 |
V "My knowledge is so weak, O blissful Queen! To tell abroad thy mighty worthiness, 30 That I the weight of it may not sustain; But as a child of twelvemonths old or less, That laboureth his language to express, Even so fare I; and therefore, I thee pray, Guide thou my song which I of thee shall say. 35
VI "There was in Asia, in a mighty town, 'Mong Christian folk, a street where Jews might be, Assigned to them and given them for their own By a great Lord, for gain and usury, Hateful to Christ and to his company; 40 And through this street who list might ride and wend; Free was it, and unbarred at either end.
VII "A little school of Christian people stood Down at the farther end, in which there were A nest of children come of Christian blood, 45 That learned in that school from year to year Such sort of doctrine as men used there, That is to say, to sing and read also, As little children in their childhood do.
VIII "Among these children was a Widow's son, 50 A little scholar, scarcely seven years old, [C] Who day by day unto this school hath gone, And eke, when he the image did behold Of Jesu's Mother, as he had been told, This Child was wont to kneel adown and say 55 Ave Marie, as he goeth by the way.
IX "This Widow thus her little Son hath taught Our blissful Lady, Jesu's Mother dear, To worship aye, and he forgat it not; For simple infant hath a ready ear. 60 Sweet is the holiness of youth: and hence, Calling to mind this matter when I may, Saint Nicholas in my presence standeth aye, For he so young to Christ did reverence. [D]
X "This little Child, while in the school he sate 65 His Primer conning with an earnest cheer, [E] The whilst the rest their anthem-book repeat The Alma Redemptoris did he hear; And as he durst he drew him near and near, And hearkened to the words and to the note, 70 Till the first verse he learned it all by rote.
XI "This Latin knew he nothing what it said, For he too tender was of age to know; But to his comrade he repaired, and prayed That he the meaning of this song would show, 75 And unto him declare why men sing so; This oftentimes, that he might be at ease, This child did him beseech on his bare knees.
XII "His Schoolfellow, who elder was than he, Answered him thus:—'This song, I have heard say, 80 Was fashioned for our blissful Lady free; Her to salute, and also her to pray To be our help upon our dying day: If there is more in this, I know it not: Song do I learn,—small grammar I have got.' 85
XIII "'And is this song fashioned in reverence Of Jesu's Mother?' said this Innocent; 'Now, certes, I will use my diligence To con it all ere Christmas-tide be spent; Although I for my Primer shall be shent, 90 And shall be beaten three times in an hour, Our Lady I will praise with all my power.'
XIV "His Schoolfellow, whom he had so besought, As they went homeward taught him privily And then he sang it well and fearlessly, 95 From word to word according to the note: Twice in a day it passed through his throat; Homeward and schoolward whensoe'er he went, On Jesu's Mother fixed was his intent.
XV "Through all the Jewry (this before said I) 100 This little Child, as he came to and fro, Full merrily then would he sing and cry, O Alma Redemptoris! high and low: The sweetness of Christ's Mother pierced so His heart, that her to praise, to her to pray, 105 He cannot stop his singing by the way.
XVI "The Serpent, Satan, our first foe, that hath His wasp's nest in Jew's heart, upswelled—'O woe, O Hebrew people!' said he in his wrath, 'Is it an honest thing? Shall this be so? 110 That such a Boy where'er he lists [1] shall go In your despite, and sing his hymns and saws, Which is against the reverence of our laws!'
XVII "From that day forward have the Jews conspired Out of the world this Innocent to chase; 115 And to this end a Homicide they hired, That in an alley had a privy place, And, as the Child 'gan to the school to pace, This cruel Jew him seized, and held him fast And cut his throat, and in a pit him cast. 120
XVIII "I say that him into a pit they threw, A loathsome pit, whence noisome scents exhale; O cursed folk! away, ye Herods new! What may your ill intentions you avail? Murder will out; certes it will not fail; 125 Know, that the honour of high God may spread, The blood cries out on your accursed deed.
XIX "O Martyr 'stablished in virginity! Now may'st thou sing for aye before the throne, Following the Lamb celestial," quoth she, 130 "Of which the great Evangelist, Saint John, In Patmos wrote, who saith of them that go Before the Lamb singing continually, That never fleshly woman they did know.
XX "Now this poor widow waiteth all that night 135 After her little Child, and he came not; For which, by earliest glimpse of morning light, With face all pale with dread and busy thought, She at the School and elsewhere him hath sought, Until thus far she learned, that he had been 140 In the Jews' street, and there he last was seen.
XXI "With Mother's pity in her breast enclosed She goeth, as she were half out of her mind, To every place wherein she hath supposed By likelihood her little Son to find; 145 And ever on Christ's Mother meek and kind She cried, till to the Jewry she was brought, And him among the accursed Jews she sought.
XXII "She asketh, and she piteously doth pray To every Jew that dwelleth in that place 150 To tell her if her child had passed that way; They all said—Nay; but Jesu of his grace Gave to her thought, that in a little space She for her Son in that same spot did cry Where he was cast into a pit hard by. 155
XXIII "O thou great God that dost perform thy laud By mouths of Innocents, lo! here thy might; This gem of chastity, this emerald, And eke of martyrdom this ruby bright, There, where with mangled throat he lay upright, 160 The Alma Redemptoris 'gan to sing So loud, that with his voice the place did ring.
XXIV "The Christian folk that through the Jewry went Come to the spot in wonder at the thing; And hastily they for the Provost sent; 165 Immediately he came, not tarrying, And praiseth Christ that is our heavenly King, And eke his Mother, honour of Mankind: Which done, he bade that they the Jews should bind.
XXV "This Child with piteous lamentation then 170 Was taken up, singing his song alway; And with procession great and pomp of men To the next Abbey him they bare away; His Mother swooning by the body [2] lay: And scarcely could the people that were near 175 Remove this second Rachel from the bier.
XXVI "Torment and shameful death to every one This Provost doth for those bad Jews prepare That of this murder wist, and that anon: Such wickedness his judgments cannot spare; 180 Who will do evil, evil shall he bear; Them therefore with wild horses did he draw, And after that he hung them by the law.
XXVII "Upon his bier this Innocent doth lie Before the altar while the Mass doth last: 185 The Abbot with his convent's company Then sped themselves to bury him full fast; And, when they holy water on him cast, Yet spake this Child when sprinkled was the water; And sang, O Alma Redemptoris Mater! 190
XXVIII "This Abbot, for he was a holy man, As all Monks are, or surely ought to be, [3] In supplication to the Child began Thus saying, 'O dear Child! I summon thee In virtue of the holy Trinity 195 Tell me the cause why thou dost sing this hymn, Since that thy throat is cut, as it doth seem.'
XXIX "'My throat is cut unto the bone, I trow,' Said this young Child, 'and by the law of kind I should have died, yea many hours ago; 200 But Jesus Christ, as in the books ye find, Will that his glory last, and be in mind; And, for the worship of his Mother dear, Yet may I sing, O Alma! loud and clear.
XXX "'This well of mercy, Jesu's Mother sweet, 205 After my knowledge I have loved alway; And in the hour when I my death did meet To me she came, and thus to me did say, "Thou in thy dying sing this holy lay," As ye have heard; and soon as I had sung 210 Methought she laid a grain upon my tongue.
XXXI "'Wherefore I sing, nor can from song refrain, In honour of that blissful Maiden free, Till from my tongue off-taken is the grain; And after that thus said she unto me; 215 "My little Child, then will I come for thee Soon as the grain from off thy tongue they take: Be not dismayed, I will not thee forsake!"'
XXXII "This holy Monk, this Abbot—him mean I, Touched then his tongue, and took away the grain; 220 And he gave up the ghost full peacefully; And, when the Abbot had this wonder seen, His salt tears trickled down like showers of rain; And on his face he dropped upon the ground, And still he lay as if he had been bound. 225
XXXIII "Eke the whole Convent on the pavement lay, Weeping and praising Jesu's Mother dear; And after that they rose, and took their way, And lifted up this Martyr from the bier, And in a tomb of precious marble clear 230 Enclosed his uncorrupted body sweet.—[F] Where'er he be, God grant us him to meet!
XXXIV "Young Hew of Lincoln! in like sort laid low By cursed Jews—thing well and widely known, For it was done a little while ago—[4] 235 Pray also thou for us, while here we tarry Weak sinful folk, that God, with pitying eye, In mercy would his mercy multiply On us, for reverence of his Mother Mary!"
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1827.
... list ... 1820.]
[Variant 2:
1845.
... by the Bier ... 1820.]
[Variant 3:
1827.
This Abbot who had been a holy man And was, as all Monks are, or ought to be, [a] 1820.]
[Variant 4:
1836.
For not long since was dealt the cruel blow, 1820.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A:
"Friday, 4th December 1801.... William translating 'The Prioress' Tale'."
"Saturday, 5th. William finished 'The Prioress' Tale', and after tea, Mary and he wrote it out"
(Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal).—Ed.]
[Footnote B: See 'Il Penseroso', l. 110.—Ed.]
[Footnote C: Chaucer's phrase is "a litel clergeon," Wordsworth's, "a little scholar;" but "clergeon" is a chorister, not a scholar.—Ed.]
[Footnote D:
"Chaucer's text is:
'Thus hath this widow her litel child i-taught Our blissful lady, Criste's moder deere, To worschip ay, and he forgat it nought; For sely child wil alway soone leere.'
'For sely child wil alway soone leere,' i.e. for a happy child will always learn soon. Wordsworth renders:
'For simple infant hath a ready ear,'
and adds:
'Sweet is the holiness of youth,'
extending the stanza to receive this addition from seven to eight lines, with an altered rhyme-system."
(Professor Edward Dowden, in the 'Transactions of the Wordsworth Society', No. III.)—Ed.]
[Footnote E: Chaucer's text is:
'This litel child his litel book lernynge As he sat in the schole in his primere.'
Ed.]
[Footnote F: Chaucer's text is:
'And in a tombe of marble stoones clere Enclosed they this litel body swete.'
Ed.]
* * * * *
SUB-FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Sub-Footnote a: This was erased in the 'Errata' of 1820, but it may be reproduced here.—Ed.]
* * * * *
THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE
Translated 1801. [A]—Published 1841 [B]
I The God of Love—ah, benedicite! How mighty and how great a Lord is he! For he of low hearts can make high, of high He can make low, and unto death bring nigh; And hard hearts he can make them kind and free. [1] 5
II Within a little time, as hath been found, He can make sick folk whole and fresh and sound: Them who are whole in body and in mind, He can make sick,—bind can he and unbind All that he will have bound, or have unbound. 10
III To tell his might my wit may not suffice; Foolish men he can make them out of wise;— For he may do all that he will devise; Loose livers he can make abate their vice, And proud hearts can make tremble in a trice. 15
IV In brief, the whole of what he will, he may; Against him dare not any wight say nay; To humble or afflict whome'er he will, To gladden or to grieve, he hath like skill; But most his might he sheds on the eve of May. 20
V For every true heart, gentle heart and free, That with him is, or thinketh so to be, Now against May shall have some stirring—whether To joy, or be it to some mourning; never At other time, methinks, in like degree. 25
VI For now when they may hear the small birds' song, And see the budding leaves the branches throng, This unto their remembrance doth bring All kinds of pleasure mix'd with sorrowing; And longing of sweet thoughts that ever long. 30
VII And of that longing heaviness doth come, Whence oft great sickness grows of heart and home; Sick are they all for lack of their desire; And thus in May their hearts are set on fire, So that they burn forth in great martyrdom. 35
VIII In sooth, I speak from feeling, what though now Old am I, and to genial pleasure slow; Yet have I felt of sickness through the May, Both hot and cold, and heart-aches every day,— How hard, alas! to bear, I only know. 40
IX Such shaking doth the fever in me keep Through all this May that I have little sleep; And also 'tis not likely unto me, That any living heart should sleepy be In which Love's dart its fiery point doth steep. 45
X But tossing lately on a sleepless bed, I of a token thought which Lovers heed; How among them it was a common tale, That it was good to hear the Nightingale, Ere the vile Cuckoo's note be uttered. 50
XI And then I thought anon as it was day, I gladly would go somewhere to essay If I perchance a Nightingale might hear, For yet had I heard none, of all that year, And it was then the third night of the May. 55
XII And soon as I a glimpse of day espied, No longer would I in my bed abide, But straightway to a wood that was hard by, Forth did I go, alone and fearlessly, And held the pathway down by a brook-side; 60
XIII Till to a lawn I came all white and green, I in so fair a one had never been. The ground was green, with daisy powdered over; Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover, All green and white; and nothing else was seen. [C] 65
XIV There sate I down among the fair fresh flowers, And saw the birds come tripping from their bowers, Where they had rested them all night; and they, Who were so joyful at the light of day, Began to honour May with all their powers. 70
XV Well did they know that service all by rote, And there was many and many a lovely note, Some, singing loud, as if they had complained; Some with their notes another manner feigned; And some did sing all out with the full throat. 75
XVI They pruned themselves, and made themselves right gay, Dancing and leaping light upon the spray; And ever two and two together were, The same as they had chosen for the year, Upon Saint Valentine's returning day. 80
XVII Meanwhile the stream, whose bank I sate upon, Was making such a noise as it ran on Accordant to the sweet Birds' harmony; Methought that it was the best melody Which ever to man's ear a passage won. 85
XVIII And for delight, but how I never wot, I in a slumber and a swoon was caught, Not all asleep and yet not waking wholly; And as I lay, the Cuckoo, bird unholy, Broke silence, or I heard him in my thought. 90
XIX And that was right upon a tree fast by, And who was then ill satisfied but I? Now, God, quoth I, that died upon the rood, From thee and thy base throat, keep all that's good, Full little joy have I now of thy cry. 95
XX And, as I with the Cuckoo thus 'gan chide, In the next bush that was me fast beside, I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing, That her clear voice made a loud rioting, Echoing through all the green wood wide. [D] 100
XXI Ah! good sweet Nightingale! for my heart's cheer, Hence hast thou stayed a little while too long; For we have had [2] the sorry Cuckoo here, And she hath been before thee with her song; Evil light on her! she hath done me wrong. 105
XXII But hear you now a wondrous thing, I pray; As long as in that swooning-fit I lay, Methought I wist right well what these birds meant, And had good knowing both of their intent, And of their speech, and all that they would say. 110
XXIII The Nightingale thus in my hearing spake:— Good Cuckoo, seek some other bush or brake, And, prithee, let us that can sing dwell here; For every wight eschews thy song to hear, Such uncouth singing verily dost thou make. 115
XXIV What! quoth she then, what is't that ails thee now? It seems to me I sing as well as thou; For mine's a song that is both true and plain,— Although I cannot quaver so in vain As thou dost in thy throat, I wot not how. 120
XXV All men may understanding have of me, But, Nightingale, so may they not of thee; For thou hast many a foolish and quaint cry:— Thou say'st, OSEE, OSEE, then how may I Have knowledge, I thee pray, what this may be? 125
XXVI Ah, fool! quoth she, wist thou not what it is? Oft as I say OSEE, OSEE, I wis, Then mean I, that I should be wondrous fain That shamefully they one and all were slain, Whoever against Love mean aught amiss. 130
XXVII And also would I that they all were dead, Who do not think in love their life to lead; For who is both the God of Love to obey, Is only fit to die, I dare well say, And for that cause OSEE I cry; take heed! 135
XXVIII Ay, quoth the Cuckoo, that is a quaint law, That all must love or die; but I withdraw, And take my leave of all such company, For mine intent it neither is to die, Nor ever while I live Love's yoke to draw. 140
XXIX For lovers of all folk that be alive, The most disquiet have and least do thrive; Most feeling have of sorrow [3] woe and care, And the least welfare cometh to their share; What need is there against the truth to strive? 145
XXX What! quoth she, thou art all out of thy mind, That in thy churlishness a cause canst find To speak of Love's true Servants in this mood; For in this world no service is so good To every wight that gentle is of kind. 150
XXXI For thereof comes all goodness and all worth; All gentiless [4] and honour thence come forth; Thence worship comes, content and true heart's pleasure, And full-assured trust, joy without measure, And jollity, fresh cheerfulness, and mirth; 155
XXXII And bounty, lowliness, and courtesy, And seemliness, and faithful company, And dread of shame that will not do amiss; For he that faithfully Love's servant is, Rather than be disgraced, would chuse to die. 160
XXXIII And that the very truth it is which I Now say—in such belief I'll live and die; And Cuckoo, do thou so, by my advice. Then, quoth she, let me never hope for bliss, If with that counsel I do e'er comply. 165
XXXIV Good Nightingale! thou speakest wondrous fair, Yet for all that, the truth is found elsewhere; For Love in young folk is but rage, I wis; And Love in old folk a great dotage is; Who most it useth, him 'twill most impair. 170
XXXV For thereof come all contraries to gladness; Thence sickness comes, and overwhelming sadness, Mistrust and jealousy, despite, debate, Dishonour, shame, envy importunate, Pride, anger, mischief, poverty, and madness. 175
XXXVI Loving is aye an office of despair, And one thing is therein which is not fair; For whoso gets of love a little bliss, Unless it alway stay with him, I wis He may full soon go with an old man's hair. 180
XXXVII And, therefore, Nightingale! do thou keep nigh, For trust me well, in spite of thy quaint cry, If long time from thy mate thou be, or far, Thou'lt be as others that forsaken are; Then shall thou raise a clamour as do I. 185
XXXVIII Fie, quoth she, on thy name, Bird ill beseen! The God of Love afflict thee with all teen, For thou art worse than mad a thousand fold; For many a one hath virtues manifold, Who had been nought, if Love had never been. 190
XXXIX For evermore his servants Love amendeth, And he from every blemish them defendeth; And maketh them to burn, as in a fire, In loyalty, and worshipful desire, And, when it likes him, joy enough them sendeth. 195
XL Thou Nightingale! the Cuckoo said, be still, For Love no reason hath but his own will;— For to th' untrue he oft gives ease and joy; True lovers doth so bitterly annoy, He lets them perish through that grievous ill. 200
XLI With such a master would I never be; [E] For he, in sooth, is blind, and may not see, And knows not when he hurts and when he heals; Within this court full seldom Truth avails, So diverse in his wilfulness is he. 205
XLII Then of the Nightingale did I take note, How from her inmost heart a sigh she brought, And said, Alas! that ever I was born, Not one word have I now, I am so forlorn,— And with that word, she into tears burst out. 210
XLIII Alas, alas! my very heart will break, Quoth she, to hear this churlish bird thus speak Of Love, and of his holy services; Now, God of Love! thou help me in some wise, That vengeance on this Cuckoo I may wreak. 215
XLIV And so methought I started up anon, And to the brook I ran and got a stone, Which at the Cuckoo hardily I cast, And he for dread did fly away full fast; And glad, in sooth, was I when he was gone. 220
XLV And as he flew, the Cuckoo, ever and aye, Kept crying, "Farewell!—farewell, Popinjay!" As if in scornful mockery of me; And on I hunted him from tree to tree, Till he was far, all out of sight, away. 225
XLVI Then straightway came the Nightingale to me, And said, Forsooth, my friend, do I thank thee, That thou wert near to rescue me; and now Unto the God of Love I make a vow, That all this May I will thy songstress be. 230
XLVII Well satisfied, I thanked her, and she said, By this mishap no longer be dismayed, Though thou the Cuckoo heard, ere thou heard'st me; Yet if I live it shall amended be, When next May comes, if I am not afraid. 235
XLVIII And one thing will I counsel thee also, The Cuckoo trust not thou, nor his Love's saw; All that she said is an outrageous lie. Nay, nothing shall me bring thereto, quoth I, For Love, and it hath done me mighty woe. 240
XLIX Yea, hath it? use, quoth she, this medicine; This May-time, every day before thou dine, Go look on the fresh daisy; then say I, Although for pain thou may'st be like to die, Thou wilt be eased, and less wilt droop and pine. 245
L And mind always that thou be good and true, And I will sing one song, of many new, For love of thee, as loud as I may cry; And then did she begin this song full high, "Beshrew all them that are in love untrue." 250
LI And soon as she had sung it to the end, Now farewell, quoth she, for I hence must wend; And, God of Love, that can right well and may, Send unto thee as mickle joy this day, As ever he to Lover yet did send. 255
LII Thus takes the Nightingale her leave of me; I pray to God with her always to be, And joy of love to send her evermore; And shield us from the Cuckoo and her lore, For there is not so false a bird as she. 260
LIII Forth then she flew, the gentle Nightingale, To all the Birds that lodged within that dale, And gathered each and all into one place; And them besought to hear her doleful case, And thus it was that she began her tale. 265
LIV The Cuckoo—'tis not well that I should hide How she and I did each the other chide, And without ceasing, since it was daylight; And now I pray you all to do me right Of that false Bird whom Love can not abide. 270
LV Then spake one Bird, and full assent all gave; This matter asketh counsel good as grave, For birds we are—all here together brought; And, in good sooth, the Cuckoo here is not; And therefore we a Parliament will have. 275
LVI And thereat shall the Eagle be our Lord, And other Peers whose names are on record; A summons to the Cuckoo shall be sent, And judgment there be given; or that intent Failing, we finally shall make accord. 280
LVII And all this shall be done, without a nay, The morrow after Saint Valentine's day, Under a maple that is well beseen, Before the chamber-window of the Queen, At Woodstock, on the meadow green and gay. 285
LVIII She thanked them; and then her leave she took, And flew into a hawthorn by that brook; And there she sate and sung—upon that tree— "For term of life Love shall have hold of me"— So loudly, that I with that song awoke. 290
Unlearned Book and rude, as well I know, For beauty thou hast none, nor eloquence, Who did on thee the hardiness bestow To appear before my Lady? but a sense Thou surely hast of her benevolence, 295 Whereof her hourly bearing proof doth give; For of all good she is the best alive.
Alas, poor Book! for thy unworthiness, To show to her some pleasant meanings writ In winning words, since through her gentiless, [5] 300 Thee she accepts as for her service fit! Oh! it repents me I have neither wit Nor leisure unto thee more worth to give; For of all good she is the best alive.
Beseech her meekly with all lowliness, 305 Though I be far from her I reverence, To think upon my truth and stedfastness, And to abridge my sorrow's violence, Caused by the wish, as knows your sapience, She of her liking proof to me would give; 310 For of all good she is the best alive.
L'ENVOY Pleasure's Aurora, Day of gladsomeness! Luna by night, with heavenly influence Illumined! root of beauty and goodnesse, Write, and allay, by your beneficence, 315 My sighs breathed forth in silence,—comfort give! Since of all good, you are the best alive.
EXPLICIT
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1: In 1819 Wordsworth wrote the opening stanza of his version of 'The Cuckoo and the Nightingale', in the album of Mrs. Calvert at Keswick, thus:
'The God of Love—ah, benedicite!' How mighty and how great a Lord is He! High can he make the heart that's low and poor, And high hearts low—through pains that they endure, And hard hearts, He can make them kind and free.
W. W., Nov. 27, 1819.]
[Variant 2:
1842.
... have heard ... 1841.]
[Variant 3:
1842
... sorrow's ... 1841.]
[Variant 4:
1842.
... gentleness ... 1841.]
[Variant 5:
1842.
... gentleness, ... 1841.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: The following extracts from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal show the date of the composition of this poem.
"Sunday, 6th December 1801. A very fine beautiful sun-shiny morning. William worked a while at Chaucer; then he set forward to walk into Easdale.... In the afternoon I read Chaucer aloud."
"Monday, 7th.... William at work with Chaucer, 'The God of Love'...."
"8th November ... William worked at 'The Cuckoo and the Nightingale' till he was tired."
"Wednesday, December 9th. I read 'Palemon and Arcite', William writing out his alterations of Chaucer's 'Cuckoo and Nightingale'."
The question as to whether 'The Cuckoo and the Nightingale' was written by Chaucer or not, may be solved either way without affecting the literary value of Wordsworth's "modernisation" of it.—Ed.]
[Footnote B: In 'The Poems of Geoffrey Chaucer Modernised'.—Ed.]
[Footnote C:
"In 'The Cuckoo and Nightingale', a poem of the third of May—a date corresponding to the mid-May, the very heart of May according to our modern reckoning—the poet after a wakeful night rises, and goes forth at dawn, and comes to a 'laund' or plain 'of white and green.'
'So feire oon had I nevere in bene, The grounde was grene, y poudred with dayse, The floures and the gras ilike al hie, Al grene and white, was nothing elles sene.'
Nothing seen but the short green grass and the white daisies,—grass and daisies being of equal height. Unfortunately in Tyrwhitt's text the description is nonsensical,
'The flowres and the greves like hie.'
The daisy flowers are as high as the groves! Wordsworth retained the groves, but refused to make daisies of equal height with them.
'Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover, All green and white; and nothing else was seen.'"
(Professor Dowden, in the 'Transactions of the Wordsworth Society'. No. III.)—Ed.]
[Footnote D:
"In Chaucer's poem, after 'the cuckoo, bird unholy,' has said his evil say, the Nightingale breaks forth 'so lustily,'
'That with her clere voys she made rynge Thro out alle the grene wode wide,'
Wordsworth has taken a poet's licence with these lines:
'I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing, That her clear voice made 'a loud rioting', Echoing through all the green wood wide.'
This 'loud rioting' is Wordsworth's, not Chaucer's; and it belongs, as it were, to that other passage of his:
'O Nightingale, thou surely art A creature of a fiery heart, These notes of thine—they pierce and pierce; Tumultuous harmony and fierce! Thou sing'st as if the God of wine Had helped thee to a Valentine.'"
(Professor Dowden, in the 'Transactions of the Wordsworth Society', No. III.)—Ed.]
[Footnote E: From a manuscript in the Bodleian, as are also stanzas 44 and 45—W. W.
(1841), which are necessary to complete the sense—W. W. (added in 1842).]
* * * * *
TROILUS AND CRESIDA
Translated 1801.—Published 1841 [A]
Next morning Troilus began to clear His eyes from sleep, at the first break of day, And unto Pandarus, his own Brother dear, For love of God, full piteously did say, We must the Palace see of Cresida; 5 For since we yet may have no other feast, Let us behold her Palace at the least!
And therewithal to cover his intent A cause he found into the Town to go, [B] And they right forth to Cresid's Palace went; 10 But, Lord, this simple Troilus was woe, Him thought his sorrowful heart would break [1] in two; For when he saw her doors fast bolted all, Well nigh for sorrow down he 'gan to fall.
Therewith when this true Lover 'gan behold, 15 How shut was every window of the place, Like frost he thought his heart was icy cold; For which, with changed, pale, and deadly face, Without word uttered, forth he 'gan to pace; And on his purpose bent so fast to ride, 20 That no wight his continuance espied. [C]
Then said he thus,—O Palace desolate! O house of houses, once so richly dight! O Palace empty and disconsolate! Thou lamp of which extinguished is the light; 25 O Palace whilom day that now art night, Thou ought'st to fall and I to die; since she Is gone who held us both in sovereignty.
O, of all houses once the crowned boast! Palace illumined with the sun of bliss; 30 O ring of which the ruby now is lost, O cause of woe, that cause has [2] been of bliss: Yet, since I may no better, would I kiss Thy cold doors; but I dare not for this rout; Farewell, thou shrine of which the Saint is out! 35
Therewith he cast on Pandarus an eye, [3] With changed face, and piteous to behold; And when he might his time aright espy, Aye as he rode, to Pandarus he told Both his new sorrow and his joys of old, 40 So piteously, and with so dead a hue, That every wight might on his sorrow rue.
Forth from the spot he rideth up and down, And everything to his rememberance Came as he rode by places of the town 45 Where he had felt such perfect pleasure once. Lo, yonder saw I mine own Lady dance, And in that Temple she with her bright eyes, My Lady dear, first bound me captive-wise.
And yonder with joy-smitten heart have I 50 Heard my own Cresid's laugh; and once at play I yonder saw her eke full blissfully; And yonder once she unto me 'gan say— Now, my sweet Troilus, love me well, I pray! And there so graciously did me behold, 55 That hers unto the death my heart I hold.
And at the corner of that self-same house Heard I my most beloved Lady dear, So womanly, with voice melodious Singing so well, so goodly, and so clear, 60 That in my soul methinks I yet do hear The blissful sound; and in that very place My Lady first me took unto her grace.
O blissful God of Love! then thus he cried, When I the process have in memory, 65 How thou hast wearied [D] me on every side, Men thence a book might make, a history; What need to seek a conquest over me, Since I am wholly at thy will? what joy Hast thou thy own liege subjects to destroy? 70
Dread Lord! so fearful when provoked, thine ire Well hast thou wreaked on me by pain and grief; Now mercy, Lord! thou know'st well I desire Thy grace above all pleasures first and chief; And live and die I will in thy belief; 75 For which I ask for guerdon but one boon, That Cresida again thou send me soon.
Constrain her heart as quickly to return, As thou dost mine with longing her to see, Then know I well that she would not sojourn. 80 Now, blissful Lord, so cruel do not be Unto the blood of Troy, I pray of thee, As Juno was unto the Theban blood, From whence to Thebes came griefs in multitude.
And after this he to the gate did go 85 Whence Cresid rode, as if in haste she was; And up and down there went, and to and fro, And to himself full oft he said, alas! From hence my hope, and solace forth did pass. O would the blissful God now for his joy, 90 I might her see again coming to Troy!
And up to yonder hill was I her guide; Alas, and there I took of her my leave; Yonder I saw her to her Father ride, For very grief of which my heart shall cleave;—95 And hither home I came when it was eve; And here I dwell an outcast from all joy, And shall, unless I see her soon in Troy.
And of himself did he imagine oft, That he was blighted, pale, and waxen less 100 Than he was wont; and that in whispers soft Men said, what may it be, can no one guess Why Troilus hath all this heaviness? All which he of himself conceited wholly Out of his weakness and his melancholy. 105
Another time he took into his head, That every wight, who in the way passed by, Had of him ruth, and fancied that they said, I am right sorry Troilus will die: And thus a day or two drove wearily; 110 As ye have heard; such life 'gan he to lead As one that standeth betwixt hope and dread.
For which it pleased him in his songs to show The occasion of his woe, as best he might; And made a fitting song, of words [4] but few, 115 Somewhat his woeful heart to make more light; And when he was removed from all men's sight, With a soft night voice, [5] he of his Lady dear, That absent was, 'gan sing as ye may hear.
O star, of which I lost have all the light, 120 With a sore heart well ought I to bewail, That ever dark in torment, night by night, Toward my death with wind I steer and sail; [E] For which upon the tenth night if thou fail With thy bright beams to guide me but one hour, 125 My ship and me Charybdis will devour.
As soon as he this song had thus sung through, He fell again into his sorrows old; And every night, as was his wont to do, Troilus stood the bright moon to behold; 130 And all his trouble to the moon he told, And said; I wis, when thou art horn'd anew, I shall be glad if all the world be true.
Thy horns were old as now upon that morrow, When hence did journey my bright Lady dear, 135 That cause is of my torment and my sorrow; For which, oh, gentle Luna, bright and clear, For love of God, run fast above [F] thy sphere; For when thy horns begin once more to spring, Then shall she come, that with her bliss may bring. 140
The day is more, and longer every night Than they were wont to be—for he thought so; And that the sun did take his course not right, By longer way than he was wont to go; And said, I am in constant dread I trow, 145 That Phaeeton his son is yet alive, His too fond father's car amiss to drive.
Upon the walls fast also would he walk, To the end that he the Grecian host might see; And ever thus he to himself would talk:—150 Lo! yonder is my [6] own bright Lady free; Or yonder is it that the tents must be; And thence does come this air which is so sweet, That in my soul I feel the joy of it.
And certainly this wind, that more and more 155 By moments thus increaseth in my face, Is of my Lady's sighs heavy and sore; I prove it thus; for in no other space Of all this town, save only in this place, Feel I a wind, that soundeth so like pain; 160 It saith, Alas, why severed are we twain?
A weary while in pain he tosseth thus, Till fully past and gone was the ninth night; And ever [7] at his side stood Pandarus, Who busily made use of all his might 165 To comfort him, and make his heart more light; [8] Giving him always hope, that she the morrow Of the tenth day will come, and end his sorrow.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1842.
... burst 1841.]
[Variant 2:
1842.
... hast ... 1841.]
[Variant 3:
1842.
... his eye, 1841.]
[Variant 4:
1842.
... whose words ... 1841.]
[Variant 5:
1842.
With a soft voice, ... 1841.]
[Variant 6:
1842.
... mine ... 1841.]
[Variant 7: The "even" of 1841 is evidently a misprint.]
[Variant 8:
1842.
... too light; 1841.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: In 'The Poems of Geoffrey Chaucer Modernised'. It is an extract from 'Troilus and Cressida', book v. ll. 518-686.—Ed.]
[Footnote B:
"Chaucer's text is:
'And therwithalle his meynye for to blende A cause he fonde in toune for to go.'
'His meynye for to blende,' i. e. to keep his household or his domestics in the dark. But Wordsworth writes:
'And therewithal to cover his intent,'
possibly mistaking 'meynye' for 'meaning'."
(Professor Dowden, in the 'Transactions of the Wordsworth Society', No. III.)—Ed.]
[Footnote C:
"When Troilus sees the shut windows and desolate aspect of his lady's house, his face grows blanched, and he rides past in haste, so fast, says Wordsworth,
'That no wight his continuance espied.'
But in Chaucer he rides fast that his white face may not be noticed:
'And as God wolde he gan so faste ride That no wight of his countenance espied.'"
(Professor Dowden, in the 'Transactions of the Wordsworth Society', No. III.)—Ed.]
[Footnote D: In Chaucer "werreyed" = warred on = fought against.—Ed.]
[Footnote E:
"'Toward my death with wind I steer and sail.'
This is Urry's version, but Chaucer's text is,
'Toward my death, with wind in stern I sail,'
Troilus' bark careering towards death, with all sails set, before a fierce stern-wind."
(Professor Dowden, in the 'Transactions of the Wordsworth Society', No. III.)—Ed.]
[Footnote F: In Chaucer "aboute" = around.—Ed.]
* * * * *
1802
The Lyrical Ballads and Sonnets which follow were written in 1802; but during that year Wordsworth continued mainly to work at 'The Excursion', as the following extracts from his sister's Journal indicate:
"Feb. 1, 1802.—William worked hard at 'The Pedlar,' and tired himself.
2nd Feb.—Wm. worked at 'The Pedlar.' I read aloud the 11th book of 'Paradise Lost'.
Thursday, 4th.—William thought a little about 'The Pedlar.'
5th.—Wm. sate up late at 'The Pedlar.'
7th.—W. was working at his poem. Wm. read 'The Pedlar,' thinking it was done. But lo! ... it was uninteresting, and must be altered."
Similar records occur each day in the Journal from the 10th to the 14th Feb. 1802.—Ed.
* * * * *
THE SAILOR'S MOTHER
Composed March 11th and 12th, 1802.—Published 1807
[Written in Town-end, Grasmere. I met this woman near the Wishing-gate, on the high road that then led from Grasmere to Ambleside. Her appearance was exactly as here described, and such was her account, nearly to the letter.—I.F.]
One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."—Ed.
One morning (raw it was and wet— A foggy day in winter time) A Woman on [1] the road I met, Not old, though something past her prime: Majestic in her person, tall and straight; 5 And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.
The ancient spirit is not dead; Old times, thought I, are breathing there; Proud was I that my country bred Such strength, a dignity so fair: 10 She begged an alms, like one in poor estate; I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.
When from these lofty thoughts I woke, "What is it," said I, "that you bear, Beneath the covert of your Cloak, 15 Protected from this cold damp air?" [2] She answered, soon as she the question heard, "A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird."
And, thus continuing, she said, "I had a Son, who many a day 20 Sailed on the seas, but he is dead; [3] In Denmark he was cast away: And I have travelled weary miles to see If aught which he had owned might still remain for me. [4]
"The bird and cage they both were his: 25 'Twas my Son's bird; and neat and trim He kept it: many voyages The singing-bird had gone [5] with him; When last he sailed, he left the bird behind; From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind. [6] 30
"He to a fellow-lodger's care Had left it, to be watched and fed, And pipe its song in safety;—there [7] I found it when my Son was dead; And now, God help me for my little wit! 35 I bear [8] it with me, Sir;—he took so much delight in it."
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1815.
... in ... 1807.]
[Variant 2:
1836.
... I woke, With the first word I had to spare I said to her, "Beneath your Cloak What's that which on your arm you bear?" 1807.
"What treasure," said I,"do you bear, Beneath the covert of your Cloak Protected from the cold damp air?" 1820.]
[Variant 3:
1807.
"I had a Son,—the waves might roar, He feared them not, a Sailor gay! But he will cross the waves no more: 1820.
... cross the deep ... 1827.
The text of 1832 returns to that of 1807. [a]]
[Variant 4:
1827.
And I have been as far as Hull, to see What clothes he might have left, or other property. 1807.
And I have travelled far as Hull, to see 1815.
And I have travelled many miles to see If aught which he had owned might still remain for me. 1820.]
[Variant 5:
1845.
This Singing-bird hath gone ... 1807.
... had gone ... 1820.]
[Variant 6:
1827.
As it might be, perhaps, from bodings of his mind. 1807.]
[Variant 7:
1827.
Till he came back again; and there 1807.]
[Variant 8:
1827.
I trail ... 1807.]
* * * * *
SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Sub-Footnote a: This return, in 1832, to the original text of the poem was due to Barren Field's criticism, the justice of which Wordsworth admitted.—Ed.]
In the Wordsworth household this poem went by the name of "The Singing Bird" as well as 'The Sailor's Mother'.
"Thursday (March 11th).—A fine morning. William worked at the poem of 'The Singing Bird.' ..."
"Friday (March 12th).—William finished his poem of 'The Singing Bird.'"
(Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal.)—Ed.
* * * * *
ALICE FELL; OR, POVERTY [A]
Composed March 12th and 13th, 1802.—Published 1807
[Written to gratify Mr. Graham of Glasgow, brother of the author of 'The Sabbath'. He was a zealous coadjutor of Mr. Clarkson, and a man of ardent humanity. The incident had happened to himself, and he urged me to put it into verse, for humanity's sake. The humbleness, meanness if you like, of the subject, together with the homely mode of treating it, brought upon me a world of ridicule by the small critics, so that in policy I excluded it from many editions of my poems, till it was restored at the request of some of my friends, in particular my son-in-law, Edward Quillinan.—I.F.]
It was only excluded from the editions of 1820, 1827, and 1832. In the edition of 1807 it was placed amongst a group of "Poems composed during a Tour, chiefly on foot." In 1815, in 1836, and afterwards, it was included in the group "referring to the Period of Childhood."
In Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal, the following reference to this poem occurs:
"Feb. 16, 1802.—Mr. Graham said he wished William had been with him the other day. He was riding in a post-chaise, and he heard a strange cry that he could not understand. The sound continued, and he called to the chaise-driver to stop. It was a little girl that was crying as if her heart would burst. She had got up behind the chaise, and her cloak had been caught by the wheel, and was jammed in, and it hung there. She was crying after it, poor thing. Mr. Graham took her into the chaise, and her cloak was released from the wheel, but the child's misery did not cease, for her cloak was torn to rags. It had been a miserable cloak before; but she had no other, and it was the greatest sorrow that could befall her. Her name was Alice Fell. She had no parents, and belonged to the next town. At the next town Mr. G. left money to buy her a new cloak."
"Friday (March 12).—In the evening after tea William wrote 'Alice Fell'."
"Saturday Morning (13th March).—William finished 'Alice Fell'...."
Ed.
The post-boy drove with fierce career, For threatening clouds the moon had drowned; When, as we hurried on, my ear Was smitten with a startling sound. [1]
As if the wind blew many ways, 5 I heard the sound,—and more and more; It seemed to follow with the chaise, And still I heard it as before.
At length I to the boy called out; He stopped his horses at the word, 10 But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout, Nor aught else like it, could be heard.
The boy then smacked his whip, and fast The horses scampered through the rain; But, hearing soon upon the blast 15 The cry, I bade him halt again. [2]
Forthwith alighting on the ground, "Whence comes," said I, "this piteous moan?" [3] And there a little Girl I found, Sitting behind the chaise, alone. 20
"My cloak!" no other word she spake, But loud and bitterly she wept, As if her innocent heart would break; [4] And down from off her seat [5] she leapt.
"What ails you, child?"—she sobbed "Look here!" 25 I saw it in the wheel entangled, A weather-beaten rag as e'er From any garden scare-crow dangled.
There, twisted between nave and spoke, It hung, nor could at once be freed; 30 But our joint pains unloosed the cloak, [6] A miserable rag indeed! [7]
"And whither are you going, child, To-night along these lonesome ways?" "To Durham," answered she, half wild—35 "Then come with me into the chaise."
Insensible to all relief Sat the poor girl, and forth did send Sob after sob, as if her grief [8] Could never, never have an end. 40
"My child, in Durham do you dwell?" She checked herself in her distress, And said, "My name is Alice Fell; I'm fatherless and motherless.
"And I to Durham, Sir, belong." 45 Again, [9] as if the thought would choke Her very heart, her grief grew strong; And all was for her tattered cloak!
The chaise drove on; our journey's end Was nigh; and, sitting by my side, 50 As if she had lost [10] her only friend She wept, nor would be pacified.
Up to the tavern-door we post; Of Alice and her grief I told; And I gave money to the host, 55 To buy a new cloak for the old.
"And let it be of duffil grey, As warm a cloak as man can sell!" Proud creature was she the next day, The little orphan, Alice Fell! 60
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1845.
When suddenly I seem'd to hear A moan, a lamentable sound. 1807.]
[Variant 2:
1845.
And soon I heard upon the blast The voice, and bade .... 1807.]
[Variant 3:
1845.
Said I, alighting on the ground, "What can it be, this piteous moan?" 1807.
Forthwith alighted on the ground To learn what voice the piteous moan Had made, a little girl I found, C.]
[Variant 4:
1836.
"My Cloak!" the word was last and first, And loud and bitterly she wept, As if her very heart would burst; 1807.
"My cloak, my cloak" she cried, and spake No other word, but loudly wept, C.]
[Variant 5:
1815.
... off the Chaise ... 1807.]
[Variant 6:
1845.
'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke; Her help she lent, and with good heed Together we released the Cloak; 1807.
... between ... 1840.]
[Variant 7:
1836.
A wretched, wretched rag indeed! 1807.]
[Variant 8:
1845.
She sate like one past all relief; Sob after sob she forth did send In wretchedness, as if her grief 1807.]
[Variant 9:
1836.
And then, ... 1807.]
[Variant 10:
1836.
... she'd lost ... 1807.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: There was no sub-title in the edition of 1807.—Ed.]
Charles Lamb wrote to Wordsworth in 1815, referring to the revisions of this and other poems:
"I am glad that you have not sacrificed a verse to those scoundrels. I would not have had you offer up the poorest rag that lingered upon the stript shoulders of little Alice Fell, to have atoned all their malice; I would not have given 'em a red cloak to save their souls."
See 'Letters of Charles Lamb' (Ainger), vol. i. p. 283.—Ed.
* * * * *
BEGGARS
Composed March 13th and 14th, 1802.—Published 1807
[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Met, and described to me by my sister, near the quarry at the head of Rydal Lake, [A] a place still a chosen resort of vagrants travelling with their families.—I.F.]
The following are Dorothy Wordsworth's references to this poem in her Grasmere Journal. They justify the remark of the late Bishop of Lincoln,
"his poems are sometimes little more than poetical versions of her descriptions of the objects which she had seen, and he treated them as seen by himself."
(See 'Memoirs of Wordsworth', vol. i. pp. 180-1.)
"Saturday (March 13, 1802).—William wrote the poem of the Beggar Woman, taken from a woman whom I had seen in May (now nearly two years ago), when John and he were at Gallow Hill. I sat with him at intervals all the morning, and took down his stanzas. After tea I read W. the account I had written of the little boy belonging to the tall woman: and an unlucky thing it was, for he could not escape from those very words, and so he could not write the poem. He left it unfinished, and went tired to bed. In our walk from Rydal he had got warmed with the subject, and had half cast the poem."
"Sunday Morning (March 14).—William had slept badly. He got up at 9 o'clock, but before he rose he had finished the Beggar Boy."
The following is the "account" written in her Journal on Tuesday, May 23, 1800:
"A very tall woman, tall much beyond the measure of tall women, called at the door. She had on a very long brown cloak, and a very white cap, without bonnet. Her face was brown, but it had plainly once been fair. She led a little barefooted child about two years old by the hand, and said her husband, who was a tinker, was gone before with the other children. I gave her a piece of bread. Afterwards, on my road to Ambleside, beside the bridge at Rydal, I saw her husband sitting at the roadside, his two asses standing beside him, and the two young children at play upon the grass. The man did not beg. I passed on, and about a quarter of a mile farther I saw two boys before me, one about ten, the other about eight years old, at play, chasing a butterfly. They were wild figures, not very ragged, but without shoes and stockings. The hat of the elder was wreathed round with yellow flowers; the younger, whose hat was only a rimless crown, had stuck it round with laurel leaves. They continued at play till I drew very near, and then they addressed me with the begging cant and the whining voice of sorrow. I said, 'I served your mother this morning' (the boys were so like the woman who had called at our door that I could not be mistaken). 'O,' says the elder, 'you could not serve my mother, for she's dead, and my father's in at the next town; he's a potter.' I persisted in my assertion, and that I would give them nothing. Says the elder, 'Come, let's away,' and away they flew like lightning. They had, however, sauntered so long in their road that they did not reach Ambleside before me, and I saw them go up to Mathew Harrison's house with their wallet upon the elder's shoulder, and creeping with a beggar's complaining foot. On my return through Ambleside I met, in the street, the mother driving her asses, in the two panniers of one of which were the two little children, whom she was chiding and threatening with a wand with which she used to drive on her asses, while the little things hung in wantonness over the pannier's edge. The woman had told me in the morning that she was of Scotland, which her accent fully proved, and that she had lived (I think at Wigtown); that they could not keep a house, and so they travelled."
This was one of the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.
She had a tall man's height or more; Her face from summer's noontide heat No bonnet shaded, but she wore A mantle, to her very feet Descending with a graceful flow, 5 And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen snow. [1]
Her skin was of Egyptian brown: Haughty, as if her eye had seen Its own light to a distance thrown, She towered, fit person for a Queen [2] 10 To lead [3] those ancient Amazonian files; Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian isles.
Advancing, forth she stretched her hand And begged an alms with doleful plea That ceased not; on our English land 15 Such woes, I knew, could never be; [4] And yet a boon I gave her, for the creature Was beautiful to see—a weed of glorious feature. [B]
I left her, and pursued my way; And soon before me did espy 20 A pair of little Boys at play, Chasing a crimson butterfly; The taller followed with his hat in hand, Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land. [5]
The other wore a rimless crown 25 With leaves of laurel stuck about; And, while both [6] followed up and down, Each whooping with a merry shout, In their fraternal features I could trace Unquestionable lines of that wild Suppliant's face. [7] 30
Yet they, so blithe of heart, seemed fit [8] For finest tasks of earth or air: Wings let them have, and they might flit Precursors to [9] Aurora's car, Scattering fresh flowers; though happier far, I ween, 35 To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock and level green.
They dart across my path—but lo, [10] Each ready with a plaintive whine! Said I, "not half an hour ago Your Mother has had alms of mine." 40 "That cannot be," one answered—"she is dead:"— I looked reproof—they saw—but neither hung his head. [11]
"She has been dead, Sir, many a day."— "Hush, boys! you're telling me a lie; [12] It was your Mother, as I say!" 45 And, in the twinkling of an eye, "Come! come!" cried one, and without more ado, Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew! [13] [C]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1845.
She had a tall Man's height, or more; No bonnet screen'd her from the heat; A long drab-colour'd Cloak she wore, A Mantle reaching to her feet: What other dress she had I could not know; Only she wore a Cap that was as white as snow. 1807.
Before me as the Wanderer stood, No bonnet screened her from the heat; Nor claimed she service from the hood Of a blue mantle, to her feet Depending with a graceful flow; Only she wore a cap pure as unsullied snow. 1827.
Before my eyes a Wanderer stood; Her face from summer's noon-day heat Nor bonnet shaded, nor the hood Of that blue cloak which to her feet Depended with a graceful flow; Only she wore a cap as white as new-fallen snow. 1832.
No bonnet shaded, nor the hood Of the blue cloak ... 1836.
She had a tall man's height or more; And while, 'mid April's noontide heat, A long blue cloak the vagrant wore, A mantle reaching to her feet, No bonnet screened her lofty brow, Only she wore a cap as white as new-fallen snow. C.
She had a tall man's height or more; A garment for her stature meet, And for a vagrant life, she wore A mantle reaching to her feet. Nor hood, nor bonnet screened her lofty brow, C.]
[Variant 2:
1827.
In all my walks, through field or town, Such Figure had I never seen: Her face was of Egyptian brown: Fit person was she for a Queen, 1807.
Such figure had I never seen In all my walks through field or town, Fit person seemed she for a Queen, C.]
[Variant 3:
1836.
To head ... 1807.]
[Variant 4:
1845.
Before me begging did she stand, Pouring out sorrows like a sea; Grief after grief:—on English Land Such woes I knew could never be; 1807.
Her suit no faltering scruples checked; Forth did she pour, in current free, Tales that could challenge no respect But from a blind credulity; 1827.
She begged an alms; no scruple checked The current of her ready plea, Words that could challenge ... 1832.
Before me begging did she stand And boldly urged a doleful plea, Grief after grief, on English land Such woes I knew could never be. C.]
[Variant 5:
1807.
With yellow flowers around, as with a golden band. C.]
[Variant 6:
1827.
And they both ... 1807.]
[Variant 7:
1820.
Two Brothers seem'd they, eight and ten years old; And like that Woman's face as gold is like to gold. 1807.]
[Variant 8: This stanza was added in the edition of 1827.]
[Variant 9:
1836.
Precursors of ... 1827.]
[Variant 10:
1827.
They bolted on me thus, and lo! 1807.]
[Variant 11:
1827.
"Nay but I gave her pence, and she will buy you bread." 1807.]
[Variant 12:
1845.
"Sweet Boys, you're telling me a lie; 1807.
... Heaven hears that rash reply; 1827.
The text of 1807 was resumed in 1836.]
[Variant 13:
1827.
... they both together flew. 1807.
... the thoughtless vagrants flew. C.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: The spot is easily identified, as the quarry still exists.—Ed.]
[Footnote B: In the MS. of this poem (1807) the words, "a weed of glorious feature," are placed within inverted commas. The quotation is from Spenser's 'Muiopotmos' ('The Fate of the Butterflie'), stanza 27; and is important, as it affects the meaning of the phrase. It is curious that Wordsworth dropped the commas in his subsequent editions.—Ed.]
[Footnote C: In Wordsworth's letter to Barron Field, of 24th October 1828 (see the volumes containing his correspondence), a detailed account is given of the reasons which had led him to alter the text of this poem.—Ed.]
* * * * *
SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING,
COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER
Composed 1817.—Published 1827
In the edition of 1840 the year assigned to this Sequel is 1817. It does not occur in the edition of 1820, but was first published in 1827. It was one of the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.
Where are they now, those wanton Boys? For whose free range the daedal earth Was filled with animated toys, And implements of frolic mirth; With tools for ready wit to guide; 5 And ornaments of seemlier pride, More fresh, more bright, than princes wear; For what one moment flung aside, Another could repair; What good or evil have they seen 10 Since I their pastime witnessed here, Their daring wiles, their sportive cheer? I ask—but all is dark between! [1]
They met me in a genial hour, When universal nature breathed 15 As with the breath of one sweet flower,— A time to overrule the power Of discontent, and check the birth Of thoughts with better thoughts at strife, The most familiar bane of life 20 Since parting Innocence bequeathed Mortality to Earth! Soft clouds, the whitest of the year, Sailed through the sky—the brooks ran clear; The lambs from rock to rock were bounding; 25 With songs the budded groves resounding; And to my heart are still endeared The thoughts with which it then was cheered; [2] The faith which saw that gladsome pair Walk through the fire with unsinged hair. 30 Or, if such faith [3] must needs deceive— Then, Spirits of beauty and of grace, [A] Associates in that eager chase; Ye, who within the blameless mind Your favourite seat of empire find—35 Kind Spirits! may we not believe That they, so happy and so fair Through your sweet influence, and the care Of pitying Heaven, at least were free From touch of deadly injury? 40 Destined, whate'er their earthly doom, For mercy and immortal bloom?
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
Spirits of beauty and of grace! Associates in that eager chase; Ye, by a course to nature true, The sterner judgment can subdue; And waken a relenting smile When she encounters fraud or guile; And sometimes ye can charm away The inward mischief, or allay, Ye, who within the blameless mind Your favourite seat of empire find!
The above is a separate stanza in the editions of 1827 and 1832. Only the first two and the last two lines of this stanza were retained in the edition of 1836, and were then transferred to the place they occupy in the final text.—Ed.]
[Variant 2:
1836.
And to my heart is still endeared The faith with which ... 1827.]
[Variant 3:
1836.
... such thoughts ... 1827.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: This and the three following lines were placed here in the edition of 1836. See note to the previous page.—Ed.]
* * * * *
TO A BUTTERFLY (#1)
Composed March 14, 1802.—Published 1807
[Written in the Orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. My sister and I were parted immediately after the death of our mother, who died in 1778, both being very young.—I. F.]
One of the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."—Ed.
Stay near me—do not take thy flight! A little longer stay in sight! Much converse do I find in thee, Historian of my infancy! Float near me; do not yet depart! 5 Dead times revive in thee: Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art! A solemn image to my heart, My father's family!
Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days, 10 The time, when, in our childish plays, My sister Emmeline [A] and I Together chased the butterfly! A very hunter did I rush Upon the prey:—with leaps and springs 15 I followed on from brake to bush; But she, God love her! feared to brush The dust from off its wings.
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: In the MS. for the edition of 1807 the transcriber (not W. W.) wrote "Dorothy." This, Wordsworth erased, putting in "Emmeline."—Ed.]
The text of this poem was never changed. It refers to days of childhood spent at Cockermouth before 1778. "My sister Emmeline" is Dorothy Wordsworth. In her Grasmere Journal, of Sunday, March 14, 1802, the following occurs:
"While we were at breakfast he" (William) "wrote the poem 'To a Butterfly'. He ate not a morsel, but sate with his shirt neck unbuttoned, and his waistcoat open when he did it. The thought first came upon him as we were talking about the pleasure we both always felt at the sight of a butterfly. I told him that I used to chase them a little, but that I was afraid of brushing the dust off their wings, and did not catch them. He told me how he used to kill all the white ones when he went to school, because they were Frenchmen. Mr. Simpson came in just as he was finishing the poem. After he was gone, I wrote it down, and the other poems, and I read them all over to him.... William began to try to alter 'The Butterfly', and tired himself."
Compare the later poem 'To a Butterfly' (#2) (April 20), p. 297.—Ed.
* * * * *
THE EMIGRANT MOTHER
Composed March 16th and 17th, 1802.—Published 1807
[Suggested by what I have noticed in more than one French fugitive during the time of the French Revolution. If I am not mistaken the lines were composed at Sockburn when I was on a visit to Mary and her brothers.—I. F.]
In the editions of 1807 and 1815, this poem had no distinctive title; but in the Wordsworth circle, it was known from the year 1802 as 'The Emigrant Mother', and at least one copy was transcribed with this title in 1802. It was first published under that name in 1820. It was revised and altered in 1820, 1827, 1832, 1836, and more especially in 1845.
In Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal the following entries occur:
"Tuesday (March 16).—William went up into the orchard, and wrote a part of 'The Emigrant Mother'."
"Wednesday.—William went up into the orchard, and finished the poem.... I went and sate with W., and walked backwards and forwards in the orchard till dinner-time. He read me his poem."
This poem was included among those "founded on the Affections."—Ed.
Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned In which a Lady driven from France did dwell; The big and lesser griefs with which she mourned, In friendship she to me would often tell.
This Lady, [1] dwelling upon British [2] ground, 5 Where she was childless, daily would [3] repair To a poor neighbouring cottage; as I found, For sake of a young Child whose home was there.
Once having seen her clasp with fond embrace This Child, I chanted to myself a lay, 10 Endeavouring, in our English tongue, to trace Such things as she unto the Babe might say: [4] And thus, from what I heard and knew, or guessed, [5] My song the workings of her heart expressed.
I "Dear Babe, thou daughter of another, 15 One moment let me be thy mother! An infant's face and looks are thine And sure a mother's heart is mine: Thy own dear mother's far away, At labour in the harvest field: 20 Thy little sister is at play;— What warmth, what comfort would it yield To my poor heart, if thou wouldst be One little hour a child to me!
II "Across the waters I am come, 25 And I have left a babe at home: A long, long way of land and sea! Come to me—I'm no enemy: I am the same who at thy side Sate yesterday, and made a nest 30 For thee, sweet Baby!—thou hast tried, Thou know'st the pillow of my breast; Good, good art thou:—alas! to me Far more than I can be to thee.
III "Here, little Darling, dost thou lie; 35 An infant thou, a mother I! Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears; Mine art thou—spite of these my tears. Alas! before I left the spot, My baby and its dwelling-place; 40 The nurse said to me, 'Tears should not Be shed upon an infant's face, It was unlucky'—no, no, no; No truth is in them who say so!
IV "My own dear Little-one will sigh, 45 Sweet Babe! and they will let him die. 'He pines,' they'll say, 'it is his doom, And you may see his hour is come.' Oh! had he but thy cheerful smiles, Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay, 50 Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles, And countenance like a summer's day, They would have hopes of him;—and then I should behold his face again!
V "'Tis gone—like dreams that we forget; 55 There was a smile or two—yet—yet [6] I can remember them, I see The smiles, worth all the world to me. Dear Baby! I must lay thee down; Thou troublest me with strange alarms; 60 Smiles hast thou, bright [7] ones of thy own; I cannot keep thee in my arms; For they confound me;—where—where is That last, that sweetest smile of his? [8]
VI "Oh! how I love thee!—we will stay 65 Together here this one half day. My sister's child, who bears my name, From France to sheltering England came; [9] She with her mother crossed the sea; The babe and mother near me dwell: 70 Yet does my yearning heart to thee Turn rather, though I love her well: [10] Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here! Never was any child more dear!
VII "—I cannot help it; ill intent 75 I've none, my pretty Innocent! I weep—I know they do thee wrong, These tears—and my poor idle tongue. Oh, what a kiss was that! my cheek How cold it is! but thou art good; So 80 Thine eyes are on me—they would speak, I think, to help me if they could. [11] Blessings upon that soft, warm face, [12] My heart again is in its place!
VIII
"While thou art mine, my little Love, 85 This cannot be a sorrowful grove; Contentment, hope, and mother's glee, [13] I seem to find them all in thee: [14] Here's grass to play with, here are flowers; I'll call thee by my darling's name; 90 Thou hast, I think, a look of ours, Thy features seem to me the same; His little sister thou shalt be; And, when once more my home I see, I'll tell him many tales of Thee." 95
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1807.
This Mother ... MS.]
[Variant 2:
1845.
... English ... 1807.]
[Variant 3:
1827.
... did ... 1807.]
[Variant 4:
1845.
Once did I see her clasp the Child about, And take it to herself; and I, next day, Wish'd in my native tongue to fashion out Such things as she unto this Child might say: 1807.
Once did I see her take with fond embrace This Infant to herself; and I, next day, Endeavoured in my native tongue to trace Such things as she unto the Child might say: 1820.
Once, having seen her take with fond embrace This Infant to herself, I framed a lay, Endeavouring, in my native tongue, to trace 1827.]
[Variant 5:
1845.
And thus, from what I knew, had heard, and guess'd, 1807.]
[Variant 6:
1820.
'Tis gone—forgotten—let me do My best—there was a smile or two, 1807.]
[Variant 7:
1827.
... sweet ... 1807.]
[Variant 8:
1836.
For they confound me: as it is, I have forgot those smiles of his. 1807.
For they bewilder me—even now His smiles are lost,—I know not how! 1820.
By those bewildering glances crost In which the light of his is lost. [a] 1827.]
[Variant 9:
1827.
From France across the Ocean came; 1807.]
[Variant 10:
1845.
My Darling, she is not to me What thou art! though I love her well: 1807.
But to my heart she cannot be 1836.]
[Variant 11:
1807.
And I grow happy while I speak, Kiss, kiss me, Baby, thou art good. MS.]
[Variant 12:
1820.
... that quiet face, 1807.]
[Variant 13:
1807.
A Joy, a Comforter thou art; Sunshine and pleasure to my heart; And love and hope and mother's glee, MS.]
[Variant 14:
1807.
My yearnings are allayed by thee, My heaviness is turned to glee. MS.]
* * * * *
SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Sub-Footnote a: In a letter to Barron Field (24th Oct. 1828), Wordsworth says that his substitution of the text of 1827 for that of 1807, was due to the objections of Coleridge.—Ed.]
* * * * *
TO THE CUCKOO
Composed 1802.—Published 1807
[Composed in the Orchard at Town-end, 1804.—I.F.]
One of the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.
O blithe New-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice? [A]
While I am lying on the grass 5 Thy twofold shout I hear, From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off, and near. [1]
Though babbling only to the Vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, 10 Thou bringest unto me a tale [2] Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, [3] 15 A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. 20
To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen.
And I can listen to thee yet; 25 Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again.
O blessed Bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be 30 An unsubstantial, faery place; That is fit home for Thee!
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1845.
While I am lying on the grass, I hear thy restless shout: From hill to hill it seems to pass, About, and all about! 1807.
Thy loud note smites my ear!— From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off and near! 1815.
Thy loud note smites my ear! It seems to fill the whole air's space, At once far off and near! 1820.
Thy twofold shout I hear, That seems to fill the whole air's space, As loud far off as near. [a] 1827.]
[Variant 2:
1827.
To me, no Babbler with a tale Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou tellest, Cuckoo! in the vale 1807.
I hear thee babbling to the Vale Of sunshine and of flowers; And unto me thou bring'st a tale 1815.
But unto me .... 1820.]
[Variant 3:
1836.
No Bird; but an invisible Thing, 1807.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A:
"Vox et praterea nihil. See Lipsius 'of the Nightingale.'"
Barron Field.—Ed.
* * * * *
SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Sub-Footnote a: Barron Field remonstrated with Wordsworth about this reading, and he agreed to restore that of 1820; saying, at the same time, that he had "made the change to record a fact observed by himself."—Ed.]
In the chronological lists of his poems, published in 1815 and 1820, Wordsworth left a blank opposite this one, in the column containing the year of composition. From 1836 to 1849, the date assigned by him was 1804. But in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal the following occurs under date Tuesday, 22nd March 1802:
"A mild morning. William worked at the Cuckoo poem.... At the closing in of day, went to sit in the orchard. William came to me, and walked backwards and forwards. W. repeated the poem to me. I left him there; and in 20 minutes he came in, rather tired with attempting to write."
"Friday (March 25).—A beautiful morning. William worked at 'The Cuckoo'."
It is therefore evident that it belongs to the year 1802; although it may have been altered and readjusted in 1804. The connection of the seventh stanza of this poem with the first of that which follows it, "My heart leaps up," etc., and of both with the 'Ode, Intimations of Immortality' (vol. viii.), is obvious.—Ed.
* * * * *
"MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I BEHOLD"
Composed March 26, 1802.—Published 1807
[Written at Town-end, Grasmere.—I.F.]
One of the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood." In 1807 it was No. 4 of the series called "Moods of my own Mind."—Ed.
My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, 5 Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man; [A] And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: Compare Milton's phrase in 'Paradise Regained' (book iv. l. 220):
'The childhood shews the man, As morning shews the day.'
Dryden's 'All for Love', act IV. scene I:
'Men are but children of a larger growth.'
And Pope's 'Essay on Man', Ep. iv. l. 175:
'The boy and man an individual makes.'
Also Chatterton's 'Fragment' (Aldine edition, vol. 1. p. 132):
'Nature in the infant marked the man.'
Ed.]
"March 26, 1802.—While I was getting into bed he" (W.) "wrote 'The Rainbow.'"
"May 14th.—... William very nervous. After he was in bed, haunted with altering 'The Rainbow.'"
(Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal.) This poem was known familiarly in the household as "The Rainbow," although not printed under that title. The text was never changed.
In 'The Friend', vol. i. p. 58 (ed. 1818), Coleridge writes:
"Men laugh at the falsehoods imposed on them during their childhood, because they are not good and wise enough to contemplate the past in the present, and so to produce that continuity in their self-consciousness, which Nature has made the law of their animal life. Men are ungrateful to others, only when they have ceased to look back on their former selves with joy and tenderness. They exist in fragments."
He then quotes the above poem, and adds:
"I am informed that these lines have been cited as a specimen of despicable puerility. So much the worse for the citer; not willingly in his presence would I behold the sun setting behind our mountains.... But let the dead bury their dead! The poet sang for the living.... I was always pleased with the motto placed under the figure of the rosemary in old herbals:
'Sus, apage! Haud tibi spiro.'"
Compare the passage in 'The Excursion' (book ix. l. 36) beginning:
'... Ah! why in age Do we revert so fondly, etc.'
also that in 'The Prelude' (book v. l. 507) beginning:
'Our childhood sits.'
* * * * *
WRITTEN IN MARCH, WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF BROTHERS WATER
Composed April 16, 1802.—Published 1807
[Extempore. This little poem was a favourite with Joanna Baillie.—I.F.]
One of the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.
The Cock is crowing, The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter, The green field sleeps in the sun; 5 The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest; The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising; There are forty feeding like one! 10
Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill; The Ploughboy is whooping—anon—anon: [A] 15 There's joy in the mountains; There's life in the fountains; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone! 20
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: This line was an afterthought.—Ed.]
The text of this poem was never altered. It was not "written in March" (as the title states), but on the 16th of April (Good Friday) 1802. The bridge referred to crosses Goldrill Beck, a little below Hartsop in Patterdale. The following, from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, records the walk from Ullswater, over Kirkstone Pass, to Ambleside:
"Friday, 16th April (Good Friday).—... When we came to the foot of Brothers Water, I left William sitting on the bridge, and went along the path on the right side of the lake through the wood. I was delighted with what I saw: the water under the boughs of the bare old trees, the simplicity of the mountains, and the exquisite beauty of the path. There was one grey cottage. I repeated 'The Glowworm' as I walked along. I hung over the gate, and thought I could have stayed for ever. When I returned, I found William writing a poem descriptive of the sights and sounds we saw and heard. There was the gentle flowing of the stream, the glittering lively lake, green fields, without a living creature to be seen on them; behind us, a flat pasture with forty-two cattle feeding; to our left, the road leading to the hamlet. No smoke there, the sun shone on the bare roofs. The people were at work, ploughing, harrowing, and sowing; lasses working; a dog barking now and then; cocks crowing, birds twittering; the snow in patches at the top of the highest hills; yellow palms, purple and green twigs on the birches, ashes with their glittering stems quite bare. The hawthorn a bright green, with black stems under the oak. The moss of the oaks glossy.... As we went up the vale of Brothers Water, more and more cattle feeding, a hundred of them. William finished his poem before we got to the foot of Kirkstone. There were hundreds of cattle in the vale.... The walk up Kirkstone was very interesting. The becks among the rocks were all alive. William shewed me the little mossy streamlet which he had before loved, when he saw its bright green track in the snow. The view above Ambleside very beautiful. There we sate, and looked down on the green vale. We watched the crows at a little distance from us become white as silver, as they flew in the sunshine; and, when they went still farther, they looked like shapes of water passing over the green fields."
Ed.
* * * * *
THE REDBREAST CHASING THE BUTTERFLY [A]
Composed April 18, 1802.—Published 1807
[Observed, as described, in the then beautiful orchard, Town-end, Grasmere.—I.F.]
Included among the "Poems of the Fancy."
In some editions this poem is assigned to the year 1806; but, in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal the following occurs, under date "Sunday, 18th" (April 1802):
"A mild grey morning with rising vapours. We sate in the orchard. William wrote the poem on the Robin and the Butterfly.... W. met me at Rydal with the conclusion of the poem to the Robin. I read it to him in bed. We left out some lines."
Ed.
Art thou the bird whom Man loves best, The pious bird [B] with the scarlet breast, Our little English Robin; The bird that comes about our doors When Autumn-winds are sobbing? 5 Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors? Their Thomas in Finland, And Russia far inland? The bird, that [1] by some name or other All men who know thee call their brother, 10 The darling of children and men? Could Father Adam [C] open his eyes And see this sight beneath the skies, He'd wish to close them again. —If the Butterfly knew but his friend, 15 Hither his flight he would bend; And find his way to me, Under the branches of the tree: In and out, he darts about; Can this be the bird, to man so good, 20 That, after their bewildering, [2] Covered [3] with leaves the little children, So painfully in the wood?
What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue A beautiful creature, 25 That is gentle by nature? Beneath the summer sky From flower to flower let him fly; 'Tis all that he wishes to do. The cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness, 30 He is the friend of our summer gladness: What hinders, then, that ye should be Playmates in the sunny weather, And fly about in the air together! His beautiful wings in crimson are drest, 35 A crimson as bright as thine own: [4] Would'st thou be [5] happy in thy nest, O pious Bird! whom man loves best, Love him, or leave him alone!
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1849.
... whom ... 1807.
... who ... 1827.]
[Variant 2:
1815.
In and out, he darts about; His little heart is throbbing: Can this be the Bird, to man so good, Our consecrated Robin! That, after ... 1807.
... Robin! Robin! His little heart is throbbing; Can this ... MS.]
[Variant 3:
1832.
Did cover ... 1807.]
[Variant 4:
1815.
... Like thine own breast His beautiful wings in crimson are drest, As if he were bone of thy bone. MS.
Like the hues of thy breast His beautiful wings in crimson are drest, A brother he seems of thine own: 1807.
... in the air together! His beautiful bosom is drest, In crimson as bright as thine own: 1832.
The edition of 1836 resumes the text of 1815.]
[Variant 5:
1836.
If thou would'st be ... 1807.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: The title, in the editions 1807 to 1820, was 'The Redbreast and the Butterfly'. In the editions 1827 to 1843 it was 'The Redbreast and Butterfly'. The final title was given in 1845.—Ed.]
[Footnote B: Compare Cowley:
'And Robin Redbreasts whom men praise, For pious birds.'
Ed.]
[Footnote C: See 'Paradise Lost', book XI., where Adam points out to Eve the ominous sign of the Eagle chasing "two Birds of gayest plume," and the gentle Hart and Hind pursued by their enemy.—W. W. 1815.
The passage in book XI. of 'Paradise Lost' includes lines 185-90.—Ed.]
* * * * *
TO A BUTTERFLY (#2)
Composed April 20, 1802.—Published 1807
[Written at the same time and place. The Orchard, Grasmere Town-end, 1801.—I.F.]
Included among the "Poems founded on the Affections."—Ed.
I've watch'd you now a full [1] half-hour, Self-poised upon that yellow flower; And, little Butterfly! indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless!—not frozen seas 5 More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!
This plot of orchard-ground is ours; 10 My trees they are, my Sister's flowers; Here rest your wings when they are weary; Here lodge as in a sanctuary! [2] Come often to us, fear no wrong; Sit near us on the bough! 15 We'll talk of sunshine and of song, And summer days, when we were young; Sweet childish days, that were as long As twenty days are now.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1807.
... short ... 1836.
The text of 1845 reverts to the reading of 1807.]
[Variant 2:
1815.
Stop here whenever you are weary, And rest as in a sanctuary! 1807.
And feed ... MS.]
Wordsworth's date, as given to Miss Fenwick, is incorrect. In her Journal, April 20, 1802, Dorothy Wordsworth writes:
"William wrote a conclusion to the poem of 'The Butterfly', 'I've watch'd you now a full half-hour.'"
This, and the structure of the two poems, makes it probable that the latter was originally meant to be a sort of conclusion to the former (p. 283); but they were always printed as separate poems.
Many of the "flowers" in the orchard at Dove Cottage were planted by Dorothy Wordsworth, and some of the "trees" by William. The "summer days" of childhood are referred to in the previous poem, 'To a Butterfly', written on the 14th of March 1802.—Ed.
* * * * *
FORESIGHT
Composed April 28, 1802.—Published 1807
[Also composed in the Orchard, Town-end, Grasmere.—I.F.]
Included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."—Ed.
That is work of waste and ruin—[1] Do as Charles and I are doing! Strawberry-blossoms, one and all, We must spare them—here are many: Look at it—the flower is small, 5 Small and low, though fair as any: Do not touch it! summers two I am older, Anne, than you. Pull the primrose, sister Anne! Pull as many as you can. 10 —Here are daisies, take your fill; Pansies, and the cuckoo-flower: Of the lofty daffodil Make your bed, or [2] make your bower; Fill your lap, and fill your bosom; 15 Only spare the strawberry-blossom!
Primroses, the Spring may love them— Summer knows but little of them: Violets, a barren kind, Withered on the ground must lie; 20 Daisies leave no fruit behind When the pretty flowerets die; Pluck them, and another year As many will be blowing here. [3]
God has given a kindlier power [4] 25 To the favoured strawberry-flower. Hither soon as spring is fled You and Charles and I will walk; [5] Lurking berries, ripe and red, Then will hang on every stalk, 30 Each within its leafy bower; And for that promise spare the flower!
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1815.
That is work which I am rueing—1807.]
[Variant 2:
1836.
... and ... 1807.]
[Variant 3:
1815.
Violets, do what they will, Wither'd on the ground must lie; Daisies will be daisies still; Daisies they must live and die: Fill your lap, and fill your bosom, Only spare the Strawberry-blossom! 1807.]
[Variant 4: This last stanza was added in the edition of 1815.]
[Variant 5:
1836.
When the months of spring are fled Hither let us bend our walk; 1815.]
The full title of this poem, in the editions of 1807 to 1832, was 'Foresight, or the Charge of a Child to his younger Companion', but it was originally known in the household as "Children gathering Flowers." The shortened title was adopted in 1836. The following is from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal:
"Wednesday, 28th April (1802).—Copied the 'Prioress's Tale'. William was in the orchard. I went to him; he worked away at his poem, though he was ill, and tired. I happened to say that when I was a child I would not have pulled a strawberry blossom; I left him, and wrote out the 'Manciple's Tale'. At dinner time he came in with the poem of 'Children gathering Flowers,' but it was not quite finished, and it kept him long from his dinner. It is now done. He is working at 'The Tinker.'"
At an earlier date in the same year,—Jan. 31st, 1802,—the following occurs:
"I found a strawberry blossom in a rock. The little slender flower had more courage than the green leaves, for they were but half expanded and half grown, but the blossom was spread full out. I uprooted it rashly, and I felt as if I had been committing an outrage; so I planted it again. It will have but a stormy life of it, but let it live if it can."
With this poem compare a parallel passage in Marvel's 'The Picture of T. C. in a Prospect of Flowers':
'But oh, young beauty of the woods, Whom nature courts with fruits and flowers, Gather the flowers, but spare the buds; Lest Flora, angry at thy crime To kill her infants in their prime, Should quickly make the example yours; And, ere we see, Nip in the blossom all our hopes in thee.'
Ed.
* * * * *
TO THE SMALL CELANDINE [A]
Composed April 30, 1802.—Published 1807
[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. It is remarkable that this flower, coming out so early in the spring as it does, and so bright and beautiful, and in such profusion, should not have been noticed earlier in English verse. What adds much to the interest that attends it is its habit of shutting itself up and opening out according to the degree of light and temperature of the air.—I.F.]
One of the "Poems of the Fancy." In the original MS. this poem is called 'To the lesser Celandine', but in the proof "small" was substituted for "lesser."
In Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal the following occurs, under date April 30, 1802:
"We came into the orchard directly after breakfast, and sat there. The lake was calm, the sky cloudy. William began to write the poem of 'The Celandine'.... I walked backwards and forwards with William. He repeated his poem to me, then he got to work again, and would not give over."
Ed.
Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises; Long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory; Long as there are violets, 5 They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine.
Eyes of some men travel far For the finding of a star; 10 Up and down the heavens they go, Men that keep a mighty rout! I'm as great as they, I trow, Since the day I found thee out, Little Flower!—I'll make a stir, 15 Like a sage [1] astronomer.
Modest, yet withal an Elf Bold, and lavish of thyself; Since we needs must first have met I have seen thee, high and low, 20 Thirty years or more, and yet 'Twas a face I did not know; Thou hast now, go where I may, Fifty greetings in a day.
Ere a leaf is on a bush, 25 In the time before the thrush Has a thought about her [2] nest, Thou wilt come with half a call, Spreading out thy glossy breast Like a careless Prodigal; 30 Telling tales about the sun, When we've little warmth, or none.
Poets, vain men in their mood! Travel with the multitude: Never heed them; I aver 35 That they all are wanton wooers; But the thrifty cottager, Who stirs little out of doors, Joys to spy thee near her home; Spring is coming, Thou art come! 40
[B]
Comfort have thou of thy merit, Kindly, unassuming Spirit! Careless of thy neighbourhood, Thou dost show thy pleasant face On the moor, and in the wood, 45 In the lane;—there's not a place, Howsoever mean it be, But 'tis good enough for thee.
Ill befal the yellow flowers, Children of the flaring hours! 50 Buttercups, that will be seen, Whether we will see or no; Others, too, of lofty mien; They have done as worldlings do, Taken praise that should be thine, 55 Little, humble Celandine!
Prophet of delight and mirth, Ill-requited [3] upon earth; Herald of a mighty band, Of a joyous train ensuing, 60 Serving at my heart's command, Tasks that are no tasks renewing, [4] I will sing, as doth behove, Hymns in praise of what I love!
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VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1836.
... great ... 1807.]
[Variant 2:
1832.
... it's ... 1807.]
[Variant 3:
1836.
Scorn'd and slighted ... 1807.]
[Variant 4:
1836.
Singing at my heart's command, In the lanes my thoughts pursuing, 1807.]
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FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: Common Pilewort.—W. W. 1807.]
[Footnote B: The following stanza was inserted in the editions of 1836-1843:
'Drawn by what peculiar spell, By what charm for sight or smell, Do those winged dim-eyed creatures, Labourers sent from waxen cells, Settle on thy brilliant features, In neglect of buds and bells Opening daily at thy side, By the season multiplied?'
In 1845 it was transferred to the following poem, where it will be found, with a change of text.—Ed.]
* * * * *
TO THE SAME FLOWER
Composed May 1, 1802.—Published 1807
One of the "Poems of the Fancy."—Ed.
Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet: February last, my heart First at sight of thee was glad; All unheard of as thou art, 5 Thou must needs, I think, have had, Celandine! and long ago, Praise of which I nothing know.
I have not a doubt but he, Whosoe'er the man might be, 10 Who the first with pointed rays (Workman worthy to be sainted) Set the sign-board in a blaze, When the rising [1] sun he painted, Took the fancy from a glance 15 At thy glittering countenance.
Soon as gentle breezes bring News of winter's vanishing, And the children build their bowers, Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mould 20 All about with full-blown flowers, Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold! With the proudest thou art there, Mantling in the tiny square.
Often have I sighed to measure 25 By myself a lonely pleasure, Sighed to think, I read a book Only read, perhaps, by me; Yet I long could overlook Thy bright coronet and Thee, 30 And thy arch and wily ways, And thy store of other praise.
Blithe of heart, from week to week Thou dost play at hide-and-seek; While the patient primrose sits 35 Like a beggar in the cold, Thou, a flower of wiser wits, Slip'st into thy sheltering [2] hold; Liveliest of the vernal train [3] When ye all are out again. 40
Drawn by what peculiar spell, By what charm of sight or smell, Does the dim-eyed curious Bee, Labouring for her waxen cells, Fondly settle upon Thee 45 Prized above all buds and bells Opening daily at thy side, By the season multiplied? [4] |
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