Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned; And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet. [9] 40
Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched: His nostril touched [10] a spring beneath a hill, And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched The waters of the spring were trembling still.
And now, too happy for repose or rest, 45 (Never had living man such joyful lot!) [11] Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west, And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot. [12]
And climbing [13] up the hill—(it was at least Four [14] roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found 50 Three several hoof-marks which the hunted Beast [15] Had left imprinted on the grassy [16] ground.
Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, "Till now Such sight was never seen by human [17] eyes: Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow, 55 Down to the very fountain where he lies.
"I'll build a pleasure-house upon this spot, And a small arbour, made for rural joy; 'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot, A place of love for damsels that are coy. 60
"A cunning artist will I have to frame A basin for that fountain in the dell! And they who do make mention of the same, From this day forth, shall call it HART-LEAP WELL.
"And, gallant Stag! [18] to make thy praises known, 65 Another monument shall here be raised; Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn stone, And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed.
"And, in the summer-time when days are long, I will come hither with my Paramour; 70 And with the dancers and the minstrel's song We will make merry in that pleasant bower.
"Till the foundations of the mountains fail My mansion with its arbour shall endure;— The joy of them who till the fields of Swale, 75 And them who dwell among the woods of Ure!"
Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead, With breathless nostrils stretched above the spring. —Soon did the Knight perform what he had said; And far and wide the fame thereof did ring. [19] 80
Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steered, A cup of stone received the living well; Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared, And built a house of pleasure in the dell.
And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall 85 With trailing plants and trees were intertwined,— Which soon composed a little sylvan hall, A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.
And thither, when the summer days were long Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour; [20] 90 And with the dancers and the minstrel's song Made merriment within that pleasant bower.
The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time, And his bones lie in his paternal vale.— But there is matter for a second rhyme, 95 And I to this would add another tale.
PART SECOND
The moving accident [A] is not my trade; To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for [21] thinking hearts. 100
As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair, It chanced that I saw standing in a dell Three aspens at three corners of a square; And one, not four yards distant, near a well.
What this imported I could ill divine: 105 And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop, I saw three pillars standing in a line,— The last stone-pillar on a dark hill-top.
The trees were grey, with neither arms nor head: Half wasted the square mound of tawny green; 110 So that you just might say, as then I said, "Here in old time the hand of man hath [22] been."
I looked upon the hill [23] both far and near, More doleful place did never eye survey; It seemed as if the spring-time came not here, 115 And Nature here were willing to decay.
I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, [B] When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired, Came up the hollow:—him did I accost, And what this place might be I then inquired. 120
The Shepherd stopped, and that same story told Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed. "A jolly place," said he, "in times of old! But something ails it now: the spot is curst.
"You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood—125 Some say that they are beeches, others elms— These were the bower; and here a mansion stood, The finest palace of a hundred realms!
"The arbour does its own condition tell; You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream; 130 But as to the great Lodge! you might as well Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
"There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep, Will wet his lips within that cup of stone; And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep, 135 This water doth send forth a dolorous groan.
"Some say that here a murder has been done, And blood cries out for blood: but, for my part, I've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun, That it was all for that unhappy Hart. 140
"What thoughts must through the creature's brain have past! Even from the topmost stone, upon the steep, [24] Are but three bounds—and look, Sir, at this last— O Master! it has been a cruel leap.
"For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race; 145 And in my simple mind we cannot tell What cause the Hart might have to love this place, And come and make his death-bed near the well.
"Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank, Lulled by the [25] fountain in the summer tide; 150 This water was perhaps the first he drank When he had wandered from his mother's side.
"In April here beneath the flowering [26] thorn He heard the birds their morning carols sing; And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born 155 Not half a furlong from that self-same spring.
"Now, here is [27] neither grass nor pleasant shade; The sun on drearier hollow never shone; So will it be, as I have often said, Till trees, and stones, and fountain, all are gone." 160
"Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well; Small difference lies between thy creed and mine: This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell; His death was mourned by sympathy divine.
"The Being, that is in the clouds and air, 165 That is in the green leaves among the groves, Maintains a deep and reverential care For the unoffending creatures [28] whom he loves.
"The pleasure-house is dust:—behind, before, This is no common waste, no common gloom; 170 But Nature, in due course of time, once more Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.
"She leaves these objects to a slow decay, That what we are, and have been, may be known; But at the coming of the milder day, 175 These monuments shall all be overgrown.
"One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals; [C] Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels." 180
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1836.
He turn'd aside towards a Vassal's door, And, "Bring another Horse!" he cried aloud. 1800.]
[Variant 2:
1827.
Brach, ... 1800.]
[Variant 3:
1827.
... he chid and cheer'd them on 1800.]
[Variant 4:
1800.
With fawning kindness ... MS.]
[Variant 5:
1802.
... of the chace? 1800.]
[Variant 6:
1802.
This race it looks not like an earthly race; 1800.]
[Variant 7:
1820.
... smack'd ... 1800.]
[Variant 8:
1820.
... act; 1800.]
[Variant 9:
1820.
And foaming like a mountain cataract. 1800.]
[Variant 10:
1820.
His nose half-touch'd ... 1800.]
[Variant 11:
1820.
Was never man in such a joyful case, 1800.]
[Variant 12:
1820.
.... place. 1800.]
[Variant 13:
1802.
... turning ... 1800.]
[Variant 14:
1845.
Nine ... 1800.]
[Variant 15:
1802.
Three several marks which with his hoofs the beast 1800.]
[Variant 16:
1820.
... verdant ... 1800.]
[Variant 17:
1836.
... living ... 1800.]
[Variant 18:
1827.
... gallant brute! ... 1800.]
[Variant 19:
1815.
And soon the Knight perform'd what he had said, The fame whereof through many a land did ring. 1800.]
[Variant 20:
1820.
... journey'd with his paramour; 1800.]
[Variant 21:
1815.
... to ... 1800.]
[Variant 22:
1815.
... has ... 1800.]
[Variant 23:
1815.
... hills ... 1800.]
[Variant 24:
1815.
From the stone on the summit of the steep 1800.
... upon ... 1802.]
[Variant 25:
1832.
... this ... 1800.]
[Variant 26:
1836.
... scented ... 1800.]
[Variant 27:
1827.
But now here's ... 1800.]
[Variant 28:
1815.
For them the quiet creatures ... 1800.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: Compare 'Othello', act I. scene iii. l. 135:
'Of moving accidents by flood and field.'
Ed.]
[Footnote B: Compare the sonnet (vol. iv.) beginning:
"Beloved Vale!" I said. "when I shall con ...
Ed.]
[Footnote C: Compare Tennyson, 'In Memoriam', v. II. 3, 4.
'For words, like Nature, half reveal And half conceal the Soul within.'
Ed.]
This poem was suggested to Wordsworth in December 1799 during the journey with his sister from Sockburn in Yorkshire to Grasmere. I owe the following local note on 'Hart-Leap Well' to Mr. John R. Tutin of Hull.
"June 20, 1881. Visited 'Hart-Leap Well,' the subject of Wordsworth's poem. It is situated on the road side leading from Richmond to Askrigg, at a distance of not more than three and a-half miles from Richmond, and not five miles as stated in the prefatory note to the poem. The 'three aspens at three corners of a square' are things of the past; also the 'three stone pillars standing in a line, on the hill above. In a straight line with the spring of water, and where the pillars would have been, a wall has been built; so that it is very probable the stone pillars were removed at the time of the building of this wall. The scenery around answers exactly to the description
More doleful place did never eye survey; It seemed as if the spring time came not here, And Nature here were willing to decay. ... Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade.
"It is barren moor for miles around. The water still falls into the 'cup of stone,' which appeared to be of very long standing. Within ten yards of the well is a small tree, at the same side of the road as the well, on the right hand coming from Richmond."
The Rev. Thomas Hutchinson of Kimbolton wrote to me on June 18, 1883:
"The tree is not a Thorn, but a Lime. It is evidently an old one, but is now in full and beautiful leaf. It stands on the western side of the road, and a few yards distant from it. The well is somewhat nearer the road. This side of the road is open to the fell. On the other side the road is bounded by a stone wall: another wall meeting this one at right angles, exactly opposite the well. I ascended the hill on the north side of this wall for some distance, but could find no trace of any rough-hewn stone. Descending on the other side, I found in the wall one, and only one, such stone. I should say the base was in the wall. The stone itself leans outwards; so that, at the top, three of its square faces can be seen; and two, if not three, of these faces bear marks of being hammer-dressed. The distance from the stone to the well is about 40 yards, and the height of the stone out of the ground about 3 or 4 feet.
"The ascent from the well is a gentle one, not 'sheer'; nor does there appear to be any hollow by which the shepherd could ascend. On the western side of the road there is a wide plain, with a slight fall in that direction."
"'Hart-Leap Well' is the tale for me; in matter as good as this ('Peter Bell'); in manner infinitely before it, in my poor judgment."
Charles Lamb to Wordsworth, May 1819. (See 'The Letters of Charles Lamb', edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. ii. p. 20.)—Ed.
* * * * *
THE IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS; OR, DUNGEON-GHYLL FORCE [A]
A PASTORAL
Composed 1800.—Published 1800
[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. I will only add a little monitory anecdote concerning this subject. When Coleridge and Southey were walking together upon the Fells, Southey observed that, if I wished to be considered a faithful painter of rural manners, I ought not to have said that my shepherd-boys trimmed their rustic hats as described in the poem. Just as the words had passed his lips two boys appeared with the very plant entwined round their hats. I have often wondered that Southey, who rambled so much about the mountains, should have fallen into this mistake, and I record it as a warning for others who, with far less opportunity than my dear friend had of knowing what things are, and far less sagacity, give way to presumptuous criticism, from which he was free, though in this matter mistaken. In describing a tarn under Helvellyn I say:
"There sometimes doth a leaping fish Send through the tarn a lonely cheer."
This was branded by a critic of these days, in a review ascribed to Mrs. Barbauld, as unnatural and absurd. I admire the genius of Mrs. Barbauld and am certain that, had her education been favourable to imaginative influences, no female of her day would have been more likely to sympathise with that image, and to acknowledge the truth of the sentiment.—I. F.]
Included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."—Ed.
The valley rings with mirth and joy; Among the hills the echoes play A never never ending song, To welcome in the May. [1] The magpie chatters with delight; 5 The mountain raven's youngling brood Have left the mother and the nest; And they go rambling east and west In search of their own food; Or through the glittering vapours dart 10 In very wantonness of heart.
Beneath a rock, upon the grass, Two boys are sitting in the sun; Their work, if any work they have, Is out of mind—or done. [2] 15 On pipes of sycamore they play The fragments of a Christmas hymn; Or with that plant which in our dale We call stag-horn, or fox's tail, Their rusty hats they trim: 20 And thus, as happy as the day, Those Shepherds wear the time away.
Along the river's stony marge The sand-lark chants a joyous song; The thrush is busy in the wood, 25 And carols loud and strong. A thousand lambs are on the rocks, All newly born! both earth and sky Keep jubilee, [B] and more than all, Those boys with their green coronal; 30 They never hear the cry, That plaintive cry! which up the hill Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll.
Said Walter, leaping from the ground, "Down to the stump of yon old yew 35 We'll for our whistles run a race." [3] —Away the shepherds flew; They leapt—they ran—and when they came Right opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll, Seeing that he should lose the prize, 40 "Stop!" to his comrade Walter cries— James stopped with no good will: Said Walter then, exulting; "Here You'll find a task for half a year. [4]
"Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross—45 Come on, and tread where I shall tread." [5] The other took him at his word, And followed as he led. [6] It was a spot which you may see If ever you to Langdale go; 50 Into a chasm a mighty block Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock: The gulf is deep below; And, in a basin black and small, Receives a lofty waterfall. 55
With staff in hand across the cleft The challenger pursued [7] his march; And now, all eyes and feet, hath gained The middle of the arch. When list! he hears a piteous moan—60 Again!—his heart within him dies— His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost, He totters, pallid as a ghost, [8] And, looking down, espies [9] A lamb, that in the pool is pent 65 Within that black and frightful rent.
The lamb had slipped into the stream, And safe without a bruise or wound The cataract had borne him down Into the gulf profound. 70 His dam had seen him when he fell, She saw him down the torrent borne; And, while with all a mother's love She from the lofty rocks above Sent forth a cry forlorn, 75 The lamb, still swimming round and round, Made answer to that plaintive sound.
When he had learnt what thing it was, That sent this rueful cry; I ween The Boy recovered heart, and told 80 The sight which he had seen. Both gladly now deferred their task; Nor was there wanting other aid— A Poet, one who loves the brooks Far better than the sages' books, 85 By chance had thither strayed; And there the helpless lamb he found By those huge rocks encompassed round.
He drew it from the troubled pool, [10] And brought it forth into the light: 90 The Shepherds met him with his charge, An unexpected sight! Into their arms the lamb they took, Whose life and limbs the flood had spared; [11] Then up the steep ascent they hied, 95 And placed him at his mother's side; And gently did the Bard Those idle Shepherd-boys upbraid, And bade them better mind their trade.
The "bridge of rock" across Dungeon-Ghyll "chasm," and the "lofty waterfall," with all its accessories of place as described in the poem, remain as they were in 1800.—Ed.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1800.
The valley rings with mirth and joy; And, pleased to welcome in the May, From hill to hill the echoes fling Their liveliest roundelay. 1836.
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1800.]
[Variant 2:
1836.
It seems they have no work to do Or that their work is done. 1800.
Boys that have had no work to do, Or work that now is done. 1827.]
[Variant 3:
1805.
I'll run with you a race."—No more—1800.
We'll for this Whistle run a race." ... 1802.]
[Variant 4:
1836.
Said Walter then, "Your task is here, 'Twill keep you working half a year. 1800.
'Twill baffle you for half a year. 1827.]
[Variant 5:
1836.
Till you have cross'd where I shall cross, Say that you'll neither sleep nor eat." 1800.
"Now cross where I shall cross,—come on And follow me where I shall lead—" 1802.
"Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross— Come on, and in my footsteps tread!" 1827.]
[Variant 6:
1827.
James proudly took him at his word, But did not like the feat. 1800.
... the deed. 1802.
The other took him at his word, 1805.]
[Variant 7:
1827.
... began ... 1800.]
[Variant 8:
1827.
... pale as any ghost, 1800.]
[Variant 9:
1827.
... he spies 1800.]
[Variant 10:
1836.
He drew it gently from the pool, 1800.]
[Variant 11:
1836.
Said they, "He's neither maim'd nor scarr'd"—1800.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: 'Ghyll', in the dialect of Cumberland and Westmoreland is a short and for the most part a steep narrow valley, with a stream running through it. 'Force' is the word universally employed in these dialects for Waterfall.—W. W. 1800.
"Ghyll" was spelt "Gill" in the editions of 1800 to 1805.—Ed.]
[Footnote B: Compare the 'Ode, Intimations of Immortality', iv. l. 3 (vol. viii.)—Ed.]
* * * * *
THE PET-LAMB
A PASTORAL
Composed 1800.—Published 1800
[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Barbara Lewthwaite, now living at Ambleside (1843), though much changed as to beauty, was one of two most lovely sisters. Almost the first words my poor brother John said, when he visited us for the first time at Grasmere, were, "Were those two Angels that I have just seen?" and from his description, I have no doubt they were those two sisters. The mother died in childbed; and one of our neighbours at Grasmere told me that the loveliest sight she had ever seen was that mother as she lay in her coffin with her babe in her arm. I mention this to notice what I cannot but think a salutary custom once universal in these vales. Every attendant on a funeral made it a duty to look at the corpse in the coffin before the lid was closed, which was never done (nor I believe is now) till a minute or two before the corpse was removed. Barbara Lewthwaite was not in fact the child whom I had seen and overheard as described in the poem. I chose the name for reasons implied in the above; and here will add a caution against the use of names of living persons. Within a few months after the publication of this poem, I was much surprised, and more hurt, to find it in a child's school book, which, having been compiled by Lindley Murray, had come into use at Grasmere School where Barbara was a pupil; and, alas! I had the mortification of hearing that she was very vain of being thus distinguished; and, in after life she used to say that she remembered the incident, and what I said to her upon the occasion.—I. F.]
Included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."—Ed.
The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink; I heard a voice; it said, "Drink, pretty creature, drink!" And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied A snow white mountain-lamb with a Maiden at its side.
Nor sheep nor kine [1] were near; the lamb was all alone, 5 And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone; With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden kneel, While to that mountain-lamb she gave its evening meal.
The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took, Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his tail with pleasure shook. "Drink, pretty creature, drink," she said in such a tone That I almost received her heart into my own.
'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare! I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair. Now with her empty can the Maiden turned away: 15 But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.
Right towards the lamb she looked; and from a shady place [2] I unobserved could see the workings of her face: If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring, Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little Maid might sing: 20
"What ails thee, young One? what? Why pull so at thy cord? Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and board? Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be; Rest, little young One, rest; what is't that aileth thee?
"What is it thou wouldst seek? What is wanting to thy heart? 25 Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art: This grass is tender grass; these flowers they have no peers; And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears!
"If the sun be [3] shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain, This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain; 30 For rain and mountain-storms! the like thou need'st not fear, The rain and storm are things that [4] scarcely can come here.
"Rest, little young One, rest; thou hast forgot the day When my father found thee first in places far away; Many flocks were [5] on the hills, but thou wert owned by none, 35 And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone.
"He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home: A blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roam? A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yean Upon the mountain tops no kinder could have been. 40
"Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this can Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran; And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new.
"Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now, 45 Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough; My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.
"It will not, will not rest!—Poor creature, can it be That 'tis thy mother's heart which is working so in thee? [6] 50 Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear, And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.
"Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and fair! I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there; The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play, 55 When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.
"Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky; Night and day thou art safe,—our cottage is hard by. Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain? Sleep—and at break of day I will come to thee again!" [7] 60
—As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet, This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat; And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line, That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was mine. [8]
Again, and once again, did I repeat the song; 65 "Nay," said I, "more than half to the damsel [9] must belong, For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone, That I almost received her heart into my own."
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1836.
No other sheep ... 1800.]
[Variant 2:
1836.
Towards the Lamb she look'd, and from that shady place 1800]
[Variant 3:
1802.
... is ... 1800.]
[Variant 4:
1827.
... which ... 1800.]
[Variant 5:
1802.
... are ... 1800.]
[Variant 6:
1800.
... Poor creature, it must be That thou hast lost thy mother, and 'tis that which troubles thee. MS.]
[Variant 7:
1802.
... the raven in the sky, He will not come to thee, our Cottage is hard by, Night and day thou art safe as living thing can be, Be happy then and rest, what is't that aileth thee?" 1800.]
[Variant 8: Italics first used in 1815.]
[Variant 9: This word was italicised from 1813 to 1832.]
* * * * *
THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE
Composed 1800.—Published 1815 [A]
[The character of this man was described to me, and the incident upon which the verses turn was told me, by Mr. Poole of Nether Stowey, with whom I became acquainted through our common friend, S. T. Coleridge. During my residence at Alfoxden, I used to see much of him, and had frequent occasions to admire the course of his daily life, especially his conduct to his labourers and poor neighbours; their virtues he carefully encouraged, and weighed their faults in the scales of charity. If I seem in these verses to have treated the weaknesses of the farmer and his transgressions too tenderly, it may in part be ascribed to my having received the story from one so averse to all harsh judgment. After his death was found in his escritoir, a lock of grey hair carefully preserved, with a notice that it had been cut from the head of his faithful shepherd, who had served him for a length of years. I need scarcely add that he felt for all men as his brothers. He was much beloved by distinguished persons—Mr. Coleridge, Mr. Southey, Sir H. Davy, and many others; and in his own neighbourhood was highly valued as a magistrate, a man of business, and in every other social relation. The latter part of the poem perhaps requires some apology, as being too much of an echo to 'The Reverie of Poor Susan'.—I.F.]
Included in the "Poems referring to the Period of Old Age."—Ed.
'Tis not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined, The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of mind, And the small critic wielding his delicate pen, That I sing of old Adam, the pride of old men.
He dwells in the centre of London's wide Town; 5 His staff is a sceptre—his grey hairs a crown; And his bright eyes look brighter, set off by the streak Of the unfaded rose that still blooms on his cheek. [1]
'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn,—'mid the joy Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when a boy; 10 That countenance there fashioned, which, spite of a stain [2] That his life hath received, to the last will remain. [3]
A Farmer he was; and his house [4] far and near Was the boast of the country [5] for excellent cheer: How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury Vale 15 Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt his mild ale! [6]
Yet Adam was far as the farthest from ruin, His fields seemed to know what their Master was doing; And turnips, and corn-land, [7] and meadow, and lea, All caught the infection—as generous as he. 20
Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl, [8]— The fields better suited the ease of his soul: He strayed through the fields like an indolent wight, The quiet of nature was Adam's delight.
For Adam was simple in thought; and the poor, 25 Familiar with him, made an inn of his door: He gave them the best that he had; or, to say What less may mislead you, they took it away. [9] Thus thirty smooth years did he thrive on his farm: The Genius of plenty preserved him from harm: 30 At length, what to most is a season of sorrow, His means are [10] run out,—he must beg, or must borrow.
To the neighbours he went,—all were free with their money; For his hive had so long been replenished with honey, That they dreamt not of dearth;—He continued his rounds, [11] 35 Knocked here-and knocked there, pounds still adding to pounds.
He paid what he could with his [12] ill-gotten pelf, And something, it might be, reserved for himself: [13] Then (what is too true) without hinting a word, Turned his back on the country—and off like a bird. 40
You lift up your eyes!—but I guess that you frame A judgment too harsh of the sin and the shame; [14] In him it was scarcely [15] a business of art, For this he did all in the ease [16] of his heart.
To London—a sad emigration I ween—45 With his grey hairs he went from the brook [17] and the green; And there, with small wealth but his legs and his hands, As lonely he stood as [18] a crow on the sands.
All trades, as need [19] was, did old Adam assume,— Served as stable-boy, errand-boy, porter, and groom; 50 But nature is gracious, necessity kind, And, in spite of the shame that may lurk in his mind, [20] [21] He seems ten birthdays younger, is green and is stout; [22] Twice as fast as before does his blood run about; You would [23] say that each hair of his beard was alive, 55 And his fingers are busy as bees in a hive.
For he's not like an Old Man that leisurely goes About work that he knows, [24] in a track that he knows; But often his mind is compelled to demur, And you guess that the more then his body must stir. 60
In the throng of the town like a stranger is he, Like one whose own country's far over the sea; And Nature, while through the great city he hies, Full ten times a day takes his heart by surprise.
This gives him the fancy of one that is young, 65 More of soul in his face than of words on [25] his tongue; Like a maiden of twenty he trembles and sighs, And tears of fifteen will come [26] into his eyes.
What's a tempest to him, or the dry parching heats? Yet he watches the clouds that pass over the streets; 70 With a look of such earnestness often will stand, [27] You might think he'd twelve reapers at work in the Strand.
Where proud Covent-garden, in desolate hours Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruits and her flowers, Old Adam will smile at the pains that have made 75 Poor winter look fine in such strange masquerade. [28] [29] 'Mid coaches and chariots, a waggon of straw, Like a magnet, the heart of old Adam can draw; With a thousand soft pictures his memory will teem, And his hearing is touched with the sounds of a dream. 80
Up the Haymarket hill he oft whistles his way, Thrusts his hands in a waggon, and smells at the hay; [30] He thinks of the fields he so often hath mown, And is happy as if the rich freight were his own. [31]
But chiefly to Smithfield he loves to repair,—85 If you pass by at morning, you'll meet with him there. The breath of the cows you may see him inhale, And his heart all the while is in Tilsbury Vale.
Now farewell, old Adam! when low [32] thou art laid, May one blade of grass spring over [33] thy head; 90 And I hope that thy grave, wheresoever it be, Will hear the wind sigh through the leaves of a tree.
With this picture, which was taken from real life, compare the imaginative one of 'The Reverie of Poor Susan' [vol. i. p. 226]; and see (to make up the deficiencies of this class) 'The Excursion, passim'.—W. W. 1837.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1837.
Erect as a sunflower he stands, and the streak Of the unfaded rose is expressed on his cheek. 1815.
... still enlivens his cheek. 1827.]
[Variant 2:
1840.
There fashion'd that countenance, which, in spite of a stain 1815.]
[Variant 3:
There's an old man in London, the prime of old men, You may hunt for his match through ten thousand and ten, Of prop or of staff, does he walk, does he run, No more need has he than a flow'r of the sun. 1800.
This stanza appeared only in 1800, occupying the place of the three first stanzas in the final text.]
[Variant 4:
1815.
... name ... 1800.]
[Variant 5:
1815.
Was the Top of the Country, ... 1800.]
[Variant 6:
1827.
Not less than the skill of an Exchequer Teller Could count the shoes worn on the steps of his cellar. 1800.
How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury Vale Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt his good ale. 1815.]
[Variant 7:
1815.
... plough'd land, ... 1800.]
[Variant 8:
1815.
... the noise of the bowl, 1800]
[Variant 9:
On the works of the world, on the bustle and sound, Seated still in his boat, he look'd leisurely round; And if now and then he his hands did employ, 'Twas with vanity, wonder, and infantine joy.
Only in the text of 1800.]
[Variant 10:
1815.
... were ... 1800.]
[Variant 11:
1815.
For they all still imagin'd his hive full of honey; Like a Church-warden, Adam continu'd his rounds, 1800.]
[Variant 12:
1837.
... this ... 1800.]
[Variant 13:
1815.
... he kept to himself; 1800.]
[Variant 14:
1820.
You lift up your eyes, "O the merciless Jew!" But in truth he was never more cruel than you; 1800.
...—and I guess that you frame A judgment too harsh of the sin and the shame; 1815.]
[Variant 15:
1815.
... scarce e'en ... 1800.]
[Variant 16: Italics first used in 1815.]
[Variant 17:
1815.
... lawn ... 1800.]
[Variant 18:
1815.
He stood all alone like ... 1800.]
[Variant 19:
1800.
... needs ... 1815.
The edition of 1827 returns to the text of 1800.]
[Variant 20:
1815.
Both stable-boy, errand-boy, porter and groom; You'd think it the life of a Devil in H—l, But nature was kind, and with Adam 'twas well. 1800.]
[Variant 21:
He's ten birth-days younger, he's green, and he's stout, Twice as fast as before does his blood run about, You'd think it the life of a Devil in H—l, But Nature is kind, and with Adam 'twas well.
This stanza appeared only in 1800. It was followed by that which now forms lines 53-56 of the final text.]
[Variant 22:
1815.
He's ten birth-days younger, he's green, and he's stout, 1800.]
[Variant 23:
1815.
You'd ... 1800.]
[Variant 24:
1815.
... does ... 1800.]
[Variant 25:
1815.
... in ... 1800.]
[Variant 26:
1800.
... have come ... 1815.
The text of 1820 returns to that of 1800.]
[Variant 27:
1815.
...he'll stand 1800.]
[Variant 28:
1837.
Where proud Covent-Garden, in frost and in snow, Spreads her fruits and her flow'rs, built up row after row; Old Adam will point with his finger and say, To them that stand by, "I've seen better than they." 1800.
... her fruit ... 1815.
(The text of 1815 is otherwise identical with that of 1837.)]
[Variant 29:
Where the apples are heap'd on the barrows in piles, You see him stop short, he looks long, and he smiles; He looks, and he smiles, and a Poet might spy The image of fifty green fields in his eye.
Only in the text of 1800.]
[Variant 30:
1837.
... in the waggons, and smells to the hay; 1800.
... in the Waggon, and smells at ... 1815.]
[Variant 31:
1815.
... has mown, And sometimes he dreams that the hay is his own. 1800.]
[Variant 32:
1815.
... where'er ... 1800.]
[Variant 33:
1850.
... spring up o'er ... 1800.
... over ... 1815.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: i. e. first published in the 1815 edition of the Poems: but, although dated by Wordsworth 1803, it had appeared in 'The Morning Post' of July 21, 1800, under the title, 'The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale. A Character'. It was then unsigned.—Ed.]
* * * * *
POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES
ADVERTISEMENT
By Persons resident in the country and attached to rural objects, many places will be found unnamed or of unknown names, where little Incidents will have occurred, or feelings been experienced, which will have given to such places a private and peculiar interest. From a wish to give some sort of record to such Incidents or renew the gratification of such Feelings, Names have been given to Places by the Author and some of his Friends, and the following Poems written in consequence. [A]—W. W. 1800.
[Footnote A: It should be explained that owing to the chronological plan adopted in this edition (see the preface to vol. i.), two of the poems which were placed by Wordsworth in his series of "Poems on the Naming of Places," but which belong to later years, are printed in subsequent volumes.—Ed.]
* * * * *
"IT WAS AN APRIL MORNING: FRESH AND CLEAR"
Composed 1800.—Published 1800
[Written at Grasmere. This poem was suggested on the banks of the brook that runs through Easdale, which is, in some parts of its course, as wild and beautiful as brook can be. I have composed thousands of verses by the side of it.—I. F.]
It was an April morning: fresh and clear The Rivulet, delighting in its strength, Ran with a young man's speed; and yet the voice Of waters which the winter had supplied Was softened down into a vernal tone. 5 The spirit of enjoyment and desire, And hopes and wishes, from all living things Went circling, like a multitude of sounds. The budding groves seemed eager to urge on The steps of June; as if their various hues 10 Were only hindrances that stood between Them and their object: but, meanwhile, prevailed Such an entire contentment in the air [1] That every naked ash, and tardy tree Yet leafless, showed as if [2] the countenance 15 With which it looked on this delightful day Were native to the summer.—Up the brook I roamed in the confusion of my heart, Alive to all things and forgetting all. At length I to a sudden turning came 20 In this continuous glen, where down a rock The Stream, so ardent in its course before, Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb, 25 The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush Vied with this waterfall, and made a song, Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth Or like some natural produce of the air, That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here; 30 But 'twas the foliage of the rocks—the birch, The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn, With hanging islands of resplendent furze: And, on a summit, distant a short space, By any who should look beyond the dell, 35 A single mountain-cottage might be seen. I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said, "Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook, My EMMA, I will dedicate to thee." —Soon did the spot become my other home, 40 My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode. And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there, To whom I sometimes in our idle talk Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps, Years after we are gone and in our graves, 45 When they have cause to speak of this wild place, May call it by the name of EMMA'S DELL.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1845.
The budding groves appear'd as if in haste To spur the steps of June; as if their shades Of various green were hindrances that stood Between them and their object: yet, meanwhile, There was such deep contentment in the air 1800.]
[Variant 2:
1845.
... seem'd as though ... 1800.]
The text of the "Poems on the Naming of Places" underwent comparatively little alteration in successive editions. Both the changes in the first poem were made in 1845. From the Fenwick note, it is evident that "the Rivulet" was Easdale beck. But where was "Emma's Dell"? In the autumn of 1877, Dr. Cradock, the Principal of Brasenose College, Oxford, took me to a place, of which he afterwards wrote,
"I have a fancy for a spot just beyond Goody Bridge to the left, where the brook makes a curve, and returns to the road two hundred yards farther on. But I have not discovered a trace of authority in favour of the idea farther than that the wooded bend of the brook with the stepping stones across it, connected with a field-path recently stopped, was a very favourite haunt of Wordsworth's. At the upper part of this bend, near to the place where the brook returns to the road, is a deep pool at the foot of a rush of water. In this pool, a man named Wilson was drowned many years ago. He lived at a house on the hill called Score Crag, which, if my conjecture as to Emma's Dell is right, is the 'single mountain cottage' on a 'summit, distant a short space.' Wordsworth, happening to be walking at no great distance, heard a loud shriek. It was that of Mr. Wilson, the father, who had just discovered his son's body in the beck."
In the "Reminiscences" of the poet, by the Hon. Mr. Justice Coleridge, which were contributed to the 'Memoirs of Wordsworth', written by his nephew (vol. ii. pp. 300-315), there is a record of a walk they took up Easdale to this place, entering the field just at the spot which Dr. Cradock supposes to be "Emma's Dell."
"He turned aside at a little farm-house, and took us into a swelling field to look down on the tumbling stream which bounded it, and which we saw precipitated at a distance, in a broad white sheet, from the mountain." (This refers to Easdale Force.) "Then, as he mused for an instant, he said,
'I have often thought what a solemn thing it would be could we have brought to our mind at once all the scenes of distress and misery which any spot, however beautiful and calm before us, has been witness to since the beginning. That water break, with the glassy quiet pool beneath it, that looks so lovely, and presents no images to the mind but of peace—there, I remember, the only son of his father, a poor man who lived yonder, was drowned.'"
This walk and conversation took place in October 1836. If any one is surprised that Wordsworth, supposing him to have been then looking into the very dell on which he wrote the above poem in 1800, did not name it to Mr. Coleridge, he must remember that he was not in the habit of speaking of the places he had memorialised in verse, and that in 1836 his "Sister Emmeline" had for a year been a confirmed invalid at Rydal. I have repeatedly followed Easdale beck all the way up from its junction with the Rothay to the Tarn, and found no spot corresponding so closely to the realistic detail of this poem as the one suggested by Dr. Cradock. There are two places further up the dale where the "sallies of glad sound" such as are referred to in the poem, are even more distinctly audible; but they are not at "a sudden turning," as is the spot above Goody Bridge. If one leaves the Easdale road at this bridge, and keeps to the side of the beck for a few hundred yards, till he reaches the turning,—especially if it be a bright April morning, such as that described in the poem,—and remembers that this path by the brook was a favourite resort of Wordsworth and his sister, the probability of Dr. Cradock's suggestion will be apparent. Lady Richardson, who knew the place, and appreciated the poem as thoroughly as any of Wordsworth's friends, told me that she concurred in this identification of the "dell."—Ed.
* * * * *
TO JOANNA
Composed 1800.—Published 1800
[Written at Grasmere. The effect of her laugh is an extravagance, though the effect of the reverberation of voices in some parts of the mountains is very striking. There is, in 'The Excursion', an allusion to the bleat of a lamb thus re-echoed, and described without any exaggeration, as I heard it, on the side of Stickle Tarn, from the precipice that stretches on to Langdale Pikes.—I.F.]
Amid the smoke of cities did you pass The time [1] of early youth; and there you learned, From years of quiet industry, to love The living Beings by your own fire-side, With such a strong devotion, that your heart 5 Is slow to meet [2] the sympathies of them Who look upon the hills with tenderness, And make dear friendships with the streams and groves. Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind, Dwelling retired in our simplicity 10 Among the woods and fields, we love you well, Joanna! and I guess, since you have been So distant from us now for two long years, That you will gladly listen to discourse, However trivial, if you thence be taught [3] 15 That they, with whom you once were happy, talk Familiarly of you and of old times.
While I was seated, now some ten days past, Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop Their ancient neighbour, the old steeple-tower, 20 The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by [A] Came forth to greet me; and when he had asked, "How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid! And when will she return to us?" he paused; And, after short exchange of village news, 25 He with grave looks demanded, for what cause, Reviving obsolete idolatry, I, like a Runic Priest, in characters Of formidable size had chiselled out Some uncouth name upon the native rock, 30 Above the Rotha, by the forest-side. —Now, by those dear immunities of heart Engendered between [4] malice and true love, I was not loth to be so catechised, And this was my reply:—"As it befel, 35 One summer morning we had walked abroad At break of day, Joanna and myself. —'Twas that delightful season when the broom, Full-flowered, and visible on every steep, Along the copses runs in veins of gold. 40 Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks; And when we came in front of that tall rock That eastward looks, I there stopped short—and stood [5] Tracing [6] the lofty barrier with my eye From base to summit; such delight I found 45 To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower That intermixture of delicious hues, Along so vast a surface, all at once, In one impression, by connecting force Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart. 50 —When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space, Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud. The Rock, like something starting from a sleep, Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again; 55 That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag Was ready with her cavern; Hammar-scar, And the tall Steep of Silver-how, sent forth A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard, And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone; 60 Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky Carried the Lady's voice,—old Skiddaw blew His speaking-trumpet;—back out of the clouds Of Glaramara southward came the voice; And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head. 65 —Now whether (said I to our cordial Friend, Who in the hey-day of astonishment Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth A work accomplished by the brotherhood Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched 70 With dreams and visionary impulses To me alone imparted, sure I am [7] That there was a loud uproar in the hills. And, while we both were listening, to my side The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished 75 To shelter from some object of her fear. —And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm And silent morning, I sat down, and there, 80 In memory of affections old and true, I chiselled out in those rude characters Joanna's name deep in the living stone:—[8] And I, and all who dwell by my fireside, Have called the lovely rock, JOANNA'S ROCK." 85
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1827.
Your time ... 1800.]
[Variant 2:
1836.
Is slow towards... 1800.
... toward.... 1827.]
[Variant 3:
1836. ... are taught... 1800.]
[Variant 4:
1836.
... betwixt ... 1800.]
[Variant 5:
1836.
Which looks towards the East, I there stopp'd short, 1800.
... toward ... 1827.]
[Variant 6:
1836.
And trac'd ... 1800.]
[Variant 7:
1827.
Is not for me to tell; but sure I am 1800]
[Variant 8:
1845.
Joanna's name upon the living stone. 1800.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: The Rectory at Grasmere, where Wordsworth lived from 1811 to 1813, and where two of his children died.—Ed.]
In Cumberland and Westmoreland are several Inscriptions upon the native rock which from the wasting of Time and the rudeness of the Workmanship had been mistaken for Runic. They are without doubt Roman.
The Rotha, mentioned in this poem, is the River which flowing through the Lakes of Grasmere and Rydale falls into Wyndermere. On Helm-Crag, that impressive single Mountain at the head of the Vale of Grasmere, is a Rock which from most points of view bears a striking resemblance to an Old Woman cowering. Close by this rock is one of those Fissures or Caverns, which in the language of the Country are called Dungeons. The other Mountains either immediately surround the Vale of Grasmere, or belong to the same Cluster.—W. W. 1800.
Most of the Mountains here mentioned immediately surround the vale of Grasmere; of the others, some are at a considerable distance, but they belong to the same cluster.—W. W. 1802.
The majority of the changes introduced into the text of this poem were made in the year 1836.
The place where the echo of the bleat of the lamb was heard—referred to in the Fenwick note—may be easily found. The "precipice" is Pavy Ark. "The 'lofty firs, that overtop their ancient neighbour, the old steeple-tower,' stood by the roadside, scarcely twenty yards north-west from the steeple of Grasmere church. Their site is now included in the road, which has been widened at that point. They were Scotch firs of unusual size, and might justly be said to 'overtop their neighbour' the tower. Mr. Fleming Green, who well remembers the trees, gave me this information, which is confirmed by other inhabitants.
"When the road was enlarged, not many years ago, the roots of the trees were found by the workmen."
(Dr. Cradock to the editor.) The
'tall rock That eastward looks'
by the banks of the Rotha, presenting a "lofty barrier" "from base to summit," is manifestly a portion of Helmcrag. It is impossible to know whether Wordsworth carved Joanna Hutchinson's name anywhere on Helmcrag, and it is useless to enquire. If he did so, the discovery of the place would not help any one to understand or appreciate the poem. It is obvious that he did not intend to be literally exact in details, as the poem was written in 1800, and addressed to Joanna Hutchinson,—who is spoken of as having been absent from Grasmere "for two long years;" and Wordsworth says that he carved the Runic characters 'in memoriam' eighteen months after that summer morning when he heard the echo of her laugh. But the family took up residence at Grasmere only in December 1799, and the "Poems on the Naming of Places" were published before the close of 1800. The effect of these lines to Joanna, however, is certainly not impaired—it may even be enhanced—by our inability to localise them. Only one in the list of places referred to can occasion any perplexity, viz., Hammar-scar, since it is a name now disused in the district. It used to be applied to some rocks on the flank of Silver-how, to the wood around them, and also to the gorge between Silver-how and Loughrigg. Hammar, from the old Norse 'hamar', signifies a steep broken rock.
The imaginative description of the echo of the lady's laugh suggests a parallel passage from Michael Drayton's 'Polyolbion', which Wordsworth must doubtless have read. (See his sister's reference to Drayton in her 'Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland', in 1803: in the note to the poem, 'At the grave of Burns', p. 382 of this volume.)
'Which Copland scarce had spoke, but quickly every Hill Upon her verge that stands, the neighbouring valleys fill; Helvillon from his height, it through the mountains threw, From whence as soon again, the sound Dunbalrase drew, From whose stone-trophed head, it on the Wendrosse went, Which tow'rds the sea again, resounded it to Dent, That Brodwater therewith within her banks astound, In sailing to the sea, told it to Egremound, Whose buildings, walks, and streets, with echoes loud and long, Did mightily commend old Copland for her song.'
'Polyolbion', The Thirtieth Song, ll. 155-164.
Any one who compares this passage with Wordsworth's 'Joanna' will see the difference between the elaborate fancy of a topographical narrator, and the vivid imagination of a poetical idealist. A somewhat similar instance of indebtedness—in which the debt is repaid by additional insight—is seen when we compare a passage from Sir John Davies's 'Orchestra, or a poem on Dancing' (stanza 49), with one from 'The Ancient Mariner', Part VI. stanzas 2 and 3—although there was more of the true imaginative light in Davies than in Drayton.
'For lo, the sea that fleets about the land, And like a girdle clips her solid waist, Music and measure both doth understand; For his great crystal eye is always cast Up to the moon, and on her fixed fast: And as she danceth in her palid sphere So danceth he about his centre here.'
DAVIES
'Still as a slave before his lord, The ocean hath no blast; His great bright eye most silently Up to the moon is cast—
If he may know which way to go; For she guides him smooth or grim. See, brother, see! how graciously She looketh down on him.'
COLERIDGE.
These extracts show how both Wordsworth and Coleridge assimilated past literary products, and how they glorified them by reproduction. There was little, however, in the poetic imagery of previous centuries that Wordsworth reproduced. His imagination worked in a sphere of its own, free from the trammels of precedent; and he was more original than any other nineteenth century poet in his use of symbol and metaphor. The poem 'To Joanna' was probably composed on August 22, 1800, as the following occurs in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal under that date:
"William was composing all the morning ... W. read us the poem of Joanna, beside the Rothay, by the roadside."
Charles Lamb wrote to Wordsworth in January 1801, of
"these continuous echoes in the story of 'Joanna's laugh,' when the mountains and all the scenery seem absolutely alive."
Ed.
* * * * *
"THERE IS AN EMINENCE,—OF THESE OUR HILLS"
Composed 1800.—Published 1800
[It is not accurate that the Eminence here alluded to could be seen from our orchard-seat. It rises above the road by the side of Grasmere Lake towards Keswick, and its name is Stone-Arthur.—I.F.]
There is an Eminence,—of these our hills The last that parleys with the setting sun; We can behold it from our orchard-seat; And, when at evening we pursue our walk Along the public way, this Peak, [1] so high 5 Above us, and so distant in its height, Is visible; and often seems to send Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts. The meteors make of it a favourite haunt: The star of Jove, so beautiful and large 10 In the mid heavens, is never half so fair As when he shines above it. 'Tis in truth The loneliest place we have among the clouds. And She who dwells with me, whom I have loved With such communion, that no place on earth 15 Can ever be a solitude to me, Hath to this lonely Summit given my Name. [2]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1840.
... this Cliff, ... 1800.]
[Variant 2:
1815.
Hath said, this lonesome Peak shall bear my Name. 1800.]
Stone-Arthur is the name of the hill, on the east side of the Vale of Grasmere, opposite Helm Crag, and between Green Head Ghyll and Tongue Ghyll.—Ed.
* * * * *
"A NARROW GIRDLE OF ROUGH STONES AND CRAGS"
Composed 1800.—Published 1800
[The character of the eastern shore of Grasmere Lake is quite changed since these verses were written, by the public road being carried along its side. The friends spoken of were Coleridge and my Sister, and the facts occurred strictly as recorded.—I.F.]
A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags, A rude and natural causeway, interposed Between the water and a winding slope Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy: [A] 5 And there myself and two beloved Friends, One calm September morning, ere the mist Had altogether yielded to the sun, Sauntered on this retired and difficult way. —Ill suits the road with one in haste; but we 10 Played with our time; and, as we strolled along, It was our occupation to observe Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore— Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough, Each on the other heaped, along the line 15 Of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant mood, Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard, That skimmed the surface of the dead calm lake, Suddenly halting now—a lifeless stand! 20 And starting off again with freak as sudden; [1] In all its sportive wanderings, all the while, Making report of an invisible breeze That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse, Its playmate, rather say, its moving soul. [2] 25 —And often, trifling with a privilege Alike indulged to all, we paused, one now, And now the other, to point out, perchance To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair Either to be divided from the place 30 On which it grew, or to be left alone To its own beauty. Many such there are, Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall fern, [3] So stately, of the queen Osmunda named; Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode 35 On Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the side Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance. —So fared we that bright [4] morning: from the fields, Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth 40 Of reapers, men and women, boys and girls. Delighted much to listen [5] to those sounds, And feeding thus our fancies, we advanced [6] Along the indented shore; when suddenly, Through a thin veil of glittering haze was seen [7] 45 Before us, on a point of jutting land, The tall and upright figure of a Man Attired in peasant's garb, who stood alone, Angling beside the margin of the lake. [8] "Improvident and reckless," we exclaimed, 50 "The Man must be, who thus can lose a day [9] Of the mid harvest, when the labourer's hire Is ample, and some little might be stored Wherewith to cheer him in the winter time." Thus talking of that Peasant, we approached 55 Close to the spot where with his rod and line He stood alone; whereat he turned his head To greet us—and we saw a Man worn down By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean 60 That for my single self I looked at them, Forgetful of the body they sustained.— Too weak to labour in the harvest field, The Man was using his best skill to gain A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake 65 That knew not of his wants. I will not say What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how The happy idleness of that sweet morn, With all its lovely images, was changed To serious musing and to self-reproach. 70 Nor did we fail to see within ourselves What need there is to be reserved in speech, And temper all our thoughts with charity. —Therefore, unwilling to forget that day, My Friend, Myself, and She who then received 75 The same admonishment, have called the place By a memorial name, uncouth indeed As e'er by mariner was given to bay Or foreland, on a new-discovered coast; And POINT RASH-JUDGMENT is the name it bears. 80
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1815. (Compressing five lines into three.)
... thistle's beard, Which, seeming lifeless half, and half impell'd By some internal feeling, skimm'd along Close to the surface of the lake that lay Asleep in a dead calm, ran closely on Along the dead calm lake, now here, now there, 1800.]
[Variant 2:
1820.
Its very playmate, and its moving soul. 1800.]
[Variant 3:
1802.
... tall plant ... 1800.]
[Variant 4:
1827.
... sweet ... 1800.]
[Variant 5:
1800.
... with listening ... C.]
[Variant 6:
1820.
And in the fashion which I have describ'd, Feeding unthinking fancies, we advanc'd 1800.]
[Variant 7:
1827.
... we saw 1800.]
[Variant 8:
1800.
... a lake. 1802.
The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.]
[Variant 9:
1827.
... the margin of the lake. That way we turn'd our steps; nor was it long, Ere making ready comments on the sight Which then we saw, with one and the same voice We all cried out, that he must be indeed An idle man, who thus could lose a day 1800.
Did all cry out, that he must be indeed An Idler, he who thus ... 1815.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: A new road has destroyed this retirement. (MS. footnote in Lord Coleridge's copy of the edition of 1836.)—Ed.]
The text of this poem reached its final state in the edition of 1827. The same is true of the poem which follows, 'To M. H.', with the exception of a single change.
In Wordsworth's early days at Grasmere, a wild woodland path of quiet beauty led from Dove Cottage along the margin of the lake to the "Point" referred to in this poem, leaving the eastern shore truly "safe in its own privacy"—a "retired and difficult way"; the high-way road for carriages being at that time over White Moss Common. The late Dr. Arnold, of Rugby and Foxhowe, used to name the three roads from Rydal to Grasmere thus: the highest, "Old Corruption"; the intermediate, "Bit by bit Reform"; the lowest and most level, "Radical Reform." Wordsworth was never quite reconciled to the radical reform effected on a road that used to be so delightfully wild and picturesque. The spot which the three friends rather infelicitously named "Point Rash-Judgment" is easily identified; although, as Wordsworth remarks, the character of the shore is changed by the public road being carried along its side. The friends were quite aware that the "memorial name" they gave it was "uncouth." In spite of its awkwardness, however, it will probably survive; if not for Browning's reason
'The better the uncouther; Do roses stick like burrs?'
at least because of the incident which gave rise to the poem. The date of composition is fixed by Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal,
"10th Oct. 1800, Wm. sat up after me, writing 'Point Rash-Judgment.'"
Ed.
* * * * *
TO M. H.
Composed 1800.—Published 1800
[To Mary Hutchinson, two years before our marriage. The pool alluded to is in Rydal Upper Park.—I.F.]
Our walk was far among the ancient trees: There was no road, nor any woodman's path; But a [1] thick umbrage—checking the wild growth Of weed and sapling, along soft green turf [2] Beneath the branches—of itself had made 5 A track, that [3] brought us to a slip of lawn, And a small bed of water in the woods. All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink On its firm margin, even as from a well, Or some stone-basin which the herdsman's hand 10 Had shaped for their refreshment; nor did sun, Or wind from any quarter, ever come, But as a blessing to this calm recess, This glade of water and this one green field. The spot was made by Nature for herself; 15 The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain Unknown to them; but it is beautiful; And if a man should plant his cottage near, Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees, And blend its waters with his daily meal, 20 He would so love it, that in his death-hour Its image would survive among his thoughts: And therefore, my sweet MARY, this still Nook, With all its beeches, we have named from You! [4]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1836.
But the ... 1800.]
[Variant 2:
1827.
... on the soft green turf 1800.
... smooth dry ground MS.]
[Variant 3:
1827.
... which ... 1800.]
[Variant 4:
1800.
... for You. 1802.
The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.]
To find the pool referred to in the Fenwick note, I have carefully examined the course of Rydal beck, all the way up to the foot of the Fell. There is a pool beyond the enclosures of the Hall property, about five hundred feet above Rydal Mount, which partly corresponds to the description in the poem, but there is no wood around it now; and the trees which skirt its margin are birch, ash, oak, and hazel, but there are no beeches. It is a short way below some fine specimens of ice-worn rocks, which are to the right of the stream as you ascend it, and above these rocks is a well-marked moraine. It is a deep crystal pool, and has a "firm margin" of (artificially placed) stones. This may be the spot described in the poem; or another, within the grounds of the Hall, may be the place referred to. It is a sequestered nook, beside the third waterfall as you ascend the beck—this third cascade being itself a treble fall. Seen two or three days after rain, when the stream is full enough to break over the whole face of the rock in showers of snowy brightness, yet low enough to shew the rock behind its transparent veil, it is specially beautiful. Trees change so much in eighty years that the absence of "beeches" now would not make this site impossible. In a MS. copy of the poem (of date Dec. 28, 1800), the last line is
'With all its poplars, we have named from you.'
Of the circular pool beneath this fall it may be said, as Wordsworth describes it, that
'... both flocks and herds might drink On its firm margin, even as from a well;'
and a "small slip of lawn" might easily have existed there in his time. We cannot, however, be confident as to the locality, and I add the opinion of several, whose judgment may be deferred to. Dr. Cradock writes:
"As to Mary Hutchinson's pool, I think that it was not on the beck anywhere, but some detached little pool, far up the hill, to the eastwards of the Hall, in 'the woods.' The description does not well suit any part of Rydal beck; and no spot thereon could long 'remain unknown,' as the brook was until lately much haunted by anglers."
My difficulty as to a site "far up the hill" is, that it must have been a pool of some size, if "both flocks and herds might drink" all round it; and there is no stream, scarce even a rill that joins Rydal beck on the right, all the way up from its junction with the Rothay. The late Mr. Hull of Rydal Cottage, wrote:
"Although closely acquainted with every nook about Rydal Park, I have never been able to discover any spot corresponding to that described in Wordsworth's lines to M. H. It is possible, however, that the 'small bed of water' may have been a temporary rain pool, such as sometimes lodges in the hollows on the mountain-slope after heavy rain."
Mr. F. M. Jones, the agent of the Rydal property, writes:
"I do not know of any pool of water in the Upper Rydal Park. There are some pools up the river, 'Mirror Pool' among them; but I hardly think there can ever have been 'beech-trees' growing near them."
There are many difficulties, and the place cannot now be identified. Wordsworth's own wish will doubtless be realised,
'The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain Unknown to them.'
Ed.
* * * * *
THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE
Composed 1800.—Published 1800
[Suggested nearer to Grasmere, in the same mountain track as that referred to in the following note. The Eglantine remained many years afterwards, but is now gone.—I.F.]
Included among the "Poems of the Fancy."—Ed.
I "Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf," Exclaimed an angry Voice, [1] "Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self Between me and my choice!" A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows 5 Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose, [2] That, all bespattered with his foam, And dancing high and dancing low, Was living, as a child might know, In an unhappy home. 10
II "Dost thou presume my course to block? Off, off! or, puny Thing! I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock To which thy fibres cling." The Flood was tyrannous and strong; [A] 15 The patient Briar suffered long, Nor did he utter groan or sigh, Hoping the danger would be past; But, seeing no relief, at last, He ventured to reply. 20
III "Ah!" said the Briar, "blame me not; Why should we dwell in strife? We who in this sequestered spot [3] Once lived a happy life! You stirred me on my rocky bed—25 What pleasure through my veins you spread The summer long, from day to day, My leaves you freshened and bedewed; Nor was it common gratitude That did your cares repay. 30
IV "When spring came on with bud and bell, [B] Among these rocks did I Before you hang my wreaths [4] to tell That gentle days were nigh! And in the sultry summer hours, 35 I sheltered you with leaves and flowers; And in my leaves—now shed and gone, The linnet lodged, and for us two Chanted his pretty songs, when you Had little voice or none. 40
V "But now proud thoughts are in your breast— What grief is mine you see, Ah! would you think, even yet how blest Together we might be! Though of both leaf and flower bereft, 45 Some ornaments to me are left— Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, With which I, in my humble way, Would deck you many a winter day, [5] A happy Eglantine!" 50
VI What more he said I cannot tell, The Torrent down the rocky dell Came thundering loud and fast; [6] I listened, nor aught else could hear; The Briar quaked—and much I fear 55 Those accents were his last.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1836.
... a thundering Voice, 1800.]
[Variant 2:
1820.
A falling Water swoln with snows Thus spake to a poor Briar-rose, 1800.]
[Variant 3:
1820.
... in this, our natal spot, 1800.]
[Variant 4:
1815.
... wreath ... 1800.]
[Variant 5:
1836.
... Winter's day, 1800.]
[Variant 6:
1840.
The stream came thundering down the dell And gallop'd loud and fast; 1800.
The Torrent thundered down the dell With unabating haste; 1815.
With aggravated haste; 1827.
The Stream came thundering down the dell 1836.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: Compare 'The Ancient Mariner' (part I. stanza II.):
And now the Storm-blast came, and he Was tyrannous and strong.
Ed.]
[Footnote B: Compare 'A Farewell', p. 325, l. 17.—Ed.]
The spot referred to in this poem can be identified with perfect accuracy. The Eglantine grew on the little brook that runs past two cottages (close to the path under Nab Scar), which have been built since the poet's time, and are marked Brockstone on the Ordnance Map.
"The plant itself of course has long disappeared: but in following up the rill through the copse, above the cottages, I found an unusually large Eglantine, growing by the side of the stream."
(Dr Cradock to the editor, in 1877.) It still grows luxuriantly there.
The following extract from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal illustrates both this and the next poem:
"Friday, 23rd April 1802.—It being a beautiful morning, we set off at eleven o'clock, intending to stay out of doors all the morning. We went towards Rydal, under Nab Scar. The sun shone and we were lazy. Coleridge pitched upon several places to sit down upon; but we could not be all of one mind respecting sun and shade, so we pushed on to the foot of the Scar. It was very grand when we looked up, very stony; here and there a budding tree. William observed that the umbrella Yew-tree that breasts the wind had lost its character as a tree, and had become like solid wood. Coleridge and I pushed on before. We left William sitting on the stones, feasting with silence, and I sat down upon a rocky seat, a couch it might be, under the Bower of William's 'Eglantine,' 'Andrew's Broom.' He was below us, and we could see him. He came to us, and repeated his Poems, while we sat beside him. We lingered long, looking into the vales; Ambleside Vale, with the copses, the village under the hill, and the green fields; Rydale, with a lake all alive and glittering, yet but little stirred by breezes; and our own dear Grasmere, making a little round lake of Nature's own, with never a house, never a green field, but the copses and the bare hills enclosing it, and the river flowing out of it. Above rose the Coniston Fells, in their own shape and colour, ... the sky, and the clouds, and a few wild creatures. Coleridge went to search for something new. We saw him climbing up towards a rock. He called us, and we found him in a bower,—the sweetest that was ever seen. The rock on one side is very high, and all covered with ivy, which hung loosely about, and bore bunches of brown berries. On the other side, it was higher than my head. We looked down on the Ambleside vale, that seemed to wind away from us, the village lying under the hill. The fir tree island was reflected beautifully.... About this bower there is mountain-ash, common ash, yew tree, ivy, holly, hawthorn, roses, flowers, and a carpet of moss. Above at the top of the rock there is another spot. It is scarce a bower, a little parlour, not enclosed by walls, but shaped out for a resting-place by the rocks, and the ground rising about it. It had a sweet moss carpet. We resolved to go and plant flowers, in both these places to-morrow."
This extract is taken from the "Journal" as originally transcribed by me in 1889. When it appears in this edition it will be greatly enlarged.—Ed.
* * * * *
THE OAK AND THE BROOM
A PASTORAL
Composed 1800.—Published 1800
[Suggested upon the mountain pathway that leads from Upper Rydal to Grasmere. The ponderous block of stone, which is mentioned in the poem, remains, I believe, to this day, a good way up Nab-Scar. Broom grows under it, and in many places on the side of the precipice.—I.F.]
One of the "Poems of the Fancy."—Ed.
I His simple truths did Andrew glean Beside the babbling rills; A careful student he had been Among the woods and hills. One winter's night, when through the trees 5 The wind was roaring, [1] on his knees His youngest born did Andrew hold: And while the rest, a ruddy quire, Were seated round their blazing fire, This Tale the Shepherd told. 10
II "I saw a crag, a lofty stone As ever tempest beat! Out of its head an Oak had grown, A Broom out of its feet. The time was March, a cheerful noon—15 The thaw wind, with the breath of June, Breathed gently from the warm south-west: When, in a voice sedate with age, This Oak, a giant and a sage, [2] His neighbour thus addressed:—20
III "'Eight weary weeks, through rock and clay, Along this mountain's edge, The Frost hath wrought both night and day, Wedge driving after wedge. Look up! and think, above your head 25 What trouble, surely, will be bred; Last night I heard a crash—'tis true, The splinters took another road— I see them yonder—what a load For such a Thing as you! 30
IV "'You are preparing as before To deck your slender shape; And yet, just three years back—no more— You had a strange escape: Down from yon cliff a fragment broke; 35 It thundered down, with fire and smoke, And hitherward pursued its way; [3] This ponderous block was caught by me, And o'er your head, as you may see, 'Tis hanging to this day! 40
V "'If breeze or bird to this rough steep Your kind's first seed did bear; The breeze had better been asleep, The bird caught in a snare: [4] For you and your green twigs decoy 45 The little witless shepherd-boy To come and slumber in your bower; And, trust me, on some sultry noon, Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon! Will perish in one hour. 50
VI "'From me this friendly warning take'— The Broom began to doze, And thus, to keep herself awake, Did gently interpose: 'My thanks for your discourse are due; 55 That more than what you say is true, [5] I know, and I have known it long; Frail is the bond by which we hold Our being, whether young or old, [6] Wise, foolish, weak, or strong. 60
VII "'Disasters, do the best we can, Will reach both great and small; And he is oft the wisest man, Who is not wise at all. For me, why should I wish to roam? 65 This spot is my paternal home, It is my pleasant heritage; My father many a happy year, Spread here [7] his careless blossoms, here Attained a good old age. 70
VIII "'Even such as his may be my lot. What cause have I to haunt My heart with terrors? Am I not In truth a favoured plant! On me such bounty Summer pours, 75 That I am covered o'er with flowers; [8] And, when the Frost is in the sky, My branches are so fresh and gay That you might look at me [9] and say, This Plant can never die. 80
IX "'The butterfly, all green and gold, To me hath often flown, Here in my blossoms to behold Wings lovely as his own. When grass is chill with rain or dew, 85 Beneath my shade, the mother-ewe Lies with her infant lamb; I see The love they to each other make, And the sweet joy which they partake, It is a joy to me.' 90
X "Her voice was blithe, her heart was light; The Broom might have pursued Her speech, until the stars of night Their journey had renewed; But in the branches of the oak 95 Two ravens now began to croak Their nuptial song, a gladsome air; And to her own green bower the breeze That instant brought two stripling bees To rest, or [10] murmur there. 100
XI "One night, my Children! from the north There came a furious blast; [11] At break of day I ventured forth, And near the cliff I passed. The storm had fallen upon the Oak, 105 And struck him with a mighty stroke, And whirled, and whirled him far away; And, in one hospitable cleft, The little careless Broom was left To live for many a day." 110
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1820.
... thundering, ... 1800.]
[Variant 2:
1815.
... half giant and half sage, 1800.]
[Variant 3:
1820.
It came, you know, with fire and smoke And hither did it bend its way. 1800.
And hitherward it bent its way. 1802.]
[Variant 4:
1836.
The Thing had better been asleep, Whatever thing it were, Or Breeze, or Bird, or fleece of Sheep, That first did plant you there. 1800.
Or Breeze, or Bird, or Dog, or Sheep, 1802.]
[Variant 5:
1820.
That it is true, and more than true, 1800.]
[Variant 6:
1827.
... be we young or old, 1800.]
[Variant 7:
1836.
Here spread ... 1800.]
[Variant 8:
1815.
The Spring for me a garland weaves Of yellow flowers and verdant leaves, 1800.]
[Variant 9:
1802.
... on me ... 1800.]
[Variant 10:
1827.
To feed and ... 1800.
To rest and ... 1815.]
[Variant 11:
1815.
One night the Wind came from the North And blew a furious blast, 1800.]
The spot is fixed within narrow limits by the Fenwick note. It is, beyond doubt, on the wooded part of Nab-Scar, through which the upper path from Grasmere to Rydal passes. There is one huge block of stone high above the path, which answers well to the description in the second stanza. Crabb Robinson wrote in his 'Diary' (Sept. 11, 1816):
"The poem of 'The Oak and the Broom' proceeded from his" (Wordsworth) "beholding a tree in just such a situation as he described the broom to be in."
Ed.
* * * * *
"'TIS SAID, THAT SOME HAVE DIED FOR LOVE"
Composed 1800.—Published 1800
One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."—Ed.
'Tis said, that some have died for love: And here and there a church-yard grave is found In the cold north's unhallowed ground, Because the wretched man himself had slain, His love was such a grievous pain. 5 And there is one whom I five years have known; He dwells alone Upon Helvellyn's side: He loved—the pretty Barbara died; And thus he makes his moan: 10 Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid When thus his moan he made:
"Oh, move, thou Cottage, from behind that oak! Or let the aged tree uprooted lie, That in some other way yon smoke 15 May mount into the sky! The clouds pass on; they from the heavens depart: I look—the sky is empty space; I know not what I trace; But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart. 20
"O! what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves, That murmur once so dear, when will it cease? Your sound my heart of rest bereaves, It robs my heart of peace. [1] Thou Thrush, that singest loud—and loud and free, 25 Into yon row of willows flit, Upon that alder sit; Or sing another song, or choose another tree.
"Roll back, sweet Rill! back to thy mountain-bounds, And there for ever be thy waters chained! 30 For thou dost haunt the air with sounds That cannot be sustained; If still beneath that [2] pine-tree's ragged bough Headlong yon waterfall must come, Oh let it then be dumb! 35 Be anything, sweet Rill, but that which thou art now.
"Thou Eglantine, so bright with sunny showers, Proud as a rainbow spanning half the vale, [3] Thou one fair shrub, oh! shed thy flowers, And stir not in the gale. 40 For thus to see thee nodding in the air, To see thy arch thus stretch and bend, Thus rise and thus descend,— Disturbs me till the sight is more than I can bear."
The Man who makes this feverish complaint 45 Is one of giant stature, who could dance Equipped from head to foot in iron mail. Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thine To store up kindred hours for me, thy face Turn from me, gentle Love! nor let me walk 50 Within the sound of Emma's voice, nor [4] know Such happiness as I have known to-day.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1836.
... Ye leaves, When will that dying murmur be suppress'd? Your sound my heart of peace bereaves, It robs my heart of rest. 1800.]
[Variant 2:
1800.
... yon ... MS.]
[Variant 3:
1836.
Thou Eglantine whose arch so proudly towers (Even like a rainbow ... 1800.
... the rainbow ... 1802.
The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.]
[Variant 4:
1836.
... or ... 1800.]
If the second, third, and fourth stanzas of this poem had been published without the first, the fifth, and the last, it would have been deemed an exquisite fragment by those who object to the explanatory preamble, and to the moralising sequel. The intermediate stanzas suggest Burns's
'Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds, An' I sae weary, fu' o' care!'
and Browning's 'May and Death':
'I wish that when you died last May, Charles, there had died along with you Three parts of spring's delightful things; Ay, and, for me, the fourth part too.'
This mood of mind Wordsworth appreciated as fully as the opposite, or complementary one, which finds expression in the great 'Ode, Intimations of Immortality' (vol. viii.), l. 26.
'No more shall grief of mine the season wrong,'
and which Browning expresses in other verses of his lyric, and repeatedly elsewhere. The allusion in the last stanza of this poem is to Wordsworth's sister Dorothy.—Ed.
* * * * *
THE CHILDLESS FATHER
Composed 1800.-Published 1800 [A]
[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. When I was a child at Cockermouth, no funeral took place without a basin filled with sprigs of boxwood being placed upon a table covered with a white cloth in front of the house. The huntings on foot, in which the old man is supposed to join as here described, were of common, almost habitual, occurrence in our vales when I was a boy, and the people took much delight in them. They are now less frequent.—I.F.]
One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."—Ed.
"Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away! Not a soul in the village this morning will stay; The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds, And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds."
—Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, and green, 5 On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen; With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow, The girls on the hills made a holiday show.
Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months before, Filled the funeral basin [B] at Timothy's door; [1] 10 A coffin through Timothy's threshold had past; One Child [C] did it bear, and that Child was his last.
Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray, The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark away! Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut 15 With a leisurely motion the door of his hut.
Perhaps to himself at that moment he said; "The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead." But of this in my ears not a word did he speak; And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek. 20
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1827.
The basin of box-wood, just six months before, Had stood on the table at Timothy's door, 1800.
The basin had offered, just six months before, Fresh sprigs of green box-wood at Timothy's door; 1820.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: Also in 'The Morning Post', Jan. 30, 1801.—Ed.]
[Footnote B: In several parts of the North of England, when a funeral takes place, a basin full of Sprigs of Box-wood is placed at the door of the house from which the Coffin is taken up, and each person who attends the funeral ordinarily takes a Sprig of this Box-wood, and throws it into the grave of the deceased.—W. W. 1800.]
[Footnote C: In the list of errata, in the edition of 1820 "one child" is corrected, and made "a child"; but the text remained "one child" in all subsequent editions.—Ed.]
* * * * *
SONG FOR THE WANDERING JEW
Composed 1800.—Published 1800
Included among the "Poems of the Fancy."—Ed.
Though the torrents from their fountains Roar down many a craggy steep, Yet they find among the mountains Resting-places calm and deep.
Clouds that love through air to hasten, 5 Ere the storm its fury stills, Helmet-like themselves will fasten On the heads of towering hills. [1]
What, if through the frozen centre Of the Alps the Chamois bound, 10 Yet he has a home to enter In some nook of chosen ground: [2]
And the Sea-horse, though the ocean Yield him no domestic cave, Slumbers without sense of motion, 15 Couched upon the rocking wave. [3]
If on windy days the Raven Gambol like a dancing skiff, Not the less she loves her haven [4] In [5] the bosom of the cliff. [A] 20
The fleet Ostrich, till day closes, Vagrant over desert sands, Brooding on her eggs reposes When chill night that care demands. [6]
Day and night my toils redouble, 25 Never nearer to the goal; Night and day, I feel the trouble Of the Wanderer in my soul. [7]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1: This stanza was added in the edition of 1827.]
[Variant 2:
1827.
Though almost with eagle pinion O'er the rocks the Chamois roam, Yet he has some small dominion Which no doubt he calls his home. 1800.
Though, as if with eagle pinion O'er the rocks the Chamois roam, Yet he has some small dominion Where he feels himself at home. 1815.]
[Variant 3:
1836.
Though the Sea-horse in the ocean Own no dear domestic cave; Yet he slumbers without motion On the calm and silent wave. 1800.
Yet he slumbers—by the motion Rocked of many a gentle wave. 1827.]
[Variant 4:
1827.
... he loves his haven 1800.]
[Variant 5:
1815.
On ... 1800.]
[Variant 6: This stanza was added in 1827.]
[Variant 7:
1800.
Never—never does the trouble Of the Wanderer leave my soul. 1815.
The text of 1827 returns to that of 1800.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: In the editions of 1800 to 1832 stanzas 4 and 5 were transposed. Their present order was adjusted in the edition of 1836.—Ed.]
* * * * *
THE BROTHERS [A]
Composed 1800. [B]—Published 1800
[This poem was composed in a grove at the north-eastern end of Grasmere lake, which grove was in a great measure destroyed by turning the high road along the side of the water. The few trees that are left were spared at my intercession. The poem arose out of the fact, mentioned to me at Ennerdale, that a shepherd had fallen asleep upon the top of the rock called the Pillar, and perished as here described, his staff being left midway on the rock.—I. F.]
One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."—Ed.
These Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live A profitable life: some glance along, Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, And they were butterflies to wheel about Long as the [1] summer lasted: some, as wise, 5 Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag, Pencil in hand and book upon the knee, Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, [2] Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn. 10 But, for that moping Son of Idleness, Why can he tarry yonder?—In our church-yard Is neither epitaph nor monument, Tombstone nor name—only the turf we tread And a few natural graves." 15 |
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