 |
Now couch thyself where, heard with fear afar, [87] Thunders through echoing pines the headlong Aar; Or rather stay to taste the mild delights Of pensive Underwalden's [U] pastoral heights. —Is there who 'mid these awful wilds has seen 340 The native Genii walk the mountain green? Or heard, while other worlds their charms reveal, Soft music o'er [88] the aerial summit steal? While o'er the desert, answering every close, Rich steam of sweetest perfume comes and goes. 345 —And sure there is a secret Power that reigns Here, where no trace of man the spot profanes, Nought but the chalets, [V] flat and bare, on high Suspended 'mid the quiet of the sky; Or distant herds that pasturing upward creep, 350 And, not untended, climb the dangerous steep. [89] How still! no irreligious sound or sight Rouses the soul from her severe delight. An idle voice the sabbath region fills Of Deep that calls to Deep across the hills, 355 And with that voice accords the soothing sound [90] Of drowsy bells, for ever tinkling round; Faint wail of eagle melting into blue Beneath the cliffs, and pine-woods' steady sugh; [W] The solitary heifer's deepened low; 360 Or rumbling, heard remote, of falling snow. All motions, sounds, and voices, far and nigh, Blend in a music of tranquillity; [91] Save when, a stranger seen below [92] the boy Shouts from the echoing hills with savage joy. 365
When, from the sunny breast of open seas, And bays with myrtle fringed, the southern breeze Comes on to gladden April with the sight Of green isles widening on each snow-clad height; [93] When shouts and lowing herds the valley fill, 370 And louder torrents stun the noon-tide hill, [94] The pastoral Swiss begin the cliffs to scale, Leaving to silence the deserted vale; [95] And like the Patriarchs in their simple age Move, as the verdure leads, from stage to stage; [96] 375 High and more high in summer's heat they go, [97] And hear the rattling thunder far below; Or steal beneath the mountains, half-deterred, Where huge rocks tremble to the bellowing herd. [98]
One I behold who, 'cross the foaming flood, 380 Leaps with a bound of graceful hardihood; Another high on that green ledge;—he gained The tempting spot with every sinew strained; [99] And downward thence a knot of grass he throws, Food for his beasts in time of winter snows. [100] 385 —Far different life from what Tradition hoar Transmits of happier lot in times of yore! [101] Then Summer lingered long; and honey flowed From out the rocks, the wild bees' safe abode: [102] Continual waters [103] welling cheered the waste, 390 And plants were wholesome, now of deadly taste: Nor Winter yet his frozen stores had piled, Usurping where the fairest herbage smiled: Nor Hunger driven the herds from pastures bare, To climb the treacherous cliffs for scanty fare. [104] 395 Then the milk-thistle flourished through the land, And forced the full-swoln udder to demand, Thrice every day, the pail and welcome hand. [105] Thus does the father to his children tell Of banished bliss, by fancy loved too well. [106] 400 Alas! that human guilt provoked the rod [107] Of angry Nature to avenge her God. Still, Nature, ever just, to him imparts Joys only given to uncorrupted hearts.
'Tis morn: with gold the verdant mountain glows; 405 More high, the snowy peaks with hues of rose. Far-stretched beneath the many-tinted hills, A mighty waste of mist the valley fills, A solemn sea! whose billows wide around [108] Stand motionless, to awful silence bound: 410 Pines, on the coast, through mist their tops uprear, That like to leaning masts of stranded ships appear. A single chasm, a gulf of gloomy blue, Gapes in the centre of the sea—and through That dark mysterious gulf ascending, sound 415 Innumerable streams with roar profound. [109] Mount through the nearer vapours notes of birds, And merry flageolet; the low of herds, The bark of dogs, the heifer's tinkling bell, Talk, laughter, and perchance a church-tower knell: [110] 420 Think not, the peasant from aloft has gazed And heard with heart unmoved, with soul unraised: [111] Nor is his spirit less enrapt, nor less Alive to independent happiness, [112] Then, when he lies, out-stretched, at even-tide 425 Upon the fragrant mountain's purple side: [113] For as the pleasures of his simple day Beyond his native valley seldom stray, Nought round its darling precincts can he find But brings some past enjoyment to his mind; 430 While Hope, reclining upon Pleasure's urn, [114] Binds her wild wreaths, and whispers his return.
Once, Man entirely free, alone and wild, Was blest as free—for he was Nature's child. He, all superior but his God disdained, 435 Walked none restraining, and by none restrained: Confessed no law but what his reason taught, Did all he wished, and wished but what he ought. As man in his primeval dower arrayed The image of his glorious Sire displayed, 440 Even so, by faithful [115] Nature guarded, here The traces of primeval Man appear; The simple [116] dignity no forms debase; The eye sublime, and surly lion-grace: The slave of none, of beasts alone the lord, 445 His book he prizes, nor neglects his sword; [117] —Well taught by that to feel his rights, prepared With this "the blessings he enjoys to guard." [X]
And, as his native hills encircle ground For many a marvellous [118] victory renowned, 450 The work of Freedom daring to oppose, With few in arms, [Y] innumerable foes, When to those famous [119] fields his steps are led, An unknown power connects him with the dead: For images of other worlds are there; 455 Awful the light, and holy is the air. Fitfully, and in flashes, through his soul, Like sun-lit tempests, troubled transports roll; His bosom heaves, his Spirit towers amain, [120] Beyond the senses and their little reign. 460
And oft, when that dread vision hath past by, [121] He holds with God himself communion high, There where the peal [122] of swelling torrents fills The sky-roofed temple of the eternal hills; Or, when upon the mountain's silent brow 465 Reclined, he sees, above him and below, Bright stars of ice and azure fields of snow; While needle peaks of granite shooting bare Tremble in ever-varying tints of air. And when a gathering weight of shadows brown 470 Falls on the valleys as the sun goes down; And Pikes, of darkness named and fear and storms, [Z] Uplift in quiet their illumined forms, [123] In sea-like reach of prospect round him spread, Tinged like an angel's smile all rosy red— 475 Awe in his breast with holiest love unites, And the near heavens impart their own delights. [124]
When downward to his winter hut he goes, Dear and more dear the lessening circle grows; That hut which on the hills so oft employs 480 His thoughts, the central point of all his joys. [125] And as a swallow, at the hour of rest, Peeps often ere she darts into her nest, So to the homestead, where the grandsire tends A little prattling child, he oft descends, 485 To glance a look upon the well-matched pair; [126] Till storm and driving ice blockade him there. There, [127] safely guarded by the woods behind, He hears the chiding of the baffled wind, Hears Winter calling all his terrors round, 490 And, blest within himself, he shrinks not from the sound. [128]
Through Nature's vale his homely pleasures glide, Unstained by envy, discontent, and pride; The bound of all his vanity, to deck, With one bright bell, a favourite heifer's neck; 495 Well pleased [129] upon some simple annual feast, Remembered half the year and hoped the rest, If dairy-produce, from his inner hoard, Of thrice ten summers dignify [130] the board. —Alas! in every clime a flying ray 500 Is all we have to cheer our wintry way; [131] And here the unwilling mind [132] may more than trace The general sorrows of the human race: The churlish gales of penury, that blow Cold as the north-wind o'er a waste of snow, [133] 505 To them [134] the gentle groups of bliss deny That on the noon-day bank of leisure lie. Yet more;—compelled by Powers which only deign That solitary man disturb their reign, Powers that support an unremitting [135] strife 510 With all the tender charities of life, Full oft the father, when his sons have grown To manhood, seems their title to disown; [136] And from his nest [137] amid the storms of heaven Drives, eagle-like, those sons as he was driven; 515 With stern composure [138] watches to the plain— And never, eagle-like, beholds again!
When long familiar joys are all resigned, Why does their sad remembrance haunt the mind? [139] Lo! where through flat Batavia's willowy groves, 520 Or by the lazy Seine, the exile roves; O'er the curled waters Alpine measures swell, And search the affections to their inmost cell; Sweet poison spreads along the listener's veins, Turning past pleasures into mortal pains; [140] 525 Poison, which not a frame of steel can brave, Bows his young head with sorrow to the grave. [Aa]
Gay lark of hope, thy silent song resume! Ye flattering eastern lights, once more the hills illume! [141] Fresh [142] gales and dews of life's delicious morn, 530 And thou, lost fragrance of the heart, return! Alas! the little joy to man allowed, Fades like the lustre of an evening cloud; [143] Or like the beauty in a flower installed, Whose season was, and cannot be recalled. 535 Yet, when opprest by sickness, grief, or care, And taught that pain is pleasure's natural heir, We still confide in more than we can know; Death would be else the favourite friend of woe. [144]
'Mid savage rocks, and seas of snow that shine, 540 Between interminable tracts of pine, Within a temple stands an awful shrine, [145] By an uncertain light revealed, that falls On the mute Image and the troubled walls. Oh! give not me that eye of hard disdain 545 That views, undimmed, Ensiedlen's [Bb] wretched fane. While ghastly faces through the gloom appear, [146] Abortive joy, and hope that works in fear; [147] While prayer contends with silenced agony, [148] Surely in other thoughts contempt may die. 550 If the sad grave of human ignorance bear One flower of hope—oh, pass and leave it there! [Cc]
The tall sun, pausing [149] on an Alpine spire, Flings o'er the wilderness a stream of fire: Now meet we other pilgrims ere the day [150] 555 Close on the remnant of their weary way; While they are drawing toward the sacred floor Where, so they fondly think, the worm shall gnaw no more. [151] How gaily murmur and how sweetly taste The fountains [Dd] reared for them [152] amid the waste! 560 Their thirst they slake:—they wash their toil-worn feet, And some with tears of joy each other greet. [153] Yes, I must [154] see you when ye first behold Those holy turrets tipped with evening gold, In that glad moment will for you a sigh 565 Be heaved, of charitable sympathy; [155] In that glad moment when your [156] hands are prest In mute devotion on the thankful breast!
Last, let us turn to Chamouny that shields [157] With rocks and gloomy woods [158] her fertile fields: 570 Five streams of ice amid her cots descend, And with wild flowers and blooming orchards blend;—[Ee] A scene more fair than what the Grecian feigns Of purple lights and ever-vernal plains; Here all the seasons revel hand in hand: 575 'Mid lawns and shades by breezy rivulets fanned [159] [160] They sport beneath that mountain's matchless height [161] That holds no commerce with the summer night. [Ee] From age to age, throughout [162] his lonely bounds The crash of ruin fitfully resounds; 580 Appalling [163] havoc! but serene his brow, Where daylight lingers on [164] perpetual snow; Glitter the stars, and all is black below. [Ee]
What marvel then if many a Wanderer sigh, While roars the sullen Arve in anger by, [165] 585 That not for thy reward, unrivall'd [166] Vale! [Ff] Waves the ripe harvest in the autumnal gale; That thou, the slave of slaves, art doomed to pine And droop, while no Italian arts are thine, To soothe or cheer, to soften or refine. [167] 590
Hail Freedom! whether it was mine to stray, With shrill winds whistling round my lonely way, [168] On [169] the bleak sides of Cumbria's heath-clad moors, Or where dank sea-weed lashes Scotland's shores; To scent the sweets of Piedmont's breathing rose, 595 And orange gale that o'er Lugano blows; Still have I found, where Tyranny prevails, That virtue languishes and pleasure fails, [170] While the remotest hamlets blessings share In thy loved [171] presence known, and only there; 600 Heart-blessings—outward treasures too which the eye Of the sun peeping through the clouds can spy, And every passing breeze will testify. [172] There, to the porch, belike with jasmine bound Or woodbine wreaths, a smoother path is wound; [173] 605 The housewife there a brighter garden sees, Where hum on busier wing her happy bees; [174] On infant cheeks there fresher roses blow; And grey-haired men look up with livelier brow,—[175] To greet the traveller needing food and rest; 610 Housed for the night, or but a half-hour's guest. [176]
And oh, fair France! though now the traveller sees Thy three-striped banner fluctuate on the breeze;[177] Though martial songs have banished songs of love, And nightingales desert the village grove, [178] 615 Scared by the fife and rumbling drum's alarms, And the short thunder, and the flash of arms; That cease not till night falls, when far and nigh, Sole sound, the Sourd [Gg] prolongs his mournful cry! [179] —Yet, hast thou found that Freedom spreads her power 620 Beyond the cottage-hearth, the cottage-door: All nature smiles, and owns beneath her eyes Her fields peculiar, and peculiar skies. Yes, as I roamed where Loiret's waters glide Through rustling aspens heard from side to side, 625 When from October clouds a milder light Fell where the blue flood rippled into white; Methought from every cot the watchful bird Crowed with ear-piercing power till then unheard; Each clacking mill, that broke the murmuring streams, 630 Rocked the charmed thought in more delightful dreams; Chasing those pleasant dreams, [180] the falling leaf Awoke a fainter sense [181] of moral grief; The measured echo of the distant flail Wound in more welcome cadence down the vale; 635 With more majestic course the water rolled, And ripening foliage shone with richer gold. [182] —But foes are gathering—Liberty must raise Red on the hills her beacon's far-seen blaze; Must bid the tocsin ring from tower to tower!— 640 Nearer and nearer comes the trying hour! [183] Rejoice, brave Land, though pride's perverted ire Rouse hell's own aid, and wrap thy fields in fire: Lo, from the flames a great and glorious birth; As if a new-made heaven were hailing a new earth! [184] 645 —All cannot be: the promise is too fair For creatures doomed to breathe terrestrial air: Yet not for this will sober reason frown Upon that promise, not the hope disown; She knows that only from high aims ensue 650 Rich guerdons, and to them alone are due. [185]
Great God! by whom the strifes of men are weighed In an impartial balance, give thine aid To the just cause; and, oh! do thou preside Over the mighty stream now spreading wide: [Hh] 655 So shall its waters, from the heavens supplied In copious showers, from earth by wholesome springs, Brood o'er the long-parched lands with Nile-like wings! And grant that every sceptred child of clay Who cries presumptuous, "Here the flood shall stay," [186] 660 May in its progress see thy guiding hand, And cease the acknowledged purpose to withstand; [187] Or, swept in anger from the insulted shore, Sink with his servile bands, to rise no more! [188]
To-night, my Friend, within this humble cot 665 Be scorn and fear and hope alike forgot [189] In timely sleep; and when, at break of day, On the tall peaks the glistening sunbeams play, [190] With a light heart our course we may renew, The first whose footsteps print the mountain dew. [191] 670
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1827.
... a spot of holy ground, By Pain and her sad family unfound, Sure, Nature's God that spot to man had given, Where murmuring rivers join the song of even; Where falls ... 1820.]
[Variant 2:
1836.
Where the resounding power of water shakes 1820.
Where with loud voice the power of waters shakes 1827.]
[Variant 3:
1836.
And not unrecompensed the man shall roam, Who, to converse with Nature, quits his home, And plods o'er hills and vales his way forlorn, Wooing her various charms from eve to morn. 1820.
Yet not unrecompensed the man shall roam, Who at the call of summer quits his home, And plods through some far realm o'er vale and height, Though seeking only holiday delight; 1827.]
[Variant 4: Lines 13 and 14 were introduced in 1827.]
[Variant 5:
1827.
No sad vacuities [i] his heart annoy;— Blows not a Zephyr but it whispers joy; For him lost flowers their idle sweets exhale; He tastes the meanest note that swells the gale; For him sod-seats ... 1815.
Breathes not a zephyr but it whispers joy; For him the loneliest flowers their sweets exhale; He marks "the meanest note that swells the [ii] gale;" 1820.]
[Variant 6:
1820.
And dear the green-sward to his velvet tread; 1815.]
[Variant 7:
1815.
Whilst ... Only in 1820.]
[Variant 8:
1820.
... with kindest ray To light him shaken by his viewless way. 1815.]
[Variant 9:
1836.
With bashful fear no cottage children steal From him, a brother at the cottage meal, 1815.]
[Variant 10:
1845.
Much wondering what sad stroke of crazing Care, Or desperate Love could lead a wanderer there. 1815.
Much wondering in what fit of crazing care, Or desperate love, a wanderer came there. 1836.]
[Variant 11:
1836.
Me, lured by hope her sorrows to remove, A heart that could not much itself approve, O'er Gallia's wastes of corn dejected led, Her road elms rustling high above my head, Or through her truant pathways' native charms, By secret villages and lonely farms, To where the Alps ... 1820.
... could not much herself approve, 1827.
... lured by hope its sorrows to remove, 1832.
The lines 46, 47, were expanded in the edition of 1836 from one line in the editions of 1820-1832.]
[Variant 12:
1836.
I sigh at hoary Chartreuse' doom. Where now is fled that Power whose frown severe Tamed "sober Reason" till she crouched in fear? That breathed a death-like peace these woods around; The cloister startles ... 1815.
Even now, emerging from the forest's gloom, I heave a sigh at hoary Chartreuse' doom. Where now is fled that Power whose frown severe Tamed "sober Reason" till she crouched in fear? 1820.]
[Variant 13:
1836.
That breathed a death-like silence wide around, Broke only by the unvaried torrent's sound, Or prayer-bell by the dull cicada drown'd. 1820.
The editions of 1827 and 1832 omit these lines.]
[Variant 14:
1836.
The cloister startles at the gleam of arms, And Blasphemy the shuddering fane alarms; 1815.]
[Variant 15:
1793.
That ... 1827.
The edition of 1836 returns to the text of 1793.]
[Variant 16:
1836.
And swells the groaning torrent with his tears. 1815.
In the editions 1815-1832 lines 61, 62 followed line 66.]
[Variant 17:
1836.
Nod the cloud-piercing pines their troubled heads, 1815.]
[Variant 18:
1836.
The cross with hideous laughter Demons mock, By angels planted on the aereal rock. 1815.
The cross, by angels on the aerial rock Planted, a flight of laughing demons mock. 1832.]
[Variant 19:
1836.
... sound ... 1815.]
[Variant 20:
1836.
To ringing team unknown ... 1815.]
[Variant 21:
1827.
Wild round the steeps the little pathway twines, 1815.]
[Variant 22:
1836.
The viewless lingerer ... 1815.]
[Variant 23:
1845.
Tracking the yellow sun from steep to steep, As up the opposing hills, with tortoise foot, they creep. 1815.
And track the yellow light ... 1836.
... on naked steeps As up the opposing hill it slowly creeps. C.]
[Variant 24:
1845.
Here half a village shines, in gold arrayed, Bright as the moon; ... 1815.]
[Variant 25:
1827.
From the dark sylvan roofs the restless spire Inconstant glancing, mounts like springing fire. 1815.]
[Variant 26:
1836.
... the waves ... 1815.]
[Variant 27:
1836.
Th' unwearied sweep of wood thy cliffs that scales; The never-ending waters of thy vales; 1815.]
[Variant 28:
1836.
Line 111 was previously three lines, thus—
The cots, those dim religious groves embower, Or, under rocks that from the water tower Insinuated, sprinkling all the shore, 1815.]
[Variant 29:
1836.
... his ... 1815.]
[Variant 30:
1836.
Whose flaccid sails in forms fantastic droop, Bright'ning the gloom where thick the forests stoop;
Only in the editions 1815 to 1832.]
[Variant 31:
1827.
... like swallows' nests that cleave on high; 1815.]
[Variant 32:
1827.
While Evening's solemn bird melodious weeps, Heard, by star-spotted bays, beneath the steeps;
Only in the editions of 1815 and 1820.]
[Variant 33:
1836.
—Thy lake, mid smoking woods, that blue and grey Gleams, streaked or dappled, hid from morning's ray 1815.
As beautiful the flood where blue or grey Dappled, or streaked, as hid from morning's ray. C.]
[Variant 34:
1836.
... to fold 1815.]
[Variant 35:
1836.
From thickly-glittering spires the matin bell Calling the woodman from his desert cell, A summons to the sound of oars, that pass, Spotting the steaming deeps, to early mass; Slow swells the service o'er the water born, While fill each pause the ringing woods of morn. 1815.
Calls forth the woodman with its cheerful knell. C.]
[Variant 36: This couplet was first added in 1845.]
[Variant 37:
1845.
Farewell those forms that in thy noon-tide shade, Rest, near their little plots of wheaten glade; 1820.
Ye lovely forms that in the noontide shade Rest near their little plots of wheaten glade. C.]
[Variant 38:
1845.
Those charms that bind ... 1820.]
[Variant 39:
1836.
And winds, ... 1820.]
[Variant 40:
1836.
Yet arts are thine that soothe the unquiet heart, And smiles to Solitude and Want impart. I lov'd, 'mid thy most desart woods astray, With pensive step to measure my slow way, By lonely, silent cottage-doors to roam, The far-off peasant's day-deserted home. 1820.
I loved by silent cottage-doors to roam, The far-off peasant's day-deserted home; 1827.
These two lines take the place of the second and third couplets of the 1820 text quoted above.]
[Variant 41:
1836.
Once did I pierce to where a cabin stood; The red-breast peace had buried it in wood, 1820.
And once I pierced the mazes of a wood, Where, far from public haunt, a cabin stood; 1827.]
[Variant 42:
1836.
There, by the door a hoary-headed Sire Touched with his withered hand an ancient lyre; 1820.]
[Variant 43:
1836.
This and the following line were expanded from
Beneath an old-grey oak, as violets lie, 1820.]
[Variant 44:
1836.
... joined the holy sound; 1820.]
[Variant 45:
1836.
While ... 1820.]
[Variant 46:
1845.
Bend o'er th' abyss, the else impervious gloom 1820.
Hang o'er th' abyss:—... 1827.
... the abyss:—... 1832.]
[Variant 47:
1836.
Freshening the waste of sand with shades and springs. —She, solitary, through the desart drear Spontaneous wanders, hand in hand with Fear. 1820.
By choice or doom a gipsy wanders here, Companionless, or hand in hand with fear; Lo! where she sits beneath yon shaggy rock, A cowering shape half-seen through curling smoke. MS.]
[Variant 48:
1836.
The Grison gypsey here her tent hath placed, Sole human tenant of the piny waste; Her tawny skin, dark eyes, and glossy locks, Bend o'er the smoke that curls beneath the rocks.[iii] 1820.]
[Variant 49:
1845.
Lines 179-185 were substituted in 1845 for
A giant moan along the forest swells Protracted, and the twilight storm foretels, And, ruining from the cliffs, their deafening load Tumbles,—the wildering Thunder slips abroad; On the high summits Darkness comes and goes, Hiding their fiery clouds, their rocks, and snows; The torrent, traversed by the lustre broad, Starts like a horse beside the flashing road; In the roofed bridge, at that terrific hour, She seeks a shelter from the battering show'r. —Fierce comes the river down; the crashing wood Gives way, and half it's pines torment the flood; [iv] Fearful, beneath, the Water-spirits call, And the bridge vibrates, tottering to its fall. 1820.
When rueful moans along the forest swell Protracted, and the twilight storm foretel, And, headlong from the cliffs, a deafening load Tumbles,—and wildering thunder slips abroad; When on the summits Darkness comes and goes, Hiding their fiery clouds, their rocks, and snows; And the fierce torrent, from the lustre broad, Starts, like a horse beside the flashing road— She seeks a covert from the battering shower In the roofed bridge; the bridge, in that dread hour, Itself all quaking at the torrent's power. 1836.]
[Variant 50:
1845.
Lines 186-195 were substituted in 1845 for
—Heavy, and dull, and cloudy is the night; No star supplies the comfort of it's light, Glimmer the dim-lit Alps, dilated, round, And one sole light shifts in the vale profound; [s1] While, [s2] opposite, the waning moon hangs still, And red, above her [s3] melancholy hill. By the deep quiet gloom appalled, she sighs, [s4] Stoops her sick head, and shuts her weary eyes. She hears, upon the mountain forest's brow, The death-dog, howling loud and long, below; —Breaking th' ascending roar of desert floods, And insect buzz, that stuns the sultry woods, [s5] On viewless fingers [s6] counts the valley-clock, Followed by drowsy crow of midnight cock. —Bursts from the troubled larch's giant boughs The pie, and, chattering, breaks the night's repose. [s7] The dry leaves stir as with the serpent's walk, And, far beneath, Banditti voices talk; Behind her hill, [s8] the Moon, all crimson, rides, And his red eyes the slinking Water hides. —Vexed by the darkness, from the piny gulf Ascending, nearer howls the famished wolf, [s9] While thro' the stillness scatters wild dismay Her babe's small cry, that leads him to his prey. 1820.
s1-s9: see Sub-Variants below. txt. Ed.]
[Variant 51:
1836.
Now, passing Urseren's open vale serene, Her quiet streams, and hills of downy green, Plunge with the Russ embrowned by Terror's breath, Where danger roofs the narrow walks of death; 1815.
Plunge where the Reuss with fearless might has rent His headlong way along a dark descent. MS.
In the edition of 1836 these two couplets of 1815 were compressed into one, and in that edition lines 200-201 preceded lines 198-199. They were transposed in 1840.]
[Variant 52:
1836.
By floods, that, thundering from their dizzy height, Swell more gigantic on the stedfast sight; Black drizzling crags, that beaten by the din, Vibrate, as if a voice complained within; Bare steeps, where Desolation stalks afraid, Unstedfast, by a blasted yew unstayed; By cells whose image, trembling as he prays, Awe-struck, the kneeling peasant scarce surveys; Loose hanging rocks the Day's bless'd eye that hide, And crosses reared to Death on every side, Which with cold kiss Devotion planted near, And bending water'd with the human tear; That faded "silent" from her upward eye, Unmoved with each rude form of Danger nigh, 1815.]
[Variant 53:
1836.
On as we move a softer prospect opes, Calm huts, and lawns between, and sylvan slopes. 1815.]
[Variant 54:
1845.
While mists, suspended on the expiring gale, Moveless o'er-hang the deep secluded vale, 1815.
Where mists, 1836.
Where mists suspended on the evening gale, Spread roof-like o'er a deep secluded vale, C.
Given to clear view beneath a hoary veil Of mists suspended on the evening gale. MS.]
[Variant 55:
1836.
The beams of evening, slipping soft between, Light up of tranquil joy a sober scene. 1815.
Gently illuminate a sober scene; 1827.]
[Variant 56: In the editions 1815-1832 ll. 214, 215 follow, instead of preceding, ll. 216-219.]
[Variant 57:
1845.
On the low brown wood-huts delighted sleep Along the brightened gloom reposing deep. 1815.
Here, on the brown wood-cottages they sleep, There, over lawns and sloping woodlands creep. 1836.
There, over lawn or sloping pasture creep. C.]
[Variant 58:
1845.
Winding its dark-green wood and emerald glade, The still vale lengthens underneath the shade; While in soft gloom the scattering bowers recede, Green dewy lights adorn the freshened mead, 1815.
Winding its darksome wood and emerald glade, The still vale lengthens underneath the shade Of low-hung vapour: on the freshened mead The green light sparkles;—the dim bowers recede. 1836.]
[Variant 59:
1836.
... drizzling ... 1815.]
[Variant 60:
1845.
... my soul awake, Lo! Fear looks silent down on Uri's lake; Where by the unpathwayed margin still and dread Was never heard the plodding peasant's tread: 1815.]
[Variant 61:
1845.
Tower like a wall the naked rocks, or reach Far o'er the secret water dark with beech; 1815.
Tower-like rise up the naked rocks, or stretch 1836.]
[Variant 62:
1845.
More high, to where creation seems to end, Shade above shade the desert pines ascend. 1815.
... the aerial pines ... 1820.
Shade above shade, the aerial pines ascend, Nor stop but where creation seems to end. 1836.]
[Variant 63:
1845.
(Compressing eight lines into four.)
Yet, with his infants, man undaunted creeps And hangs his small wood-hut upon the steeps, Where'er, below, amid the savage scene Peeps out a little speck of smiling green. A garden-plot the mountain air perfumes, Mid the dark pines a little orchard blooms; A zig-zag path from the domestic skiff, Threading the painful crag, surmounts the cliff. 1815.
... wood-cabin on the steeps. 1820.
... the desert air perfumes, 1820.
Thridding the painful crag, ... 1832.
Yet, wheresoe'er amid the savage scene Peeps out a little spot of smiling green, Man with his babes undaunted thither creeps, And hangs his small wood-hut upon the steeps. A garden-plot ... 1836.]
[Variant 64:
1845.
—Before those hermit doors, that never know 1815.
—Before those lonesome doors, ... 1836.]
[Variant 65:
1845.
The grassy seat beneath their casement shade The pilgrim's wistful eye hath never stayed. 1815.
The shady porch ne'er offered a cool seat To pilgrims overpowered by summer's heat. 1836.]
[Variants 66 and 67: See Appendix III.—Ed.]
[Variant 68:
1845.
Lines 246 to 253 were previously:
—There, did the iron Genius not disdain The gentle Power that haunts the myrtle plain, There might the love-sick Maiden sit, and chide Th' insuperable rocks and severing tide, There watch at eve her Lover's sun-gilt sail Approaching, and upbraid the tardy gale, There list at midnight, till is heard no more, Below, the echo of his parting oar, There hang in fear, when growls the frozen stream, [v] To guide his dangerous tread, the taper's gleam. 1815.
There might the maiden chide, in love-sick mood, The insuperable rocks and severing flood; 1836.
At midnight listen till his parting oar, And its last echo, can be heard no more. 1836.
Yet tender thoughts dwell there, no solitude Hath power youth's natural feelings to exclude; There doth the maiden watch her lover's sail Approaching, and upbraid the tardy gale. C.]
[Variant 69:
1845.
Mid stormy vapours ever driving by, Where ospreys, cormorants, and herons cry; 1815.
Where ospreys, cormorants, and herons cry, 'Mid stormy vapours ever driving by, 1836.]
[Variant 70:
1836.
Where hardly given the hopeless waste to cheer, Denied the bread of life the foodful ear, 1815.
Hovering o'er rugged wastes too bleak to rear That common growth of earth, the foodful ear; 1820.]
[Variant 71:
1820.
Dwindles the pear on autumn's latest spray, And apple sickens pale in summer's ray; 1815.]
[Variant 72:
1845.
Ev'n here Content has fixed her smiling reign 1815.]
[Variant 73:
1845.
And often grasps her sword, and often eyes: Her crest a bough of Winter's bleakest pine, Strange "weeds" and alpine plants her helm entwine, And wildly-pausing oft she hangs aghast, While thrills the "Spartan fife" between the blast. 1815.
Flowers of the loftiest Alps her helm entwine; And, wildly pausing, oft she hangs aghast, As thrills ... 1836.
And oft at Fancy's call she stands aghast, As if some old Swiss air had checked her haste, Or thrill of Spartan fife were caught between the blast. C.]
[Variant 74:
1845.
'Tis storm; and, hid in mist from hour to hour, 1815.]
[Variant 75:
1845.
Glances the fire-clad eagle's wheeling form; 1815.
... glorious form; 1836.]
[Variant 76:
1845.
Wide o'er the Alps a hundred streams unfold, 1815.
Those eastern cliffs ... 1836.]
[Variant 77:
1845.
... strives to shun The west ... 1815.
... tries to shun The west, ... 1836.]
[Variant 78:
1845.
Where in a mighty crucible expire The mountains, glowing hot, like coals of fire. 1815.]
[Variant 79:
1836.
While burn in his full eyes the glorious tears. 1820.]
[Variant 80:
1836.
Exalt, and agitate ... 1820.]
[Variant 81:
1836.
On Zutphen's plain; or where, with soften'd gaze, The old grey stones the plaided chief surveys; Can guess the high resolve, the cherished pain Of him whom passion rivets to the plain, 1820.]
[Variant 82:
1836.
And watch, from pike to pike, amid the sky Small as a bird the chamois-chaser fly, 1820.]
[Variant 83:
1836.
Thro' worlds where Life, and Sound, and Motion sleep; Where Silence still her death-like reign extends, Save when the startling cliff unfrequent rends: In the deep snow the mighty ruin drowned, Mocks the dull ear ... 1820.]
[Variant 84:
1836.
While the near moon, that coasts the vast profound, Wheels pale and silent her diminished round, 1820.]
[Variant 85:
1827.
Flying more fleet than vision can pursue! 1820.]
[Variant 86:
1836.
Then with Despair's whole weight his spirits sink, No bread to feed him, and the snow his drink, While, ere his eyes ... 1820.]
[Variant 87:
1836.
Hence shall we turn where, heard with fear afar, 1820.]
[Variant 88:
1836.
... from ... 1820.]
[Variant 89:
1836.
Nought but the herds that pasturing upward creep, Hung dim-discover'd from the dangerous steep, Or summer hamlet, flat and bare, on high Suspended, mid the quiet of the sky. 1815.]
[Variant 90:
1836.
Broke only by the melancholy sound 1815.]
[Variant 91: The two previous lines were added in 1836.]
[Variant 92:
1832.
Save that, the stranger seen below, ... 1815.]
[Variant 93:
1836.
When warm from myrtle bays and tranquil seas, Comes on, to whisper hope, the vernal breeze, When hums the mountain bee in May's glad ear, And emerald isles to spot the heights appear, 1815.]
[Variant 94:
When fragrant scents beneath th' enchanted tread Spring up, his choicest wealth around him spread,
Inserted in the editions 1815 to 1832.]
[Variant 95:
1836.
The pastoral Swiss begins the cliffs to scale, To silence leaving the deserted vale, 1815]
[Variant 96:
1836.
Mounts, where the verdure leads, from stage to stage, And pastures on, as in the Patriarch's age: 1815.]
[Variant 97:
1836.
O'er lofty heights serene and still they go, 1815.]
[Variant 98:
1836.
(Omitting the first of the two following couplets.)
They cross the chasmy torrent's foam-lit bed, Rocked on the dizzy larch's narrow tread; Or steal beneath loose mountains, half deterr'd, That sigh and shudder to the lowing herd. 1815.]
[Variant 99: This couplet was added in the edition of 1836.]
[Variant 100:
1836.
Lines 380-385 were previously:
—I see him, up the midway cliff he creeps To where a scanty knot of verdure peeps, Thence down the steep a pile of grass he throws, The fodder of his herds in winter snows. 1815.]
[Variant 101:
1836.
... to what tradition hoar Transmits of days more blest ... 1815.]
[Variant 102:
1845.
Then Summer lengthened out his season bland, And with rock-honey flowed the happy land. 1815.
Then Summer lingered long; and honey flowed Out of the rocks, the wild bees' safe abode. 1836.]
[Variant 103:
1836.
Continual fountains ... 1815.]
[Variant 104:
1836.
Nor Hunger forced the herds from pastures bare For scanty food the treacherous cliffs to dare. 1815.]
[Variant 105:
1836.
Then the milk-thistle bade those herds demand Three times a day the pail and welcome hand. 1815.]
[Variant 106:
1836.
Thus does the father to his sons relate, On the lone mountain top, their changed estate. 1815.]
[Variant 107:
1836.
But human vices have provoked the rod 1815.
In the editions 1815-1832 this and the following line preceded lines 399-400. They took their final position in the edition of 1836.]
[Variant 108:
1836.
... whose vales and mountains round 1820.]
[Variant 109:
1836.
(Compressing eight lines into six.)
... to awful silence bound. A gulf of gloomy blue, that opens wide And bottomless, divides the midway tide. Like leaning masts of stranded ships appear The pines that near the coast their summits rear; Of cabins, woods, and lawns a pleasant shore Bounds calm and clear the chaps still and hoar; Loud thro' that midway gulf ascending, sound Unnumber'd streams with hollow roar profound: 1820.]
[Variant 110:
1836.
Mount thro' the nearer mist the chaunt of birds, And talking voices, and the low of herds, The bark of dogs, the drowsy tinkling bell, And wild-wood mountain lutes of saddest swell. 1820.]
[Variant 111:
1836.
Think not, suspended from the cliff on high, He looks below with undelighted eye. 1820.]
[Variant 112: This couplet was added in the edition of 1836.]
[Variant 113:
1836.
—No vulgar joy is his, at even tide Stretch'd on the scented mountain's purple side. 1820.]
[Variant 114:
1836.
While Hope, that ceaseless leans on Pleasure's urn, 1820.]
[Variant 115:
1836.
... by vestal ... 1820.]
[Variant 116:
1836.
... native ... 1820.]
[Variant 117:
1832.
He marches with his flute, his book, and sword; 1820.]
[Variant 118:
1845.
... wonderous ... 1820.]
[Variant 119:
1840.
... glorious ... 1820.]
[Variant 120:
1836.
Uncertain thro' his fierce uncultured soul Like lighted tempests troubled transports roll; To viewless realms his Spirit towers amain, 1820.]
[Variant 121:
1836.
And oft, when pass'd that solemn vision by, 1820.]
[Variant 122:
1836.
Where the dread peal ... 1820.]
[Variant 123:
1836.
—When the Sun bids the gorgeous scene farewell, Alps overlooking Alps their state up-swell; Huge Pikes of Darkness named, of Fear and Storms, Lift, all serene, their still, illumined forms, 1820.]
[Variant 124:
1845.
—Great joy, by horror tam'd, dilates his heart, And the near heavens their own delights impart. 1820.
In the editions 1820-1832 this couplet preceded the four lines above quoted.
Fear in his breast with holy love unites, And the near heavens impart their own delights. 1836.]
[Variant 125:
1836.
That hut which from the hills his eyes employs So oft, the central point of all his joys, 1815.
... his eye ... 1832.]
[Variant 126:
1836
And as a swift, by tender cares opprest, Peeps often ere she dart into her nest, So to the untrodden floor, where round him looks His father, helpless as the babe he rocks, Oft he descends to nurse the brother pair, 1820.]
[Variant 127:
1820.
Where, ... 1815.]
[Variant 128:
1836.
Rush down the living rocks with whirlwind sound. 1815.]
[Variant 129:
1820.
Content ... 1815. ]
[Variant 130:
1836.
... consecrate ... 1815.]
[Variant 131: The following lines were erased in 1836, and in all subsequent editions:
"Here," cried a swain, whose venerable head Bloom'd with the snow-drops of Man's narrow bed, Last night, while by his dying fire, as clos'd The day, in luxury my limbs repos'd, Here Penury oft from misery's mount will guide Ev'n to the summer door his icy tide, And here the avalanche of Death destroy The little cottage of domestic Joy. 1793.]
... a Swain, upon whose hoary head The "blossoms of the grave" were thinly spread, 1820.
... a thoughtful Swain, upon whose head 1827.]
[Variant 132:
1836.
But, ah! the unwilling mind ... 1820.]
[Variant 133:
1836.
The churlish gales, that unremitting blow Cold from necessity's continual snow, 1820.]
[Variant 134:
1836.
To us ... 1820.]
[Variant 135:
1836.
... a never-ceasing ... 1820.]
[Variant 136:
1836.
The father, as his sons of strength become To pay the filial debt, for food to roam, 1820.]
[Variant 137:
1836.
From his bare nest ... 1820.]
[Variant 138:
1836.
His last dread pleasure! watches ... 1820.]
[Variant 139:
1836.
When the poor heart has all its joys resigned, Why does their sad remembrance cleave behind? 1820.]
[Variant 140:
1836.
Soft o'er the waters mournful measures swell, Unlocking tender thought's "memorial cell"; Past pleasures are transformed to mortal pains And poison spreads along the listener's veins. 1820.
While poison ... 1827.]
[Variant 141:
1836.
Fair smiling lights the purpled hills illume! 1815.]
[Variant 142:
1836.
Soft ... 1815.]
[Variant 143:
1836.
Soon flies the little joy to man allowed, And grief before him travels like a cloud: 1815.]
[Variant 144:
1836. (Expanding four lines into six.)
For come Diseases on, and Penury's rage, Labour, and Care, and Pain, and dismal Age, Till, Hope-deserted, long in vain his breath Implores the dreadful untried sleep of Death. 1815.]
[Variant 145:
1836.
A Temple stands; which holds an awful shrine, 1815.]
[Variant 146:
1836.
Pale, dreadful faces round the Shrine appear, 1815.]
[Variant 147:
1836. After this line the editions of 1815-1832 have the following couplet:
While strives a secret Power to hush the crowd, Pain's wild rebellious burst proclaims her rights aloud,
and this is followed by lines 545-6 of the final text.]
[Variant 148:
1836.
From 1815 to 1832, the following two couplets followed line 546. The first of these was withdrawn in 1836.
Mid muttering prayers all sounds of torment meet, Dire clap of hands, distracted chafe of feet; While loud and dull ascends the weeping cry, Surely in other thoughts contempt may die. 1815.]
[Variant 149:
1836.
—The tall Sun, tiptoe ... 1820.]
[Variant 150:
1836.
At such an hour there are who love to stray, And meet the advancing Pilgrims ere the day 1820.
Now let us meet the Pilgrims ere the day Close on the remnant of their weary way; 1827.]
[Variant 151:
1836.
For ye are drawing tow'rd that sacred floor, Where the charmed worm of pain shall gnaw no more. 1820.
While they are drawing toward the sacred floor 1827.]
[Variant 152:
1827.
... for you ... 1820.]
[Variant 153:
1836.
—Now with a tearful kiss each other greet, Nor longer naked be your toil-worn feet, 1820.
There some with tearful kiss each other greet, And some, with reverence, wash their toil-worn feet. 1827.]
[Variant 154:
1836.
Yes I will see you when you first behold 1820.
... ye ... 1827.]
[Variant 155: This couplet was added in 1836.]
[Variant 156:
1836.
... the hands ... 1820.]
[Variant 157:
1836.
Last let us turn to where Chamouny shields, 1820.]
[Variant 158:
1827.
Bosomed in gloomy woods, ... 1820.]
[Variant 159:
1836.
Here lawns and shades by breezy rivulets fann'd, Here all the Seasons revel hand in hand. 1820.]
[Variant 160:
1836.
—Red stream the cottage-lights; the landscape fades, Erroneous wavering mid the twilight shades.
Inserted in the editions 1820 to 1832.]
[Variant 161:
1836.
Alone ascends that Mountain named of white, 1820.
Alone ascends that Hill of matchless height, 1827.]
[Variant 162:
1836.
... amid ... 1820.]
[Variant 163:
1836.
Mysterious ... 1820.]
[Variant 164:
1836.
... 'mid ... 1820.]
[Variant 165:
1836.
At such an hour I heaved a pensive sigh, When roared the sullen Arve in anger by, 1820.]
[Variant 166:
1836.
... delicious ... 1820.]
[Variant 167:
1836.
Hard lot!—for no Italian arts are thine To cheat, or chear, to soften, or refine. 1820.
To soothe or cheer, ... 1827.]
[Variant 168:
1836.
Beloved Freedom! were it mine to stray, With shrill winds roaring ... 1820.]
[Variant 169:
1836.
O'er ... 1820.]
[Variant 170:
1836.
(Compressing four lines into two.)
... o'er Lugano blows; In the wide ranges of many a varied round, Fleet as my passage was, I still have found That where proud courts their blaze of gems display, The lilies of domestic joy decay, 1820.
That where despotic courts their gems display, 1827.]
[Variant 171:
1836.
In thy dear ... 1820.]
[Variant 172: The previous three lines were added in the edition of 1836.]
[Variant 173:
1836.
The casement's shed more luscious woodbine binds, And to the door a neater pathway winds; 1820.]
[Variant 174:
1836.
(Compressing six lines into two.)
At early morn, the careful housewife, led To cull her dinner from its garden bed, Of weedless herbs a healthier prospect sees, While hum with busier joy her happy bees; In brighter rows her table wealth aspires, And laugh with merrier blaze her evening fires; 1820.]
[Variant 175:
1836.
Her infants' cheeks with fresher roses glow, And wilder graces sport around their brow; 1820.]
[Variant 176:
1836.
(Compressing four lines into two.)
By clearer taper lit, a cleanlier board Receives at supper hour her tempting hoard; The chamber hearth with fresher boughs is spread, And whiter is the hospitable bed. 1820.]
[Variant 177:
1845.
(Compressing four lines into two.)
And oh, fair France! though now along the shade Where erst at will the grey-clad peasant strayed, Gleam war's discordant garments through the trees, And the red banner mocks the froward breeze; 1820.
... discordant vestments through the trees, And the red banner fluctuates in the breeze; 1827.
... though in the rural shade Where at his will, so late, the grey-clad peasant strayed, Now, clothed in war's discordant garb, he sees The three-striped banner fluctuate on the breeze; 1836.]
[Variant 178:
1836.
Though now no more thy maids their voices suit To the low-warbled breath of twilight lute, And, heard the pausing village hum between, No solemn songstress lull the fading green, 1820.
Though martial songs have banish'd songs of love, And nightingales forsake the village grove, 1827.
(Compressing the four lines of 1820 into two.)]
[Variant 179:
1836.
While, as Night bids the startling uproar die, Sole sound, the Sourd renews his mournful cry! 1820.]
[Variant 180:
1836.
Chasing those long long dreams, ... 1820.]
[Variant 181:
1845.
... fainter pang ... 1820.]
[Variant 182:
1836.
A more majestic tide ǐ the water roll'd, And glowed the sun-gilt groves in richer gold. 1820.]
[Variant 183:
1836.
(Compressing six lines into four.)
—Though Liberty shall soon, indignant, raise Red on the hills his beacon's comet blaze; Bid from on high his lonely cannon sound, And on ten thousand hearths his shout rebound; His larum-bell from village-tower to tower Swing on the astounded ear its dull undying roar; 1820.]
[Variant 184:
1836.
Yet, yet rejoice, though Pride's perverted ire Rouze Hell's own aid, and wrap thy hills on fire! Lo! from the innocuous flames, a lovely birth, With its own Virtues springs another earth: 1820.]
[Variant 185:
1836.
Lines 646-651 were previously
Nature, as in her prime, her virgin reign Begins, and Love and Truth compose her train; While, with a pulseless hand, and stedfast gaze, Unbreathing Justice her still beam surveys. 1820.]
[Variant 186:
1836.
(Expanding eight lines into nine.)
Oh give, great God, to Freedom's waves to ride Sublime o'er Conquest, Avarice, and Pride, To sweep where Pleasure decks her guilty bowers And dark Oppression builds her thick-ribbed towers! —Give them, beneath their breast while gladness springs To brood the nations o'er with Nile-like wings; And grant that every sceptred Child of clay, Who cries, presumptuous, "here their tides shall stay," 1820.]
[Variant 187: This couplet was added in 1836.]
[Variant 188:
1836.
Swept in their anger from the affrighted shore, With all his creatures sink—to rise no more! 1820.]
[Variant 189:
1845.
Be the dead load of mortal ills forgot! 1820
Be fear and joyful hope alike forgot 1836.]
[Variant 190: This couplet was added in 1827.]
[Variant 191:
1836.
Renewing, when the rosy summits glow At morn, our various journey, sad and slow. 1820.
With lighter heart our course we may renew, The first whose footsteps print the mountain dew. 1827.]
* * * * *
SUB-VARIANTS
[Sub-Variant 1:
A single taper in the vale profound Shifts, while the Alps dilated glimmer round; 1832.]
[Sub-Variant 2:
And, ... 1832.]
[Sub-Variant 3:
... above yon ... 1836.]
[Sub-Variant 4:
By the deep gloom appalled, the Vagrant sighs, 1836.]
[Sub-Variant 5: This couplet was cancelled in the edition of 1827.]
[Sub-Variant 6:
Or on her fingers ... 1836.]
[Sub-Variant 7: This couplet was withdrawn in 1827.]
[Sub-Variant 8:
Behind the hill ... 1836.]
[Sub-Variant 9:
Near and yet nearer, from the piny gulf Howls, by the darkness vexed, the famished wolf, 1836.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES
[Footnote A: See note to the "Juvenile Pieces" in the edition of 1836 (p. 1).—Ed.]
[Footnote B: There is something characteristic in Wordsworth's addressing an intimate travelling companion in this way. S. T. C., or Charles Lamb, would have written, as we do, "My dear Jones"; but Wordsworth addressed his friend as "Dear Sir," and described his sister as "a Young Lady," and as a "Female Friend."—Ed.]
[Footnote C: In a small pocket copy of the 'Orlando Furioso' of Ariosto—now in the possession of the poet's grandson, Mr. Gordon Wordsworth—of which the title-page is torn away, the following is written on the first page, "My companion in the Alps with Jones. W. Wordsworth:" also "W. W. to D. W." (He had given it to his sister Dorothy.) On the last page is written, "I carried this Book with me in my pedestrian tour in the Alps with Jones. W. Wordsworth." Dorothy Wordsworth gave this interesting relic to Miss Quillinan, from whose library it passed to that of its present owner.—Ed.]
[Footnote D: By an evident error, corrected in the first reprint of this edition (1840). See p. 79.—Ed. [the end of the introductory text to 'Guilt and Sorrow', the next poem in this text.]]
[Footnote E: See Addison's 'Cato', Act 1. Scene i., l. 171:
Blesses his stars, and thinks it luxury.—Ed.]
[Footnote F: The lyre of Memnon is reported to have emitted melancholy or chearful tones, as it was touched by the sun's evening or morning rays.—W. W. 1793.]
[Footnote G: Compare Pope's 'Windsor Forest', ll. 129, 130;
He lifts the tube, and levels with his eye: Straight a short thunder breaks the frozen sky:
Ed.]
[Footnote H: Alluding to crosses seen on the tops of the spiry rocks of the Chartreuse, which have every appearance of being inaccessible.—W. W. 1793.]
[Footnote J: Compare Milton's 'Ode on the Nativity', stanza xx.—Ed.]
[Footnote K: Names of rivers at the Chartreuse.—W. W. 1793.]
[Footnote L: Name of one of the valleys of the Chartreuse.—W. W. 1793.]
[Footnote M: The river along whose banks you descend in crossing the Alps by the Simplon Pass—-W. W. 1793.]
[Footnote N: Most of the bridges among the Alps are of wood and covered: these bridges have a heavy appearance, and rather injure the effect of the scenery in some places.—W. W. 1793.]
[Footnote P: The Catholic religion prevails here; these cells are, as is well known, very common in the Catholic countries, planted, like the Roman tombs, along the roadside.—W. W. 1793.]
[Footnote Q: Crosses commemorative of the deaths of travellers by the fall of snow and other accidents very common along this dreadful road.—W. W. 1793.]
[Footnote R: The houses in the more retired Swiss valleys are all built of wood.—W. W. 1793.]
[Footnote S: See Burns's 'Postscript' to his 'Cry and Prayer':
And when he fa's, His latest draught o' breathin' leaves him In faint huzzas.
Ed.]
[Footnote T: For most of the images in the next sixteen verses I am indebted to M. Raymond's interesting observations annexed to his translation of Coxe's 'Tour in Switzerland'.—W. W. 1793.]
[Footnote U: The people of this Canton are supposed to be of a more melancholy disposition than the other inhabitants of the Alps: this, if true, may proceed from their living more secluded.—W. W. 1793.]
[Footnote V: This picture is from the middle region of the Alps.—W. W. 1815. Chalets are summer huts for the Swiss herdsmen.—W. W. 1836.]
[Footnote W: Sugh, a Scotch word expressive of the sound of the wind through the trees.—W. W. 1793.
It may be as well to add that, in this Scotch word, the "gh" is pronounced; so that, as used colloquially, the word could never rhyme with "blue."—Ed.]
[Footnote X: See Smollett's 'Ode to Leven Water' in 'Humphry Clinker', and compare 'The Italian Itinerant and the Swiss Goatherd', in "Memorials of a Tour on the Continent" in 1820, part ii. 1.—Ed.]
[Footnote Y: Alluding to several battles which the Swiss in very small numbers have gained over their oppressors the house of Austria; and in particular, to one fought at Naeffels near Glarus, where three hundred and thirty men defeated an army of between fifteen and twenty thousand Austrians. Scattered over the valley are to be found eleven stones, with this inscription, 1388, the year the battle was fought, marking out as I was told upon the spot, the several places where the Austrians attempting to make a stand were repulsed anew.—W. W. 1793.]
[Footnote Z: As Schreck-Horn, the pike of terror. Wetter-Horn, the pike of storms, etc., etc.—W. W. 1793.]
[Footnote Aa: The effect of the famous air called in French Ranz des Vaches upon the Swiss troops.—W. W. 1793.]
[Footnote Bb: This shrine is resorted to, from a hope of relief, by multitudes, from every corner of the Catholick world, labouring under mental or bodily afflictions.—W. W. 1793.]
[Footnote Cc: Compare the Stanzas 'Composed in one of the Catholic Cantons', in the "Memorials of a Tour on the Continent" (1820), which refer to Einsiedlen.—Ed.]
[Footnote Dd: Rude fountains built and covered with sheds for the accommodation of the pilgrims, in their ascent of the mountain.—W. W. 1793.]
[Footnote Ee: Compare Coleridge's 'Hymn before Sun-rise, in the Vale of Chamouni':
And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! ... ... Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? ... O struggling with the darkness all the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, ... The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly;
Compare also Shelley's 'Mont Blanc'.—Ed.]
[Footnote Ff: See note on Coleridge's 'Hymn before Sun-rise' on previous page.—Ed.[in Footnote Ff directly above]]
[Footnote Gg: An insect so called, which emits a short, melancholy cry, heard, at the close of the summer evenings, on the banks of the Loire.—W. W, 1793.]
[Footnote Hh: The duties upon many parts of the French rivers were so exorbitant that the poorer people, deprived of the benefit of water carriage, were obliged to transport their goods by land.—W. W. 1793.]
* * * * *
SUB-FOOTNOTES
[Sub-Footnote i: In the edition of 1815, the 28 lines, from "No sad vacuities" to "a wanderer came there," are entitled "Pleasures of the Pedestrian."—Ed.]
[Sub-Footnote ii: See 'Ode on the Pleasure arising from Vicissitude', l. 54:
The meanest floweret of the vale, The simplest note that swells the gale.
Ed.]
[Sub-Footnote iii: In the editions of 1820 to 1832 the four lines beginning "The Grison gypsey," etc., precede those beginning "The mind condemned," etc.—Ed.]
[Sub-Footnote iv: In the edition of 1793 Wordsworth put the following note:
"Red came the river down, and loud, and oft The angry Spirit of the water shriek'd."
(HOME'S Douglas.)
See Act III. l. 86; or p. 32 in the edition of 1757.—Ed.]
[Sub-Footnote v: This and the following line are only in the editions of 1815 and 1820.—Ed.]
[Sub-Footnote vi: Compare the Sonnet entitled 'The Author's Voyage down the Rhine, thirty years ago', in the "Memorials of a Tour on the Continent' in 1820, and the note appended to it.—Ed.]
* * * * *
GUILT AND SORROW; OR, INCIDENTS UPON SALISBURY PLAIN
Composed 1791-4.—Published as 'The Female Vagrant' in "Lyrical Ballads" in 1798, and as 'Guilt and Sorrow' in the "Poems of Early and Late Years," and in "Poems written in Youth," in 1845, and onward.
ADVERTISEMENT, PREFIXED TO THE FIRST EDITION OF THIS POEM, PUBLISHED IN 1842.
Not less than one-third of the following poem, though it has from time to time been altered in the expression, was published so far back as the year 1798, under the title of 'The Female Vagrant'. The extract is of such length that an apology seems to be required for reprinting it here; but it was necessary to restore it to its original position, or the rest would have been unintelligible. The whole was written before the close of the year 1794, and I will detail, rather as matter of literary biography than for any other reason, the circumstances under which it was produced.
During the latter part of the summer of 1793, having passed a month in the Isle of Wight, in view of the fleet which was then preparing for sea off Portsmouth at the commencement of the war, I left the place with melancholy forebodings. The American war was still fresh in memory. The struggle which was beginning, and which many thought would be brought to a speedy close by the irresistible arms of Great Britain being added to those of the allies, I was assured in my own mind would be of long continuance, and productive of distress and misery beyond all possible calculation. This conviction was pressed upon me by having been a witness, during a long residence in revolutionary France, of the spirit which prevailed in that country. After leaving the Isle of Wight, I spent two [A] days in wandering on foot over Salisbury Plain, which, though cultivation was then widely spread through parts of it, had upon the whole a still more impressive appearance than it now retains.
The monuments and traces of antiquity, scattered in abundance over that region, led me unavoidably to compare what we know or guess of those remote times with certain aspects of modern society, and with calamities, principally those consequent upon war, to which, more than other classes of men, the poor are subject. In those reflections, joined with some particular facts that had come to my knowledge, the following stanzas originated.
In conclusion, to obviate some distraction in the minds of those who are well acquainted with Salisbury Plain, it may be proper to say, that of the features described as belonging to it, one or two are taken from other desolate parts of England.
* * * * *
[Unwilling to be unnecessarily particular, I have assigned this poem to the dates 1793 and '94; but, in fact, much of the Female Vagrant's story was composed at least two years before. All that relates to her sufferings as a sailor's wife in America, and her condition of mind during her voyage home, were faithfully taken from the report made to me of her own case by a friend who had been subjected to the same trials, and affected in the same way. Mr. Coleridge, when I first became acquainted with him, was so much impressed with this poem, that it would have encouraged me to publish the whole as it then stood; but the mariner's fate appeared to me so tragical, as to require a treatment more subdued, and yet more strictly applicable in expression, than I had at first given to it. This fault was corrected nearly sixty years afterwards, when I determined to publish the whole. It may be worth while to remark, that, though the incidents of this attempt do only in a small degree produce each other, and it deviates accordingly from the general rule by which narrative pieces ought to be governed, it is not, therefore, wanting in continuous hold upon the mind, or in unity, which is effected by the identity of moral interest that places the two personages upon the same footing in the reader's sympathies. My ramble over many parts of Salisbury Plain put me, as mentioned in the preface, upon writing this poem, and left upon my mind imaginative impressions, the force of which I have felt to this day. From that district I proceeded to Bath, Bristol, and so on to the banks of the Wye; where I took again to travelling on foot. In remembrance of that part of my journey, which was in '93, I began the verses,—'Five years have passed,' etc.—I. F.]
* * * * *
The foregoing is the Fenwick note to 'Guilt and Sorrow'. The note to 'The Female Vagrant',—which was the title under which one-third of the longer poem appeared in all the complete editions prior to 1845—is as follows.—Ed.
* * * * *
[I find the date of this is placed in 1792, in contradiction, by mistake, to what I have asserted in 'Guilt and Sorrow'. The correct date is 1793-4. The chief incidents of it, more particularly her description of her feelings on the Atlantic, are taken from life.—I. F.]
* * * * *
In 1798 there were thirty stanzas in this poem; in 1802, twenty-six; in 1815, fourteen; in 1820, twenty-five. Stanzas I. to XXII., XXXV. to XXXVII., and LI. to LXXIV. occur only in the collected edition of 1842, vol. vii. (also published as "Poems, chiefly of Early and Late Years"), and in subsequent editions. Wordsworth placed 'The Female Vagrant' among his "Juvenile Pieces" from 1815 to 1832. In 1836, he included it along with 'Descriptive Sketches' in his Table of Contents; [B] but as he numbered it IV. in the text—the other poems belonging to the "Juvenile Pieces" being numbered I. II. and III.—it is clear that he meant it to remain in that class. The "Poems written in Youth," of the edition of 1845, include many others in addition to the "Juvenile Pieces" of editions 1815 to 1836.—Ed.
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I
A traveller on the skirt of Sarum's Plain Pursued his vagrant way, with feet half bare; Stooping his gait, but not as if to gain Help from the staff he bore; for mien and air Were hardy, though his cheek seemed worn with care 5 Both of the time to come, and time long fled: Down fell in straggling locks his thin grey hair; A coat he wore of military red But faded, and stuck o'er with many a patch and shred.
II
While thus he journeyed, step by step led on, 10 He saw and passed a stately inn, full sure That welcome in such house for him was none. No board inscribed the needy to allure Hung there, no bush proclaimed to old and poor And desolate, "Here you will find a friend!" 15 The pendent grapes glittered above the door;— On he must pace, perchance 'till night descend, Where'er the dreary roads their bare white lines extend.
III
The gathering clouds grew red with stormy fire, In streaks diverging wide and mounting high; 20 That inn he long had passed; the distant spire, Which oft as he looked back had fixed his eye, Was lost, though still he looked, in the blank sky. Perplexed and comfortless he gazed around, And scarce could any trace of man descry, 25 Save cornfields stretched and stretching without bound; But where the sower dwelt was nowhere to be found.
IV
No tree was there, no meadow's pleasant green, No brook to wet his lip or soothe his ear; Long files of corn-stacks here and there were seen, 30 But not one dwelling-place his heart to cheer. Some labourer, thought he, may perchance be near; And so he sent a feeble shout—in vain; No voice made answer, he could only hear Winds rustling over plots of unripe grain, 35 Or whistling thro' thin grass along the unfurrowed plain.
V
Long had he fancied each successive slope Concealed some cottage, whither he might turn And rest; but now along heaven's darkening cope The crows rushed by in eddies, homeward borne. 40 Thus warned he sought some shepherd's spreading thorn Or hovel from the storm to shield his head, But sought in vain; for now, all wild, forlorn, And vacant, a huge waste around him spread; The wet cold ground, he feared, must be his only bed. 45
VI
And be it so—for to the chill night shower And the sharp wind his head he oft hath bared; A Sailor he, who many a wretched hour Hath told; for, landing after labour hard, Full long [1] endured in hope of just reward, 50 He to an armed fleet was forced away By seamen, who perhaps themselves had shared Like fate; was hurried off, a helpless prey, 'Gainst all that in his heart, or theirs perhaps, said nay.
VII
For years the work of carnage did not cease. 55 And death's dire aspect daily he surveyed, Death's minister; then came his glad release, And hope returned, and pleasure fondly made Her dwelling in his dreams. By Fancy's aid The happy husband flies, his arms to throw 60 Round his wife's neck; the prize of victory laid In her full lap, he sees such sweet tears flow As if thenceforth nor pain nor trouble she could know.
VIII
Vain hope! for fraud took all that he had earned. The lion roars and gluts his tawny brood 65 Even in the desert's heart; but he, returned, Bears not to those he loves their needful food. His home approaching, but in such a mood That from his sight his children might have run, He met a traveller, robbed him, shed his blood; 70 And when the miserable work was done He fled, a vagrant since, the murderer's fate to shun.
IX
From that day forth no place to him could be So lonely, but that thence might come a pang Brought from without to inward misery. 75 Now, as he plodded on, with sullen clang A sound of chains along the desert rang; He looked, and saw upon a gibbet high A human body that in irons swang, Uplifted by the tempest whirling by; 80 And, hovering, round it often did a raven fly. [C]
X
It was a spectacle which none might view, In spot so savage, but with shuddering pain; Nor only did for him at once renew All he had feared from man, but roused a train 85 Of the mind's phantoms, horrible as vain. The stones, as if to cover him from day, Rolled at his back along the living plain; He fell, and without sense or motion lay; But, when the trance was gone, feebly pursued [2] his way. 90
XI
As one whose brain habitual [3] frensy fires Owes to the fit in which his soul hath tossed Profounder quiet, when the fit retires, Even so the dire phantasma which had crossed His sense, in sudden vacancy quite lost, 95 Left his mind still as a deep evening stream. Nor, if accosted now, in thought engrossed, Moody, or inly troubled, would he seem To traveller who might talk of any casual theme.
XII
Hurtle the clouds in deeper darkness piled, 100 Gone is the raven timely rest to seek; He seemed the only creature in the wild On whom the elements their rage might wreak; Save that the bustard, of those regions bleak Shy tenant, seeing by the uncertain light 105 A man there wandering, gave a mournful shriek, And half upon the ground, with strange affright, Forced hard against the wind a thick unwieldy flight.
XIII
All, all was cheerless to the horizon's bound; The weary eye—which, wheresoe'er it strays, 110 Marks nothing but the red sun's setting round, Or on the earth strange lines, in former days Left by gigantic arms—at length surveys What seems an antique castle spreading wide; Hoary and naked are its walls, and raise 115 Their brow sublime: in shelter there to bide He turned, while rain poured down smoking on every side.
XIV
Pile of Stone-henge! so proud to hint yet keep Thy secrets, thou that lov'st to stand and hear The Plain resounding to the whirlwind's sweep, 120 Inmate of lonesome Nature's endless year; Even if thou saw'st the giant wicker rear For sacrifice its throngs of living men, Before thy face did ever wretch appear, Who in his heart had groaned with deadlier pain 125 Than he who, tempest-driven, thy shelter now would gain? [4]
XV
Within that fabric of mysterious form, Winds met in conflict, each by turns supreme; And, from the perilous ground dislodged, [5] through storm And rain he wildered on, no moon to stream 130 From gulf of parting clouds one friendly beam, Nor any friendly sound his footsteps led; Once did the lightning's faint disastrous gleam Disclose a naked guide-post's double head, Sight which tho' lost at once a gleam of pleasure shed. 135
XVI
No swinging sign-board creaked from cottage elm To stay his steps with faintness overcome; 'Twas dark and void as ocean's watery realm Roaring with storms beneath night's starless gloom; No gipsy cower'd o'er fire of furze or broom; 140 No labourer watched his red kiln glaring bright, Nor taper glimmered dim from sick man's room; Along the waste no line of mournful light From lamp of lonely toll-gate streamed athwart the night.
XVII
At length, though hid in clouds, the moon arose; 145 The downs were visible—and now revealed A structure stands, which two bare slopes enclose. It was a spot, where, ancient vows fulfilled, Kind pious hands did to the Virgin build A lonely Spital, the belated swain 150 From the night terrors of that waste to shield: But there no human being could remain, And now the walls are named the "Dead House" of the plain.
XVIII
Though he had little cause to love the abode Of man, or covet sight of mortal face, 155 Yet when faint beams of light that ruin showed, How glad he was at length to find some trace Of human shelter in that dreary place. Till to his flock the early shepherd goes, Here shall much-needed sleep his frame embrace. 160 In a dry nook where fern the floor bestrows He lays his stiffened limbs,—his eyes begin to close;
XIX
When hearing a deep sigh, that seemed to come From one who mourned in sleep, he raised his head, And saw a woman in the naked room 165 Outstretched, and turning on a restless bed: The moon a wan dead light around her shed. He waked her—spake in tone that would not fail, He hoped, to calm her mind; but ill he sped, For of that ruin she had heard a tale 170 Which now with freezing thoughts did all her powers assail;
XX
Had heard of one who, forced from storms to shroud, Felt the loose walls of this decayed Retreat Rock to incessant neighings shrill and loud, While his horse pawed the floor with furious heat; 175 Till on a stone, that sparkled to his feet, Struck, and still struck again, the troubled horse: The man half raised the stone with pain and sweat, Half raised, for well his arm might lose its force Disclosing the grim head of a late murdered corse. 180
XXI
Such tale of this lone mansion she had learned, And, when that shape, with eyes in sleep half drowned, By the moon's sullen lamp she first discerned, Cold stony horror all her senses bound. Her he addressed in words of cheering sound; 185 Recovering heart, like answer did she make; And well it was that, of the corse there found, In converse that ensued she nothing spake; She knew not what dire pangs in him such tale could wake.
XXII
But soon his voice and words of kind intent 190 Banished that dismal thought; and now the wind In fainter howlings told its rage was spent: Meanwhile discourse ensued of various kind, Which by degrees a confidence of mind And mutual interest failed not to create. 195 And, to a natural sympathy resigned, In that forsaken building where they sate The Woman thus retraced her own untoward fate. [6]
XXIII
"By Derwent's side my father dwelt—a man Of virtuous life, by pious parents bred; [7] 200 And I believe that, soon as I began To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed, And in his hearing there my prayers I said: And afterwards, by my good father taught, I read, and loved the books in which I read; 205 For books in every neighbouring house I sought, And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought.
XXIV [8]
"A little croft we owned—a plot of corn, A garden stored with peas, and mint, and thyme, And flowers for posies, oft on Sunday morn 210 Plucked while the church bells rang their earliest chime. Can I forget our freaks at shearing time! My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied; The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy prime; The swans that with white chests upreared in pride 215 Rushing and racing came to meet me at the water-side! [9]
XXV
"The staff I well [10] remember which upbore The bending body of my active sire; His seat beneath the honied sycamore Where [11] the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire; 220 When market-morning came, the neat attire With which, though bent on haste, myself I decked; Our watchful house-dog, that would tease and tire The stranger till its barking-fit I checked; [12] The red-breast, known for years, which at my casement pecked. 225
XXVI
"The suns of twenty summers danced along,— Too little marked how fast they rolled away: But, through severe mischance and cruel wrong, My father's substance fell into decay: We toiled and struggled, hoping for a day 230 When Fortune might [13] put on a kinder look; But vain were wishes, efforts vain as they; He from his old hereditary nook Must part; the summons [14] came;—our final leave we took. [15] [16]
XXVII
"It was indeed a miserable hour [17] 235 When, from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed, Peering above the trees, the steeple tower That on his marriage day sweet music made! Till then, he hoped his bones might there be laid Close by my mother in their native bowers: 240 Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed;— I could not pray:—through tears that fell in showers Glimmered our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours! [18]
XXVIII
"There was a Youth whom I had loved so long, That when I loved him not I cannot say: 245 'Mid the green mountains many a thoughtless song [19] We two had sung, like gladsome birds [20] in May; When we began to tire of childish play, We seemed still more and more to prize each other; We talked of marriage and our marriage day; 250 And I in truth did love him like a brother, For never could I hope to meet with such another.
XXIX
"Two years were passed since to a distant town He had repaired to ply a gainful trade: [21] What tears of bitter grief, till then unknown! 255 What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed! To him we turned:—we had no other aid: Like one revived, upon his neck I wept; And her whom he had loved in joy, he said, He well could love in grief; his faith he kept; 260 And in a quiet home once more my father slept.
XXX
"We lived in peace and comfort; and were blest With daily bread, by constant toil supplied. [22] Three lovely babes had lain upon my breast; [23] And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed, 265 And knew not why. My happy father died, When threatened war [24] reduced the children's meal: Thrice happy! that for him the grave could hide [25] The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel, And tears that [26] flowed for ills which patience might [27] 270 not heal.
XXXI
"'Twas a hard change; an evil time was come; We had no hope, and no relief could gain: But soon, with proud parade, [28] the noisy drum Beat round to clear [29] the streets of want and pain. My husband's arms now only served to strain 275 Me and his children hungering in his view; In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain: To join those miserable men he flew, And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we drew.
XXXII
"There were we long neglected, and we bore 280 Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weighed [30] Green fields before us, and our native shore, We breathed a pestilential air, that made Ravage for which no knell was heard. We prayed For our departure; wished and wished—nor knew, 285 'Mid that long sickness and those hopes delayed, [31] That happier days we never more must view. The parting signal streamed—at last the land withdrew.
XXXIII
"But the calm summer season now was past. [32] On as we drove, the equinoctial deep 290 Ran mountains high before the howling blast, And many perished in the whirlwind's sweep. We gazed with terror on their gloomy sleep, [33] Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue, Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap, 295 That we the mercy of the waves should rue: We reached the western world, a poor devoted crew. [34]
XXXIV
"The pains and plagues that on our heads came down, Disease and famine, agony and fear, In wood or wilderness, in camp or town, 300 It would unman the firmest heart to hear. [35] All perished—all in one remorseless year, Husband and children! one by one, by sword And ravenous plague, all perished: every tear Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board 305 A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored."
XXXV
Here paused she of all present thought forlorn, Nor voice, nor sound, that moment's pain expressed, Yet Nature, with excess of grief o'erborne, From her full eyes their watery load released. 310 He too was mute: and, ere her weeping ceased, He rose, and to the ruin's portal went, And saw the dawn opening the silvery east With rays of promise, north and southward sent; And soon with crimson fire kindled the firmament. 315
XXXVI
"O come," he cried, "come, after weary night Of such rough storm, this happy change to view." So forth she came, and eastward looked; the sight Over her brow like dawn of gladness threw; Upon her cheek, to which its youthful hue 320 Seemed to return, dried the last lingering tear, And from her grateful heart a fresh one drew: The whilst her comrade to her pensive cheer Tempered fit words of hope; and the lark warbled near.
XXXVII
They looked and saw a lengthening road, and wain 325 That rang down a bare slope not far remote: The barrows glistered bright with drops of rain, Whistled the waggoner with merry note, The cock far off sounded his clarion throat; But town, or farm, or hamlet, none they viewed, 330 Only were told there stood a lonely cot A long mile thence. While thither they pursued Their way, the Woman thus her mournful tale renewed.
XXXVIII
"Peaceful as this immeasurable plain Is now, by beams of dawning light imprest, [36] 335 In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main; The very ocean hath its hour of rest. I too forgot the heavings of my breast. [37] How quiet 'round me ship and ocean were! As quiet all within me. I was blest, 340 And looked, and fed upon the silent air Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair.[38]
XXXIX
"Ah! how unlike those late terrific sleeps, And groans that rage of racking famine spoke; The unburied dead that lay in festering heaps,[39] 345 The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke, The shriek that from the distant battle broke, The mine's dire earthquake, and the pallid host Driven by the bomb's incessant thunder-stroke To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish tossed, 350 Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost! [40]
XL
"Some mighty gulf of separation passed, I seemed transported to another world; A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast The impatient mariner the sail unfurled, 355 And, whistling, called the wind that hardly curled The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home And from all hope I was for ever hurled. For me—farthest from earthly port to roam Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might come. 360
XLI
"And oft I thought (my fancy was so strong) That I, at last, a resting-place had found; 'Here will I dwell,' said I, 'my whole life long, [41] Roaming the illimitable waters round; Here will I live, of all but heaven disowned, 365 And end my days upon the peaceful flood.'—[42] To break my dream the vessel reached its bound; And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.
XLII
"No help I sought; in sorrow turned adrift, 370 Was hopeless, as if cast on some bare rock; [43] Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift, Nor raised [44] my hand at any door to knock. I lay where, with his drowsy mates, the cock From the cross-timber of an out-house hung: 375 Dismally [45] tolled, that night, the city clock! At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung, Nor to the beggar's language could I fit [46] my tongue.
XLIII
"So passed a second day; and, when the third Was come, I tried in vain the crowd's resort. [47] 380 —In deep despair, by frightful wishes stirred, Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort; There, pains which nature could no more support, With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall; And, after many interruptions short [48] 385 Of hideous sense, I sank, [49] nor step could crawl: Unsought for was the help that did my life recal. [50]
XLIV
"Borne to a hospital, I lay with brain Drowsy and weak, and shattered memory; [51] I heard my neighbours in their beds complain 390 Of many things which never troubled me— Of feet still bustling round with busy glee, Of looks where common kindness had no part, Of service done with cold formality, [52] Fretting the fever round the languid heart, 395 And groans which, as they said, might [53] make a dead man start.
XLV
"These things just served to stir the slumbering [54] sense, Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. With strength did memory return; [55] and, thence Dismissed, again on open day I gazed, 400 At houses, men, and common light, amazed. The lanes I sought, and, as the sun retired, Came where beneath the trees a faggot blazed; The travellers [56] saw me weep, my fate inquired, And gave me food—and rest, more welcome, more desired. 405 [57]
XLVI
"Rough potters seemed they, trading soberly With panniered asses driven from door to door; But life of happier sort set forth to me, [58] And other joys my fancy to allure— The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor 410 In barn uplighted; and companions boon, Well met from far with revelry secure Among the forest glades, while jocund June [59] Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon.
XLVII
"But ill they suited me—those journeys dark [60] 415 O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch! To charm the surly house-dog's faithful bark, Or hang on tip-toe at the lifted latch. The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match. The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill, 420 And ear still busy on its nightly watch, Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill: Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still.
XLVIII
"What could I do, unaided and unblest? My [61] father! gone was every friend of thine: 425 And kindred of dead husband are at best Small help; and, after marriage such as mine, With little kindness would to me incline. Nor was I [62] then for toil or service fit; My deep-drawn sighs no effort could confine; 430 In open air forgetful would I sit [63] Whole hours, with [64] idle arms in moping sorrow knit.
XLIX
"The roads I paced, I loitered through the fields; Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused, Trusted my life to what chance bounty yields, [65] 435 Now coldly given, now utterly refused. The ground [66] I for my bed have often used: But what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth, Is that I have my inner self abused, Forgone the home delight of constant truth, 440 And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth.
L
"Through tears the rising sun I oft have viewed, Through tears have seen him towards that world descend [67] Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude: Three years a wanderer now my course I bend—[68] 445 Oh! tell me whither—for no earthly friend Have I."—She ceased, and weeping turned away; As if because her tale was at an end, She wept; because she had no more to say Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay. 450
LI
True sympathy the Sailor's looks expressed, His looks—for pondering he was mute the while. Of social Order's care for wretchedness, Of Time's sure help to calm and reconcile, Joy's second spring and Hope's long-treasured smile, 455 'Twas not for him to speak—a man so tried. Yet, to relieve her heart, in friendly style Proverbial words of comfort he applied, And not in vain, while they went pacing side by side.
LII
Ere long, from heaps of turf, before their sight, 460 Together smoking in the sun's slant beam, Rise various wreaths that into one unite Which high and higher mounts with silver gleam: Fair spectacle,—but instantly a scream Thence bursting shrill did all remark prevent; 465 They paused, and heard a hoarser voice blaspheme, And female cries. Their course they thither bent, And met a man who foamed with anger vehement.
LIII
A woman stood with quivering lips and pale, And, pointing to a little child that lay 470 Stretched on the ground, began a piteous tale; How in a simple freak of thoughtless play He had provoked his father, who straightway, As if each blow were deadlier than the last, Struck the poor innocent. Pallid with dismay 475 The Soldier's Widow heard and stood aghast; And stern looks on the man her grey-haired Comrade cast.
LIV
His voice with indignation rising high Such further deed in manhood's name forbade; The peasant, wild in passion, made reply 480 With bitter insult and revilings sad; Asked him in scorn what business there he had; What kind of plunder he was hunting now; The gallows would one day of him be glad;— Though inward anguish damped the Sailor's brow, 485 Yet calm he seemed as thoughts so poignant would allow.
LV
Softly he stroked the child, who lay outstretched With face to earth; and, as the boy turned round His battered head, a groan the Sailor fetched As if he saw—there and upon that ground— 490 Strange repetition of the deadly wound He had himself inflicted. Through his brain At once the griding iron passage found; [D] Deluge of tender thoughts then rushed amain, Nor could his sunken eyes the starting tear restrain. 495
LVI
Within himself he said—What hearts have we! The blessing this a father gives his child! Yet happy thou, poor boy! compared with me, Suffering not doing ill—fate far more mild. The stranger's looks and tears of wrath beguiled 500 The father, and relenting thoughts awoke; He kissed his son—so all was reconciled. Then, with a voice which inward trouble broke Ere to his lips it came, the Sailor them bespoke.
LVII
"Bad is the world, and hard is the world's law 505 Even for the man who wears the warmest fleece; Much need have ye that time more closely draw The bond of nature, all unkindness cease, And that among so few there still be peace: Else can ye hope but with such numerous foes 510 Your pains shall ever with your years increase?"— While from his heart the appropriate lesson flows, A correspondent calm stole gently o'er his woes.
LVIII
Forthwith the pair passed on; and down they look Into a narrow valley's pleasant scene 515 Where wreaths of vapour tracked a winding brook, That babbled on through groves and meadows green; A low-roofed house peeped out the trees between; The dripping groves resound with cheerful lays, And melancholy lowings intervene 520 Of scattered herds, that in the meadow graze, Some amid lingering shade, some touched by the sun's rays.
LIX
They saw and heard, and, winding with the road Down a thick wood, they dropt into the vale; Comfort by prouder mansions unbestowed 525 Their wearied frames, she hoped, would soon regale. Erelong they reached that cottage in the dale: It was a rustic inn;—the board was spread, The milk-maid followed with her brimming pail, And lustily the master carved the bread, 530 Kindly the housewife pressed, and they in comfort fed.
LX
Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, must part; Wanderers whose course no longer now agrees. She rose and bade farewell! and, while her heart Struggled with tears nor could its sorrow ease, 535 She left him there; for, clustering round his knees, With his oak-staff the cottage children played; And soon she reached a spot o'erhung with trees And banks of ragged earth; beneath the shade Across the pebbly road a little runnel strayed. 540
LXI
A cart and horse beside the rivulet stood; Chequering the canvas roof the sunbeams shone. She saw the carman bend to scoop the flood As the wain fronted her,—wherein lay one, A pale-faced Woman, in disease far gone. 545 The carman wet her lips as well behoved; Bed under her lean body there was none, Though even to die near one she most had loved She could not of herself those wasted limbs have moved. |
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