 |
XV "And all that winter, when at night The wind blew from the mountain-peak, 'Twas worth your while, though in the dark, The churchyard path to seek: For many a time and oft were heard 160 Cries coming from the mountain head: Some plainly living voices were; And others, I've heard many swear, Were voices of the dead: I cannot think, whate'er they say, 165 They had to do with Martha Ray.
XVI "But that she goes to this old Thorn, The Thorn which I described [21] to you, And there sits in a scarlet cloak, I will be sworn is true. 170 For one day with my telescope, To view the ocean wide and bright, When to this country first I came, Ere I had heard of Martha's name, I climbed the mountain's height:— 175 A storm came on, and I could see No object higher than my knee.
XVII "'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain: No screen, no fence could I discover; And then the wind! in sooth, [22] it was 180 A wind full ten times over. I looked around, I thought I saw A jutting crag,—and off I ran, Head-foremost, through the driving rain, The shelter of the crag to gain; 185 And, as I am a man, Instead of jutting crag, I found A Woman seated on the ground.
XVIII "I did not speak—I saw her face; Her face!—it was [23] enough for me: 190 I turned about and heard her cry, 'Oh misery! oh misery!' And there she sits, until the moon Through half the clear blue sky will go; And, when the little breezes make 195 The waters of the pond to shake, As all the country know, She shudders, and you hear her cry, 'Oh misery! oh misery!'"
XIX "But what's the Thorn? and what the pond? 200 And what the hill of moss to her? And what the creeping breeze that comes [24] The little pond to stir?" "I cannot tell; but some will say She hanged her baby on the tree; 205 Some say she drowned it in the pond, Which is a little step beyond: But all and each agree, The little Babe was buried there, Beneath that hill of moss so fair. 210
XX "I've heard, the moss is spotted red [25] With drops of that poor infant's blood; But kill a new-born infant thus, I do not think she could! Some say, if to the pond you go, 215 And fix on it a steady view, The shadow of a babe you trace, A baby and a baby's face, And that it looks at you; Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain 220 The baby looks at you again.
XXI "And some had sworn an oath that she Should be to public justice brought; And for the little infant's bones With spades they would have sought. 225 But instantly the hill of moss [26] Before their eyes began to stir! And, for full fifty yards around, The grass—it shook upon the ground! Yet [27] all do still aver 230 The little Babe lies [28] buried there, Beneath that hill of moss so fair.
XXII "I cannot tell how this may be But plain it is the Thorn is bound With heavy tufts of moss that strive 235 To drag it to the ground; And this I know, full many a time, When she was on the mountain high, By day, and in the silent night, When all the stars shone clear and bright, 240 That I have heard her cry, 'Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!'"
* * * * *
Compare 'The Heart of Midlothian' (vol. iii. chap. v. edition of 1818):
"Are ye sure ye ken the way ye are taking us?" said Jeanie, who began to imagine that she was getting deeper into the woods, and more remote from the highroad.
"Do I ken the road? Wasna I mony a day living here, and what for shouldna I ken the road? I might hae forgotten, too, for it was afore my accident; but there are some things ane can never forget, let them try it as muckle as they like."
By this time they had gained the deepest part of a patch of woodland. The trees were a little separated from each other, and at the foot of one of them, a beautiful poplar, was a hillock of moss, such as the poet of Grasmere has described in the motto to our chapter. So soon as she arrived at this spot, Madge Wildfire, joining her hands above her head, with a loud scream that resembled laughter, flung herself all at once upon the spot, and remained there lying motionless.
Jeanie's first idea was to take the opportunity of flight; but her desire to escape yielded for a moment to apprehension for the poor insane being, who, she thought, might perish for want of relief. With an effort, which, in her circumstances, might be termed heroic, she stooped down, spoke in a soothing tone, and tried to raise up the forlorn creature. She effected this with difficulty, and as she placed her against the tree in a sitting posture, she observed with surprise, that her complexion, usually florid, was now deadly pale, and that her face was bathed in tears. Notwithstanding her own extreme danger, Jeanie was affected by the situation of her companion; and the rather that, through the whole train of her wavering and inconsistent state of mind and line of conduct, she discerned a general colour of kindness towards herself, for which she felt gratitude.
"Let me alane!—let me alane!" said the poor young woman, as her paroxysm of sorrow began to abate. "Let me alane; it does me good to weep. I canna shed tears but maybe anes or twice a-year, and I aye come to wet this turf with them, that the flowers may grow fair, and the grass may be green."
"But what is the matter with you?" said Jeanie. "Why do you weep so bitterly?"
"There's matter enow," replied the lunatic; "mair than ae puir mind can bear, I trow. Stay a bit, and I'll tell you a' about it; for I like ye, Jeanie Deans; a'body spoke weel about ye when we lived in the Pleasaunts. And I mind aye the drink o' milk ye gae me yon day, when I had been on Arthur's Seat for four-and-twenty hours, looking for the ship that somebody was sailing in."
Ed.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1836.
... thorny ... 1798.]
[Variant 2:
1836.
... it is overgrown. 1798.]
[Variant 3:
1836.
... were ... 1798.]
[Variant 4:
1836.
... had ... 1798.]
[Variant 5:
1820.
I've measured it from side to side: 'Tis three feet long [i] and two feet wide. 1798.]
[Variant 6:
1827.
That's like ... 1798.]
[Variant 7:
1827.
But if you'd ... 1798.]
[Variant 8:
1827.
The heap that's like ... 1798.]
[Variant 9: In the editions 1798 to 1815.
Nay rack your brain—'tis all in vain, I'll tell you every thing I know; But to the thorn, and to the pond Which is a little step beyond, I wish that you would go: Perhaps when you are at the place You something of her tale may trace.
XI I'll give you the best help I can: Before you up the mountain go, Up to the dreary mountain-top, I'll tell you all I know.]
[Variant 10:
1845.
'Tis now some two and twenty years, 1798.
'Tis known, that twenty years are passed 1820.]
[Variant 11:
1820.
And she was happy, happy still Whene'er she thought of Stephen Hill. 1798.]
[Variant 12:
1815.
... on that woful day A cruel, cruel fire, they say, Into her bones was sent: It dried her body like a cinder, And almost turn'd her brain to tinder. 1798.]
[Variant 13:
1836.
'Tis said, a child was in her womb, As now to any eye was plain; 1798.
'Tis said, her lamentable state Even to a careless eye was plain; 1820.
Alas! her lamentable state 1827.]
[Variant 14:
1836.
... she was... 1798.]
[Variant 15:
1820.
Oh me! ten thousand times I'd rather That he had died, that cruel father! 1798.]
[Variant 16:
1820.
Last Christmas when we talked of this, Old Farmer Simpson did maintain, That in her womb the infant wrought 1798.]
[Variant 17:
1827.
No more I know, I wish I did, And I would tell it all to you; 1798.]
[Variant 18:
1827.
There's none that ever knew: 1798.]
[Variant 19:
1827.
And if a child was born or no, There's no one that could ever tell; 1798.]
[Variant 20:
1827.
There's no one knows, as I have said, 1798.]
[Variant 21:
1827.
... I've described ... 1798.]
[Variant 22:
1845.
... in faith, ... 1798.]
[Variant 23:
1798.
In truth, it was ... 1800.
The edition of 1815 returns to the text of 1798.]
[Variant 24:
1827.
... and what's the pond? And what's the hill of moss to her? And what's the ... 1798.]
[Variant 25:
1800.
I've heard the scarlet moss is red 1798.]
[Variant 26:
1845.
But then the beauteous hill of moss 1798.
It might not be—the Hill of moss 1827.
But then the beauteous Hill of moss 1832. (Returning to the text of 1798.)
But then the speckled hill of moss 1836.]
[Variant 27:
1827.
But ... 1798.]
[Variant 28:
1845.
... is buried ... 1798.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A:
"March 19, 1798. William and Basil and I walked to the hill tops. A very cold bleak day. William wrote some lines describing a stunted Thorn" (Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal).—Ed.
"April 20. Walked in the evening up the hill dividing the coombes. Came home the Crookham way, by the Thorn, and the little muddy pond" (Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal).—Ed.]
* * * * *
SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE VARIANT
[Sub-Footnote i: Compare in Buerger's 'Pfarrer's Tochter', "drei Spannen lang," and see Appendix V.—Ed.]
* * * * *
GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL
A TRUE STORY
Composed 1798.—Published 1798.
[Written at Alfoxden. The incident from Dr. Darwin's 'Zooenomia'.—I. F.]
See Erasmus Darwin's 'Zooenomia', vol. iv. pp. 68-69, ed. 1801. It is the story of a man named Tullis, narrated by an Italian, Signer L. Storgosi, in a work called 'Il Narratore Italiano'.
"I received good information of the truth of the following case, which was published a few years ago in the newspapers. A young farmer in Warwickshire, finding his hedges broke, and the sticks carried away during a frosty season, determined to watch for the thief. He lay many cold hours under a haystack, and at length an old woman, like a witch in a play, approached, and began to pull up the hedge; he waited till she had tied up her bundle of sticks, and was carrying them off, that he might convict her of the theft, and then springing from his concealment, he seized his prey with violent threats. After some altercation, in which her load was left upon the ground, she kneeled upon her bundle of sticks, and raising her arms to Heaven, beneath the bright moon then at the full, spoke to the farmer, already shivering with cold, 'Heaven grant that thou mayest never know again the blessing to be warm.' He complained of cold all the next day, and wore an upper coat, and in a few days another, and in a fortnight took to his bed, always saying nothing made him warm; he covered himself with many blankets, and had a sieve over his face as he lay; and from this one insane idea he kept his bed above twenty years for fear of the cold air, till at length he died."
In the "Advertisement" to the first edition of "Lyrical Ballads," Wordsworth says, "The tale of 'Goody Blake and Harry Gill' is founded on a well-authenticated fact which happened in Warwickshire."
The following curious letter appeared in the 'Ipswich Magazine' of April 1799:
"IPSWICH, April 2, 1799.
"To the Editors of the 'Ipswich Magazine'.
"GENTLEMEN—The scarcity of Coal at this time, and the piercing cold of the weather, cannot fail to be some apology for the depredations daily committed on the hedges in the neighbourhood. If ever it be permitted, it ought in the present season. Should there be any Farmer more rigorous than the rest, let him attend to the poetical story inserted in page 118 of this Magazine, and tremble at the fate of Farmer Gill, who was about to prosecute a poor old woman for a similar offence. The thing is a fact, and told by one of the first physicians of the present day, as having happened in the south of England, 'and which has, a short time since', been turned by a lyric poet into that excellent ballad."
From 1815 to 1843, this poem was classed among those of "the Imagination." In 1845 it was transferred to the list of "Miscellaneous Poems."—Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter? What is't that ails young Harry Gill? That evermore his teeth they chatter, Chatter, chatter, chatter still! Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, 5 Good duffle grey, and flannel fine; He has a blanket on his back, And coats enough to smother nine.
In March, December, and in July, 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; 10 The neighbours tell, and tell you truly, His teeth they chatter, chatter still. At night, at morning, and at noon, 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, 15 His teeth they chatter, chatter still!
Young Harry was a lusty drover, And who so stout of limb as he? His cheeks were red as ruddy clover; His voice was like the voice of three. 20 Old [1] Goody Blake was old and poor; Ill fed she was, and thinly clad; And any man who passed her door Might see how poor a hut she had.
All day she spun in her poor dwelling: 25 And then her three hours' work at night, Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling, It would not pay for candle-light. Remote from sheltered village-green, On a hill's northern side she dwelt, 30 Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean, And hoary dews are slow to melt. [2]
By the same fire to boil their pottage, Two poor old Dames, as I have known, Will often live in one small cottage; 35 But she, poor Woman! housed [3] alone. 'Twas well enough when summer came, The long, warm, lightsome summer-day, Then at her door the canty Dame Would sit, as any linnet, gay. 40
But when the ice our streams did fetter, Oh then how her old bones would shake; You would have said, if you had met her, 'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake. Her evenings then were dull and dead: 45 Sad case it was, as you may think, For very cold to go to bed; And then for cold not sleep a wink.
O joy for her! whene'er in winter The winds at night had made a rout; 50 And scattered many a lusty splinter And many a rotten bough about. Yet never had she, well or sick, As every man who knew her says, A pile beforehand, turf [4] or stick, 55 Enough to warm her for three days.
Now, when the frost was past enduring, And made her poor old bones to ache, Could anything be more alluring Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? 60 And, now and then, it must be said, When her old bones were cold and chill, She left her fire, or left her bed, To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.
Now Harry he had long suspected 65 This trespass of old Goody Blake; And vowed that she should be detected— That [5] he on her would vengeance take. And oft from his warm fire he'd go, And to the fields his road would take; 70 And there, at night, in frost and snow, He watched to seize old Goody Blake.
And once, behind a rick of barley, Thus looking out did Harry stand: The moon was full and shining clearly, 75 And crisp with frost the stubble land. —He hears a noise—he's all awake— Again?—on tip-toe down the hill He softly creeps—'tis Goody Blake; She's at the hedge of Harry Gill! 80
Right glad was he when he beheld her: Stick after stick did Goody pull: He stood behind a bush of elder, Till she had filled her apron full. When with her load she turned about, 85 The by-way [6] back again to take; He started forward, with a shout, And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.
And fiercely by the arm he took her, And by the arm he held her fast, 90 And fiercely by the arm he shook her, And cried, "I've caught you then at last!" Then Goody, who had nothing said, Her bundle from her lap let fall; And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed 95 To God that is the judge of all.
She prayed, her withered hand uprearing, While Harry held her by the arm— "God! who art never out of hearing, O may he never more be warm!" 100 The cold, cold moon above her head, Thus on her knees did Goody pray; Young Harry heard what she had said: And icy cold he turned away.
He went complaining all the morrow 105 That he was cold and very chill: His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow, Alas! that day for Harry Gill! That day he wore a riding-coat, But not a whit the warmer he: 110 Another was on Thursday brought, And ere the Sabbath he had three.
'Twas all in vain, a useless matter, And blankets were about him pinned; Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, 115 Like a loose casement in the wind. And Harry's flesh it fell away; And all who see him say, 'tis plain That, live as long as live he may, He never will be warm again. 120
No word to any man he utters, A-bed or up, to young or old; But ever to himself he mutters, "Poor Harry Gill is very cold." A-bed or up, by night or day; 125 His teeth they chatter, chatter still. Now think, ye farmers all, I pray, Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill! [A]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1802.
Auld 1798.]
[Variant 2:
1836
—This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire, Her hut was on a cold hill-side, And in that country coals are dear, For they come far by wind and tide. 1798.
Remote from sheltering village green, Upon a bleak hill-side, she dwelt, Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean, And hoary dews are slow to melt. 1820.
On a hill's northern side she dwelt. 1827.]
[Variant 3.
1820.
... dwelt ... 1798.]
[Variant 4.
1827.
... wood ... 1798]
[Variant 5.
1836.
And ... 1798.]
[Variant 6.
1827.
The bye-road ... 1798.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: Compare the many entries about "gathering sticks" in the Alfoxden woods, in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal.—Ed.]
* * * * *
HER EYES ARE WILD
Composed 1798.—Published 1798.
[Written at Alfoxden. The subject was reported to me by a lady of Bristol, who had seen the poor creature.—I. F.]
From 1798 to 1805 this poem was published under the title of 'The Mad Mother'.
In the editions of 1815 and 1820 it was ranked as one of the "Poems founded on the Affections." In the editions of 1827 and 1832, it was classed as one of the "Poems of the Imagination." In 1836 and afterwards, it was replaced among the "Poems founded on the Affections."—Ed.
I Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, The sun has burnt her coal-black hair; Her eyebrows have a rusty stain, And she came far from over the main. She has a baby on her arm, 5 Or else she were alone: And underneath the hay-stack warm, And on the greenwood stone, She talked and sung the woods among, And it was in the English tongue. 10
II "Sweet babe! they say that I am mad But nay, my heart is far too glad; And I am happy when I sing Full many a sad and doleful thing: Then, lovely baby, do not fear! 15 I pray thee have no fear of me; But safe as in a cradle, here My lovely baby! thou shalt be: To thee I know too much I owe; I cannot work thee any woe. 20
III "A fire was once within my brain; And in my head a dull, dull pain; And fiendish faces, one, two, three, Hung at my breast, [1] and pulled at me; But then there came a sight of joy; 25 It came at once to do me good; I waked, and saw my little boy, My little boy of flesh and blood; Oh joy for me that sight to see! For he was here, and only he. 30
IV "Suck, little babe, oh suck again! It cools my blood; it cools my brain; Thy lips I feel them, baby! they Draw from my heart the pain away. Oh! press me with thy little hand; 35 It loosens something at my chest; About that tight and deadly band I feel thy little fingers prest. The breeze I see is in the tree: It comes to cool my babe and me. 40
V "Oh! love me, love me, little boy! Thou art thy mother's only joy; And do not dread the waves below, When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go; The high crag cannot work me harm, 45 Nor leaping torrents when they howl; The babe I carry on my arm, He saves for me my precious soul; Then happy lie; for blest am I; Without me my sweet babe would die. 50
VI "Then do not fear, my boy! for thee Bold as a lion will I be; [2] And I will always be thy guide, Through hollow snows and rivers wide. I'll build an Indian bower; I know 55 The leaves that make the softest bed: And, if from me thou wilt not go, But still be true till I am dead, My pretty thing! then thou shall sing As merry as the birds in spring. 60
VII "Thy father cares not for my breast, 'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest; 'Tis all thine own!—and, if its hue Be changed, that was so fair to view, 'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove! 65 My beauty, little child, is flown, But thou wilt live with me in love; And what if my poor cheek be brown? 'Tis well for me, thou canst not see How pale and wan it else would be. 70
VIII "Dread not their taunts, my little Life; I am thy father's wedded wife; And underneath the spreading tree We two will live in honesty. If his sweet boy he could forsake, 75 With me he never would have stayed: From him no harm my babe can take; But he, poor man! is wretched made; And every day we two will pray For him that's gone and far away. 80
IX "I'll teach my boy the sweetest things: I'll teach him how the owlet sings. My little babe! thy lips are still, And thou hast almost sucked thy fill. —Where art thou gone, my own dear child? 85 What wicked looks are those I see? Alas! alas! that look so wild, It never, never came from me: If thou art mad, my pretty lad, Then I must be for ever sad. 90
X "Oh! smile on me, my little lamb! For I thy own dear mother am: My love for thee has well been tried: I've sought thy father far and wide. I know the poisons of the shade; 95 I know the earth-nuts fit for food: Then, pretty dear, be not afraid: We'll find thy father in the wood. Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away! And there, my babe, we'll live for aye." [A] 100
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1.
1820.
... breasts ... 1798.]
[Variant 2.
1832.
... I will be; 1798.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A:
"For myself, I would rather have written 'The Mad Mother' than all the works of all the Bolingbrokes and Sheridans, those brilliant meteors, that have been exhaled from the morasses of human depravity since the loss of Paradise."
(S. T. C. to W. Godwin, 9th December 1800.) See 'William Godwin: his Friends and Contemporaries', vol. ii. p. 14.—Ed.]
* * * * *
SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN;
WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED
Composed 1798.—Published 1798.
[This old man had been huntsman to the Squires of Alfoxden, which, at the time we occupied it, belonged to a minor. The old man's cottage stood upon the Common, a little way from the entrance to Alfoxden Park. But it had disappeared. Many other changes had taken place in the adjoining village, which I could not but notice with a regret more natural than well-considered. Improvements but rarely appear such to those who, after long intervals of time, revisit places they have had much pleasure in. It is unnecessary to add, the fact was as mentioned in the poem; and I have, after an interval of forty-five years, the image of the old man as fresh before my eyes as if I had seen him yesterday. The expression when the hounds were out, 'I dearly love their voice,' was word for word from his own lips.—I. F.]
This poem was classed among those of "Sentiment and Reflection."—Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
In the sweet shire of Cardigan, Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, An old Man dwells, a little man,— 'Tis said [1] he once was tall. [2] Full five-and-thirty [3] years he lived 5 A running huntsman merry; And still the centre of his cheek Is red as a ripe cherry. [4]
No man like him the horn could sound, And hill and valley rang with glee: 10 When Echo bandied, round and round, The halloo of Simon Lee. In those proud days, he little cared For husbandry or tillage; To blither tasks did Simon rouse 15 The sleepers of the village. [5]
He all the country could outrun, Could leave both man and horse behind; And often, ere the chase [6] was done, He reeled, and was stone blind. 20 And still there's something in the world At which his heart rejoices; For when the chiming hounds are out, He dearly loves their voices!
But, oh the heavy change! [A]—bereft 25 Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see! [7] Old Simon to the world is left In liveried poverty. His Master's dead,—and no one now Dwells in the Hall of Ivor; 30 Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; He is the sole survivor. [8]
And [9] he is lean and he is sick; His body, dwindled and awry, Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; 35 His legs are thin and dry. One prop he has, and only one, His wife, an aged woman, Lives with him, near the waterfall, Upon the village Common. [10] 40
Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, Not twenty paces from the door, A scrap of land they have, but they Are poorest of the poor. This scrap of land he from the heath 45 Enclosed when he was stronger; But what to them avails the land Which he can till no longer? [11]
Oft, working by her Husband's side, Ruth does what Simon cannot do; 50 For she, with scanty cause for pride, [12] Is stouter of the two. And, though you with your utmost skill From labour could not wean them, 'Tis little, very little—all 55 That they can do between them. [13]
Few months of life has he in store As he to you will tell, For still, the more he works, the more Do his weak ankles swell. [14] 60 My gentle Reader, I perceive How patiently you've waited, And now I fear [15] that you expect Some tale will be related.
O Reader! had you in your mind 65 Such stores as silent thought can bring,[B] O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in every thing. What more I have to say is short, And you must [16] kindly take it: 70 It is no tale; but, should you think, [17] Perhaps a tale you'll make it.
One summer-day I chanced to see This old Man doing all he could To unearth the root [18] of an old tree, 75 A stump of rotten wood. The mattock tottered in his hand; So vain was his endeavour, That at the root of the old tree He might have worked for ever. 80
"You're overtasked, good Simon Lee, Give me your tool," to him I said; And at the word right gladly he Received my proffered aid. I struck, and with a single blow 85 The tangled root I severed, At which the poor old Man so long And vainly had endeavoured.
The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run 90 So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. —I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning; Alas! the gratitude of men 95 Hath oftener [19] left me mourning.[C]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1827.
I've heard ... 1798.]
[Variant 2: In editions 1798 to 1815 the following is inserted:
Of years he has upon his back, No doubt, a burthen weighty; He says he is three score and ten, But others say he's eighty.
A long blue livery-coat has he, That's fair behind, and fair before; Yet, meet him where you will, you see At once that he is poor.]
[Variant 3:
1827.
... five and twenty ... 1798.]
[Variant 4:
1845.
And, though he has but one eye left, His cheek is like a cherry. 1798.
And still the centre of his cheek Is blooming as a cherry. 1820.]
[Variant 5:
1827.
No man like him the horn could sound, And no man was so full of glee; To say the least, four counties round Had heard of Simon Lee; His master's dead, and no one now Dwells in the hall of Ivor; Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; He is the sole survivor. 1798.
Worn out by hunting feats—bereft By time of friends and kindred, see! Old Simon to the world is left In liveried poverty. His Master's dead, ... 1827.
The fourth stanza of the final edition being second in 1827, and the second stanza being third in 1827.]
[Variant 6:
1827.
... race ... 1798.]
[Variant 7:
Of strength, of friends, and kindred, see.
In MS. letter to Allan Cunningham, Nov. 1828.]
[Variant 8:
1832.
His hunting feats have him bereft Of his right eye, as you may see: And then, what limbs those feats have left To poor old Simon Lee! He has no son, he has no child, His wife, an aged woman, Lives with him, near the waterfall, Upon the village common. 1798.
His hunting feats have him bereft Of his right eye, as you may see, And Simon to the world is left, In liveried poverty. When he was young he little knew Of husbandry or tillage; And now is forced to work, though weak, —The weakest in the village. 1820.]
[Variant 9:
1798.
But ... 1820.
The text of 1832 reverts to that of 1798.]
[Variant 10:
1827.
His little body's half awry, His ancles they are swoln and thick; His legs are thin and dry. When he was young he little knew Of husbandry or tillage; And now he's forced to work, though weak, —The weakest in the village. 1798.
His dwindled body's half awry, 1800.
His ancles, too, are swoln and thick; 1815.
And now is forced to work, 1815.
His dwindled body half awry, Rests upon ancles swoln and thick; His legs are thin and dry. He has no son, he has no child, His Wife, an aged woman, Lives with him, near the waterfall, Upon the village Common. 1820.]
[Variant 11:
1845.
But what avails the land to them, Which they can till no longer? 1798.
"But what," saith he, "avails the land, Which I can till no longer?" 1827.
But what avails it now, the land Which he can till no longer? 1832.
'Tis his, but what avails the land Which he can till no longer? 1837.
The time, alas! is come when he Can till the land no longer. 1840.
The time is also come when he Can till the land no longer. C.]
[Variant 12:
1827.
Old Ruth works out of doors with him, And does what Simon cannot do; For she, not over stout of limb, 1798.]
[Variant 13:
1840.
Alas! 'tis very little, all Which they can ... 1798.
That they can ... 1837.]
[Variant 14:
1815.
His poor old ancles swell. 1798.]
[Variant 15:
1820.
And I'm afraid ... 1798.]
[Variant 16:
1820.
I hope you'll ... 1798.]
[Variant 17:
1798.
... think,
In the editions 1832 to 1843.]
[Variant 18:
1815.
About the root ... 1798.]
[Variant 19:
1820.
Has oftner ... 1798.
Has oftener ... 1805.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: Note that the phrase: 'But oh the heavy change,' occurs in Milton's 'Lycidas'. (Professor Dowden.) See 'Lycidas', l. 37.—Ed.]
[Footnote B: Compare Shakspeare's Sonnet, No. xxx.:
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past;
and in Spenser's 'An epitaph upon the Right Honourable Sir Phillip Sidney, Knight; Lord governor of Flushing.'
Farewell, self-pleasing thoughts, which quietness brings forth.
Ed.]
[Footnote C: See Appendix VI. to this volume.—Ed.]
* * * * *
LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING
Composed 1798.—Published 1798.
[Actually composed while I was sitting by the side of the brook that runs down from the 'Comb', in which stands the village of Alford, through the grounds of Alfoxden. It was a chosen resort of mine. The brook ran down a sloping rock, so as to make a waterfall, considerable for that county; and across the pool below had fallen a tree—an ash if I rightly remember—from which rose perpendicularly, boughs in search of the light intercepted by the deep shade above. The boughs bore leaves of green, that for want of sunshine had faded into almost lily-white; and from the underside of this natural sylvan bridge depended long and beautiful tresses of ivy, which waved gently in the breeze, that might, poetically speaking, be called the breath of the waterfall. This motion varied of course in proportion to the power of water in the brook. When, with dear friends, I revisited this spot, after an interval of more than forty years, [A] this interesting feature of the scene was gone. To the owner of the place I could not but regret that the beauty of this retired part of the grounds had not tempted him to make it more accessible by a path, not broad or obtrusive, but sufficient for persons who love such scenes to creep along without difficulty.—I. F.]
These 'Lines' were included among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."—Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link 5 The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green [1] bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; 10 And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. [B]
The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure:— But the least motion which they made, 15 It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. 20
If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, [2] Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
* * * * *
This Alfoxden dell, once known locally as "The Mare's Pool," was a trysting-place of Wordsworth, Coleridge, and their friends. Coleridge thus describes it, in his poem beginning "This Lime-Tree Bower, my Prison," addressed to Charles Lamb:
The roaring dell, o'er-wooded, narrow, deep, And only speckled by the midday sun; Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock Flings arching like a bridge;—that branchless ash, Unsunn'd and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still, Fanned by the waterfall!
Of all the localities around Alfoxden, this grove is the one chiefly associated with Wordsworth. There was no path to the waterfall, as suggested by the Poet to the owner of the place, in 1840; but, in 1880, I found the "natural sylvan bridge" restored. An ash tree, having fallen across the glen, reproduced the scene exactly as it is described in the Fenwick note.—Ed.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1837.
... sweet 1798.]
[Variant 2:
1837.
If I these thoughts may not prevent, If such be of my creed the plan, 1798.
If this belief from Heaven is sent, If such be nature's holy plan, 1820.
From Heaven if this belief be sent, 1827.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: See the Fenwick note to "A whirl-blast from behind the hill," p. 238.—Ed.]
[Footnote B: See Appendix VII.—Ed.]
* * * * *
TO MY SISTER
Composed 1798.—Published 1798.
[Composed in front of Alfoxden House. My little boy-messenger on this occasion was the son of Basil Montagu. The larch mentioned in the first stanza was standing when I revisited the place in May 1841, more than forty years after. I was disappointed that it had not improved in appearance as to size, nor had it acquired anything of the majesty of age, which, even though less perhaps than any other tree, the larch sometimes does. A few score yards from this tree, grew, when we inhabited Alfoxden, one of the most remarkable beech-trees ever seen. The ground sloped both towards and from it. It was of immense size, and threw out arms that struck into the soil, like those of the banyan-tree, and rose again from it. Two of the branches thus inserted themselves twice, which gave to each the appearance of a serpent moving along by gathering itself up in folds. One of the large boughs of this tree had been torn off by the wind before we left Alfoxden, but five remained. In 1841 we could barely find the spot where the tree had stood. So remarkable a production of nature could not have been wilfully destroyed.—I. F.]
In the editions 1798 to 1815 the title of this poem was, 'Lines written at a small distance from my House, and sent by my little Boy to the person to whom they are addressed'. From 1820 to 1843 the title was, 'To my Sister; written at a small distance from my House, and sent by my little Boy'. In 1845 and afterwards, it was simply 'To my Sister'. The poem was placed by Wordsworth among those of "Sentiment and Reflection."—Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
It is the first mild day of March: Each minute sweeter than before The redbreast sings from the tall larch That stands beside our door.
There is a blessing in the air, 5 Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees, and mountains bare, And grass in the green field.
My sister! ('tis a wish of mine) Now that our morning meal is done, 10 Make haste, your morning task resign; Come forth and feel the sun.
Edward will come with you;—and, pray, Put on with speed your woodland dress; And bring no book: for this one day 15 We'll give to idleness.
No joyless forms shall regulate Our living calendar: We from to-day, my Friend, will date The opening of the year. 20
Love, now a [1] universal birth, From heart to heart is stealing, From earth to man, from man to earth: —It is the hour of feeling.
One moment now may give us more 25 Than years of toiling reason: [2] Our minds shall drink at every pore The spirit of the season.
Some silent laws our hearts will make, [3] Which they shall long obey: 30 We for the year to come may take Our temper from to-day.
And from the blessed power that rolls About, below, above, We'll frame the measure of our souls: 35 They shall be tuned to love.
Then come, my Sister! come, I pray, With speed put on your woodland dress; And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness. 40
* * * * *
The larch is now gone; but the place where it stood can easily be identified.—Ed.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1837.
... an ... 1798.]
[Variant 2:
1837.
Than fifty years of reason; 1798.]
[Variant 3:
1820.
... may. 1798.]
* * * * *
EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY
Composed 1798.—Published 1798.
[This poem is a favourite among the Quakers, as I have learned on many occasions. It was composed in front of the house of Alfoxden, in the spring of 1798. [A]—I.F.]
Included among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."—Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
"Why, William, on that old grey stone, Thus for the length of half a day, Why, William, sit you thus alone, And dream your time away?
"Where are your books?—that light bequeathed 5 To Beings else forlorn and blind! Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed From dead men to their kind.
"You look round on your Mother Earth, As if she for no purpose bore you; 10 As if you were her first-born birth, And none had lived before you!"
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, When life was sweet, I knew not why, To me my good friend Matthew spake, 15 And thus I made reply.
"The eye—it cannot choose but see; We cannot bid the ear be still; Our bodies feel, where'er they be, Against or with our will. 20
"Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness.
"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 25 Of things for ever speaking, That nothing of itself will come, But we must still be seeking?
"—Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Conversing as I may, 30 I sit upon this old grey stone, And dream my time away."
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: In his "Advertisement" to the first edition of "Lyrical Ballads" (1798) Wordsworth writes,
"The lines entitled 'Expostulation and Reply', and those which follow, arose out of conversation with a friend who was somewhat unreasonably attached to modern books of Moral Philosophy."
Was the friend Sir James Mackintosh? or was it—a much more probable supposition—his friend, S. T. Coleridge?—Ed.]
* * * * *
THE TABLES TURNED
AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT
Composed 1798.—Published 1798
Included among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."—Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; Or surely you'll grow double: Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble? [1]
The sun, above the mountain's head, 5 A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow.
Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, 10 How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is [2] no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, 15 Let Nature be your Teacher.
She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless— Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 20
One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can. [A]
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; 25 Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:— We murder to dissect.
Enough of Science and of Art; Close up those [3] barren leaves; 30 Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1820.
Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks, Why all this toil and trouble? Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you'll grow double. 1798.]
[Variant 2:
1815.
And he is ... 1798.]
[Variant 3:
1837.
... these ... 1798.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: A mediaeval anticipation of this may be quoted in a footnote.
"Believe me, as my own experience," once said St. Bernard, "you will find more in the woods than in books; the forests and rocks will teach you more than you can learn from the greatest Masters."
I quote this, as sent to me by a friend; but the only passage at all approaching to it which I can verify is the following:
"Quidquid in Scripturis valet, quidquid in eis spiritualiter sentit, maxime in silvis et in agris meditando et orando se confitetur accepisse, et in hoc nullos aliquando se magistros habuisse nisi quercus et fagos joco illo suo gratioso inter amicos dicere solet."
See the appendix to Mabillon's edition of 'Bernardi Opera', ii. 1072, 'S. Bernardi Vita, et Res Gesta, auctore Guilielmo'.—Ed.]
* * * * *
THE COMPLAINT OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN
Composed 1798.—Published 1798.
When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is unable to continue his journey with his companions; he is left behind, covered over with Deer-skins, and is supplied with water, food, and fuel if the situation of the place will afford it. He is informed of the track which his companions intend to pursue, and if he is unable to follow, or overtake them, he perishes alone in the Desart; unless he should have the good fortune to fall in with some other Tribes of Indians. It is unnecessary to add that the females are equally, or still more, exposed to the same fate. See that very interesting work, Hearne's 'Journey from Hudson's Bay to the Northern Ocean'. When the Northern Lights, as the same writer informs us, vary their position in the air, they make a rustling and a crackling noise. This circumstance is alluded to in the first stanza of the following poem.—W. W. 1798.
[At Alfoxden, in 1798, where I read Hearne's 'Journey' with deep interest. It was composed for the volume of "Lyrical Ballads."—I. F.]
Classed among the "Poems founded on the Affections."—Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
I Before I see another day, Oh let my body die away! In sleep I heard the northern gleams; The stars, they were among my dreams; [1] In rustling conflict through the skies, [2] 5 I heard, I saw the flashes drive, [3] And yet they are upon my eyes, And yet I am alive; Before I see another day, Oh let my body die away! 10
II My fire is dead: it knew no pain; Yet is it dead, and I remain: All stiff with ice the ashes lie; And they are dead, and I will die. When I was well, I wished to live, 15 For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire But they to me no joy can give, No pleasure now, and no desire. Then here contented will I lie! Alone, I cannot fear to die. 20
III Alas! ye [4] might have dragged me on Another day, a single one! Too soon I yielded to despair; Why did ye listen to my prayer? [5] When ye [6] were gone my limbs were stronger; 25 And oh, how grievously I rue, That, afterwards, a little longer, My friends, I did not follow you! For strong and without pain I lay, Dear friends, when ye [7] were gone away. 30
IV My Child! they gave thee to another, A woman who was not thy mother. When from my arms my Babe they took, On me how strangely did he look! Through his whole body something ran, 35 A most strange working [8] did I see; —As if he strove to be a man, That he might pull the sledge for me: And then he stretched his arms, how wild! Oh mercy! like a helpless child. [9] 40
V My little joy! my little pride! In two days more I must have died. Then do not weep and grieve for me; I feel I must have died with thee. O wind, that o'er my head art flying 45 The way my friends their course did bend, I should not feel the pain of dying, Could I with thee a message send; Too soon, my friends, ye [10] went away; For I had many things to say. 50
VI I'll follow you across the snow; Ye [11] travel heavily and slow; In spite of all my weary pain I'll look upon your tents again. —My fire is dead, and snowy white 55 The water which beside it stood: The wolf has come to me to-night, And he has stolen away my food. For ever left alone am I; Then wherefore should I fear to die? 60
VII [12] Young as I am, my course is run, [13] I shall not see another sun; I cannot lift my limbs to know If they have any life or no. My poor forsaken Child, if I 65 For once could have thee close to me, With happy heart I then would die, And my last thought would happy be; [14] But thou, dear Babe, art far away, Nor shall I see another day. [15] 70
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1798.
The stars were mingled with my dreams; 1815.
The text of 1836 returns to that of 1798.]
[Variant 2:
1820.
In sleep did I behold the skies, 1798.]
[Variant 3:
1827.
I saw the crackling flashes drive; 1798.
I heard, and saw the flashes drive; 1820.]
[Variant 4:
1815.
... you ... 1798.]
[Variant 5:
1815.
Too soon despair o'er me prevailed; Too soon my heartless spirit failed; 1798.]
[Variant 6:
1815.
... you ... 1798.]
[Variant 7:
1845.
My friends, when you ... 1798.
... when ye ... 1815.]
[Variant 8:
1815.
A most strange something .... 1798.]
[Variant 9:
1815.
... a little child. 1798.]
[Variant 10:
1815.
... you ... 1798.]
[Variant 11:
1815.
You ... 1798.]
[Variant 12: This stanza was omitted in the editions 1815 to 1832, but restored in 1836.—Ed.]
[Variant 13:
1836.
My journey will be shortly run, 1798.]
[Variant 14:
1836.
... I then would die, And my last thoughts ... 1798.
... I then should die, 1800.]
[Variant 15:
1836.
I feel my body die away, I shall not see another day. 1798.]
* * * * *
THE LAST OF THE FLOCK
Composed 1798.—Published 1798.
[Produced at the same time as 'The Complaint', and for the same purpose. The incident occurred in the village of Holford, close by Alfoxden.—I. F.]
Included among the "Poems founded on the Affections."—Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
I In distant countries have I been, [1] And yet I have not often seen A healthy man, a man full grown, Weep in the public roads, alone. But such a one, on English ground, 5 And in the broad highway, I met; Along the broad highway he came, His cheeks with tears were wet: Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad; And in his arms a Lamb he had. 10
II He saw me, and he turned aside, As if he wished himself to hide: And with his coat did then essay [2] To wipe those briny tears away. I followed him, and said, "My friend, 15 What ails you? wherefore weep you so?" —"Shame on me, Sir! this lusty Lamb, He makes my tears to flow. To-day I fetched him from the rock: He is the last of all my flock. 20
III "When I was young, a single man, And after youthful follies ran, Though little given to care and thought, Yet, so it was, an ewe [3] I bought; And other sheep from her I raised, 25 As healthy sheep as you might see; And then I married, and was rich As I could wish to be; Of sheep I numbered a full score, And every year increased my store. 30
IV "Year after year my stock it grew; And from this one, this single ewe, Full fifty comely sheep I raised, As fine [4] a flock as ever grazed! Upon the Quantock hills they fed; [5] 35 They throve, and we at home did thrive: —This lusty Lamb of all my store Is all that is alive; And now I care not if we die, And perish all of poverty. 40
V "Six [6] Children, Sir! had I to feed; Hard labour in a time of need! My pride was tamed, and in our grief I of the Parish asked relief. They said, I was a wealthy man; 45 My sheep upon the uplands [7] fed, And it was fit that thence I took Whereof to buy us bread. 'Do this: how can we give to you,' They cried, 'what to the poor is due?' 50
VI "I sold a sheep, as they had said, And bought my little children bread, And they were healthy with their food; For me—it never did me good. A woeful time it was for me, 55 To see the end of all my gains, The pretty flock which I had reared With all my care and pains, To see it melt like snow away— For me it was a woeful day. 60
VII "Another still! and still another! A little lamb, and then its mother! It was a vein that never stopped— Like blood-drops from my heart they dropped. 'Till thirty were not left alive 65 They dwindled, dwindled, one by one; And I may say, that many a time I wished they all were gone— Reckless of what might come at last Were but the bitter struggle past. [8] 70
VIII "To wicked deeds I was inclined, And wicked fancies crossed my mind; And every man I chanced to see, I thought he knew some ill of me: No peace, no comfort could I find, 75 No ease, within doors or without; And, crazily and wearily I went my work about; And oft was moved to flee from home, And hide my head where wild beasts roam.[9] 80
IX "Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me, As dear as my own children be; For daily with my growing store I loved my children more and more. Alas! it was an evil time; 85 God cursed me in my sore distress; I prayed, yet every day I thought I loved my children less; And every week, and every day, My flock it seemed to melt away. 90
X "They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see! From ten to five, from five to three, A lamb, a wether, and a ewe;-. And then at last from three to two; And, of my fifty, yesterday 95 I had but only one: And here it lies upon my arm, Alas! and I have none;— To-day I fetched it from the rock; It is the last of all my flock." 100
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1815.
... I have been, 1798.]
[Variant 2:
1836.
Then with his coat he made essay 1798.]
[Variant 3:
1832.
... a ewe ... 1798.]
[Variant 4:
1836.
As sweet ... 1798.]
[Variant 5:
1836.
Upon the mountain did they feed; 1798.]
[Variant 6:
1800.
Ten ... 1798.]
[Variant 7:
1836.
... upon the mountain ... 1798.]
[Variant 8:
1827.
They dwindled one by one away; For me it was a woeful day. 1798.]
[Variant 9:
1836.
Oft-times I thought to run away; For me it was a woeful day. 1798.
Bent oftentimes to flee from home, And hide my head where wild beasts roam. 1827.]
* * * * *
THE IDIOT BOY
Composed 1798.—Published 1798.
[Alfoxden, 1798. The last stanza, 'The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, and the sun did shine so cold,' was the foundation of the whole. The words were reported to me by my dear friend Thomas Poole; but I have since heard the same repeated of other idiots. Let me add, that this long poem was composed in the groves of Alfoxden, almost extempore; not a word, I believe, being corrected, though one stanza was omitted. I mention this in gratitude to those happy moments, for, in truth, I never wrote anything with so much glee.—I. F.]
One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."—Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
'Tis eight o'clock,—a clear March night, The moon is up,—the sky is blue, The owlet, in the moonlight air, Shouts from [1] nobody knows where; He lengthens out his lonely shout, 5 Halloo! halloo! a long halloo!
—Why bustle thus about your door, What means this bustle, Betty Foy? Why are you in this mighty fret? And why on horseback have you set 10 Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy? [2]
Scarcely a soul is out of bed: [3] Good Betty, put him down again; His lips with joy they burr at you; But, Betty! what has he to do 15 With stirrup, saddle, or with rein? [4]
But Betty's bent on her intent; For her good neighbour, Susan Gale, Old Susan, she who dwells alone, Is sick, and makes a piteous moan, 20 As if her very life would fail.
There's not a house within a mile, No hand to help them in distress; Old Susan lies a-bed in pain, And sorely puzzled are the twain, 25 For what she ails they cannot guess.
And Betty's husband's at the wood, Where by the week he doth abide, A woodman in the distant vale; There's none to help poor Susan Gale; 30 What must be done? what will betide?
And Betty from the lane has fetched Her Pony, that is mild and good; Whether he be in joy or pain, Feeding at will along the lane, 35 Or bringing faggots from the wood.
And he is all in travelling trim,— And, by the moonlight, Betty Foy Has on the well-girt saddle set [5] (The like was never heard of yet) 40 Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy.
And he must post without delay Across the bridge and through the dale, [6] And by the church, and o'er the down, To bring a Doctor from the town, 45 Or she will die, old Susan Gale.
There is no need of boot or spur, There is no need of whip or wand; For Johnny has his holly-bough, And with a hurly-burly now 50 He shakes the green bough in his hand.
And Betty o'er and o'er has told The Boy, who is her best delight, Both what to follow, what to shun, What do, and what to leave undone, 55 How turn to left, and how to right.
And Betty's most especial charge, Was, "Johnny! Johnny! mind that you Come home again, nor stop at all,— Come home again, whate'er befal, 60 My Johnny, do, I pray you do."
To this did Johnny answer make, Both with his head and with his hand, And proudly shook the bridle too; And then! his words were not a few, 65 Which Betty well could understand.
And now that Johnny is just going, Though Betty's in a mighty flurry, She gently pats the Pony's side, On which her Idiot Boy must ride, 70 And seems no longer in a hurry.
But when the Pony moved his legs, Oh! then for the poor Idiot Boy! For joy he cannot hold the bridle, For joy his head and heels are idle, 75 He's idle all for very joy.
And while the Pony moves his legs, In Johnny's left hand you may see The green bough [7] motionless and dead: The Moon that shines above his head 80 Is not more still and mute than he.
His heart it was so full of glee, That till full fifty yards were gone, He quite forgot his holly whip, And all his skill in horsemanship: 85 Oh! happy, happy, happy John.
And while the Mother, at the door, Stands fixed, her face with joy o'erflows [8] Proud of herself, and proud of him, She sees him in his travelling trim, 90 How quietly her Johnny goes.
The silence of her Idiot Boy, What hopes it sends to Betty's heart! He's at the guide-post—he turns right; She watches till he's out of sight, 95 And Betty will not then depart.
Burr, burr—now Johnny's lips they burr. As loud as any mill, or near it; Meek as a lamb the Pony moves, And Johnny makes the noise he loves, 100 And Betty listens, glad to hear it.
Away she hies to Susan Gale: Her Messenger's in merry tune; [9] The owlets hoot, the owlets curr, And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr, 105 As [10] on he goes beneath the moon.
His steed and he right well agree; For of this Pony there's a rumour, That, should he lose his eyes and ears, And should he live a thousand years, 110 He never will be out of humour.
But then he is a horse that thinks! And when he thinks, his pace is slack; Now, though he knows poor Johnny well, Yet, for his life, he cannot tell 115 What he has got upon his back.
So through the moonlight lanes they go, And far into the moonlight dale, And by the church, and o'er the down, To bring a Doctor from the town, 120 To comfort poor old Susan Gale.
And Betty, now at Susan's side, Is in the middle of her story, What speedy help her Boy will bring, [11] With many a most diverting thing, 125 Of Johnny's wit, and Johnny's glory.
And Betty, still at Susan's side, By this time is not quite so flurried: [12] Demure with porringer and plate She sits, as if in Susan's fate 130 Her life and soul were buried.
But Betty, poor good woman! she, You plainly in her face may read it, Could lend out of that moment's store Five years of happiness or more 135 To any that might need it.
But yet I guess that now and then With Betty all was not so well; And to the road she turns her ears, And thence full many a sound she hears, 140 Which she to Susan will not tell.
Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans; "As sure as there's a moon in heaven," Cries Betty, "he'll be back again; They'll both be here—'tis almost ten— 145 Both will be [13] here before eleven."
Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans; The clock gives warning for eleven; 'Tis on the stroke—"He must be near," Quoth Betty, "and will soon be here, [14] 150 As sure as there's a moon in heaven."
The clock is on the stroke of twelve, And Johnny is not yet in sight: —The Moon's in heaven, as Betty sees, But Betty is not quite at ease; 155 And Susan has a dreadful night.
And Betty, half an hour ago, On Johnny vile reflections cast: "A little idle sauntering Thing!" With other names, an endless string; 160 But now that time is gone and past.
And Betty's drooping at the heart, That happy time all past and gone, "How can it be he is so late? The Doctor, he has made him wait; 165 Susan! they'll both be here anon."
And Susan's growing worse and worse, And Betty's in a sad quandary; And then there's nobody to say If she must go, or she must stay! 170 —She's in a sad quandary.
The clock is on the stroke of one; But neither Doctor nor his Guide Appears [15] along the moonlight road; There's neither horse nor man abroad, 175 And Betty's still at Susan's side.
And Susan now begins to fear [16] Of sad mischances not a few, That Johnny may perhaps be drowned; Or lost, perhaps, and never found; 180 Which they must both for ever rue.
She prefaced half a hint of this With, "God forbid it should be true!" At the first word that Susan said Cried Betty, rising from the bed, 185 "Susan, I'd gladly stay with you.
"I must be gone, I must away: Consider, Johnny's but half-wise; Susan, we must take care of him, If he is hurt in life or limb"— 190 "Oh God forbid!" poor Susan cries.
"What can I do?" says Betty, going, "What can I do to ease your pain? Good Susan tell me, and I'll stay; I fear you're in a dreadful way, 195 But I shall soon be back again."
"Nay, Betty, [17] go! good Betty, go! There's nothing that can ease my pain." Then off she hies; but with a prayer That God poor Susan's life would spare, 200 Till she comes back again.
So, through the moonlight lane she goes, And far into the moonlight dale; And how she ran, and how she walked, And all that to herself she talked, 205 Would surely be a tedious tale.
In high and low, above, below, In great and small, in round and square, In tree and tower was Johnny seen, In bush and brake, in black and green; 210 'Twas Johnny, Johnny, every where.
And while she crossed the bridge, there came A thought with which her heart is sore—[18] Johnny perhaps his horse forsook, To hunt the moon within the brook, [19] 215 And never will be heard of more.
Now is she high [20] upon the down, Alone amid a prospect wide; There's neither Johnny nor his Horse Among the fern or in the gorse; 220 There's neither Doctor nor his Guide.
"Oh saints! what is become of him? Perhaps he's climbed into an oak, Where he will stay till he is dead; Or, sadly he has been misled, 225 And joined the wandering gipsy-folk.
"Or him that wicked Pony's carried To the dark cave, the goblin's hall; Or in the castle he's pursuing Among the ghosts his own undoing; 230 Or playing with the waterfall."
At poor old Susan then she railed, While to the town she posts away; "If Susan had not been so ill, Alas! I should have had him still, 235 My Johnny, till my dying day."
Poor Betty, in this sad distemper, The Doctor's self could [21] hardly spare: Unworthy things she talked, and wild; Even he, of cattle the most mild, 240 The Pony had his share.
But now she's fairly in the town, [22] And to the Doctor's door she hies; 'Tis silence all on every side; The town so long, the town so wide, 245 Is silent as the skies.
And now she's at the Doctor's door, She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap; The Doctor at the casement shows His glimmering eyes that peep and doze! 250 And one hand rubs his old night-cap.
"Oh Doctor! Doctor! where's my Johnny?" "I'm here, what is't you want with me?" "Oh Sir! you know I'm Betty Foy, And I have lost my poor dear Boy, 255 You know him—him you often see;
"He's not so wise as some folks be": "The devil take his wisdom!" said The Doctor, looking somewhat grim, "What, Woman! should I know of him?" 260 And, grumbling, he went back to bed!
"O woe is me! O woe is me! Here will I die; here will I die; I thought to find my lost one here, [23] But he is neither far nor near, 265 Oh! what a wretched Mother I!"
She stops, she stands, she looks about; Which way to turn she cannot tell. Poor Betty! it would ease her pain If she had heart to knock again; 270 —The clock strikes three—a dismal knell!
Then up along the town she hies, No wonder if her senses fail; This piteous news so much it shocked her, She quite forgot to send the Doctor, 275 To comfort poor old Susan Gale.
And now she's high upon the down, And she can see a mile of road: "O cruel! I'm almost threescore; Such night as this was ne'er before, 280 There's not a single soul abroad."
She listens, but she cannot hear The foot of horse, the voice of man; The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, 285 You hear it now, if e'er you can.
The owlets through the long blue night Are shouting to each other still: Fond lovers! yet not quite hob nob, They lengthen out the tremulous sob, 290 That echoes far from hill to hill.
Poor Betty now has lost all hope, Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin, A green-grown pond she just has past, And from the brink she hurries fast, 295 Lest she should drown herself therein.
And now she sits her down and weeps; Such tears she never shed before; "Oh dear, dear Pony! my sweet joy! Oh carry back my Idiot Boy! 300 And we will ne'er o'erload thee more."
A thought is come into her head: The Pony he is mild and good, And we have always used him well; Perhaps he's gone along the dell, 305 And carried Johnny to the wood.
Then up she springs as if on wings; She thinks no more of deadly sin; If Betty fifty ponds should see, The last of all her thoughts would be 310 To drown herself therein.
O Reader! now that I might tell What Johnny and his Horse are doing! What they've been doing all this time, Oh could I put it into rhyme, 315 A most delightful tale pursuing!
Perhaps, and no unlikely thought! He with his Pony now doth roam The cliffs and peaks so high that are, To lay his hands upon a star, 320 And in his pocket bring it home.
Perhaps he's turned himself about, His face unto his horse's tail, And, still and mute, in wonder lost, All silent as a horseman-ghost, 325 He travels slowly down the vale. [24]
And now, perhaps, is hunting [25] sheep, A fierce and dreadful hunter he; Yon valley, now so trim [26] and green, In five months' time, should he be seen, 330 A desert wilderness will be!
Perhaps, with head and heels on fire, And like the very soul of evil, He's galloping away, away, And so will gallop [27] on for aye, 335 The bane of all that dread the devil!
I to the Muses have been bound These fourteen years, by strong indentures: [A] O gentle Muses! let me tell But half of what to him befel; 340 He surely met [28] with strange adventures.
O gentle Muses! is this kind? Why will ye thus my suit repel? Why of your further aid bereave me? And can ye thus unfriended [29] leave me; 345 Ye Muses! whom I love so well?
Who's yon, that, near the waterfall, Which thunders down with headlong force Beneath the moon, yet shining fair, As careless as if nothing were, 350 Sits upright on a feeding horse?
Unto his horse—there feeding [30] free, He seems, I think, the rein to give; Of moon or stars he takes no heed; Of such we in romances read: 355 —'Tis Johnny! Johnny! as I live.
And that's the very Pony, too! Where is she, where is Betty Foy? She hardly can sustain her fears; The roaring waterfall she hears, 360 And cannot find her Idiot Boy.
Your Pony's worth his weight in gold: Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy! She's coming from among the trees, And now all full in view she sees 365 Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy.
And Betty sees the Pony too: Why stand you thus, good Betty Foy? It is no goblin, 'tis no ghost, 'Tis he whom you so long have lost, 370 He whom you love, your Idiot Boy.
She looks again—her arms are up— She screams—she cannot move for joy; She darts, as with a torrent's force, She almost has o'erturned the Horse, 375 And fast she holds her Idiot Boy.
And Johnny burrs, and laughs aloud; Whether in cunning or in joy I cannot tell; but while he laughs, Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs 380 To hear again her Idiot Boy.
And now she's at the Pony's tail, And now is [31] at the Pony's head,— On that side now, and now on this; And, almost stifled with her bliss, 385 A few sad tears does Betty shed.
She kisses o'er and o'er again Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy; She's happy here, is happy there, [32] She is uneasy every where; 390 Her limbs are all alive with joy.
She pats the Pony, where or when She knows not, happy Betty Foy! The little Pony glad may be, But he is milder far than she, 395 You hardly can perceive his joy.
"Oh! Johnny, never mind the Doctor; You've done your best, and that is all:" She took the reins, when this was said, And gently turned the Pony's head 400 From the loud waterfall.
By this the stars were almost gone, The moon was setting on the hill, So pale you scarcely looked at her: The little birds began to stir, 405 Though yet their tongues were still.
The Pony, Betty, and her Boy, Wind slowly through the woody dale; And who is she, betimes abroad, That hobbles up the steep rough road? 410 Who is it, but old Susan Gale?
Long time lay Susan lost in thought; [33] And many dreadful fears beset her, Both for her Messenger and Nurse; And, as her mind grew worse and worse, 415 Her body—it grew better.
She turned, she tossed herself in bed, On all sides doubts and terrors met her; Point after point did she discuss; And, while her mind was fighting thus, 420 Her body still grew better.
"Alas! what is become of them? These fears can never be endured; I'll to the wood."—The word scarce said, Did Susan rise up from her bed, 425 As if by magic cured.
Away she goes [34] up hill and down, And to the wood at length is come; She spies her Friends, she shouts a greeting; Oh me! it is a merry meeting 430 As ever was in Christendom.
The owls have hardly sung their last, While our four travellers homeward wend; The owls have hooted all night long, And with the owls began my song, 435 And with the owls must end.
For while they all were travelling home, Cried Betty, "Tell us, Johnny, do, Where all this long night you have been, What you have heard, what you have seen: 440 And, Johnny, mind you tell us true."
Now Johnny all night long had heard The owls in tuneful concert strive; No doubt too he the moon had seen; For in the moonlight he had been 445 From eight o'clock till five.
And thus, to Betty's question, he Made answer, like a traveller bold, (His very words I give to you,) "The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, 450 And the sun did shine so cold!" —Thus answered Johnny in his glory, And that was all his travel's story.
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1827.
He shouts from ... 1798.]
[Variant 2: Inserted in the editions 1798 to 1820.
Beneath the moon that shines so bright, Till she is tired, let Betty Foy With girt and stirrup fiddle-faddle; But wherefore set upon a saddle Him whom she loves, her idiot boy?]
[Variant 3:
1836.
There's scarce a soul that's out of bed; 1798.]
[Variant 4: Inserted in the editions 1798 to 1820.
The world will say 'tis very idle, Bethink you of the time of night; There's not a mother, no not one, But when she hears what you have done, Oh! Betty she'll be in a fright.]
[Variant 5:
1836.
Has up upon the saddle set, 1798.]
[Variant 6:
1820.
... that's in the dale, 1798.]
[Variant 7:
1827.
... bough's ... 1798.]
[Variant 8:
1827.
And Betty's standing at the door, And Betty's face with joy o'erflows, 1798.]
[Variant 9:
1820.
And Johnny's in a merry tune, 1798.]
[Variant 10:
1827.
And ... 1798.]
[Variant 11:
1836.
What comfort Johnny soon will bring, 1798.
What comfort soon her Boy will bring, 1827.]
[Variant 12:
1827.
And Betty's still at Susan's side: By this time she's not quite so flurried; 1798.]
[Variant 13:
1827.
They'll both be ... 1798.]
[Variant 14:
1827.
'Tis on the stroke—"If Johnny's near," Quoth Betty, "he will soon be here," 1798.]
[Variant 15:
1836.
Appear ... 1798.]
[Variant 16:
1827.
... she begins to fear 1798.]
[Variant 17:
1800.
Good Betty [i] ... 1798.]
[Variant 18:
1836.
She's past the bridge that's in the dale, And now the thought torments her sore, 1798.
She's past the bridge far in the dale; 1820.
The bridge is past—far in the dale; 1827.]
[Variant 19:
1827.
... that's in the brook, 1798.]
[Variant 20:
1827.
And now she's high ... 1798.]
[Variant 21.
1827.
...would ... 1798.]
[Variant 22.
1836.
And now she's got into the town, 1798.]
[Variant 23:
1827.
... my Johnny here, 1798.]
[Variant 24.
1836.
All like a silent horseman-ghost, He travels on along the vale. 1798.]
[Variant 25.
1820.
... he's hunting . . 1798.]
[Variant 26.
1820.
...that's so trim .... 1798.]
[Variant 27.
1827.
...he'll gallop .... 1798.]
[Variant 28.
1802.
For sure he met ..... 1798.]
[Variant 29.
1798.
...unfriendly....
Only in MS. and in the edition of 1805.]
[Variant 30:
1827.
...that's feeding ... 1798.]
[Variant 31:
1827.
And now she's ... 1798.]
[Variant 32:
1827.
... she's happy there, 1798.]
[Variant 33:
1827
Long Susan lay deep lost in thought, 1798.]
[Variant 34: 1836.
... she posts ... 1798.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: As Wordsworth gives the date of this poem as 1798, the above line implies that his poetical work began at least in 1784, when he was fourteen years of age. The note to 'An Evening Walk' dictated to Miss Fenwick (see p. 5) implies the same.—Ed.]
* * * * *
SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE VARIANT
[Sub-Footnote i: This change was made by S. T. C.—Ed.]
* * * * *
THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR [A]
Composed 1798.—Published 1800.
The class of Beggars to which the old man here described belongs, will probably soon be extinct. It consisted of poor, and, mostly, old and infirm persons, who confined themselves to a stated round in their neighbourhood, and had certain fixed days, on which, at different houses, they regularly received charity; sometimes in money, but mostly in provisions.-W. W. 1800.
[Observed, and with great benefit to my own heart, when I was a child. Written at Racedown and Alfoxden in my twenty-third year. [B] The Political Economists were about that time beginning their war upon mendicity in all its forms, and by implication, if not directly, on alms-giving also. This heartless process has been carried as far as it can go by the AMENDED Poor Law Bill, tho' the inhumanity that prevails in this measure is somewhat disguised by the profession that one of its objects is to throw the poor upon the voluntary donations of their neighbours; that is, if rightly interpreted, to force them into a condition between relief in the Union Poor House and alms robbed of their Christian grace and spirit, as being forced rather from the benevolent than given by them; while the avaricious and selfish, and all, in fact, but the humane and charitable, are at liberty to keep all they possess from their distressed brethren.—I. F.]
Included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Old Age."—Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
I saw an aged Beggar in my walk; And he was seated, by the highway side, On a low structure of rude masonry Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they Who lead their horses down the steep rough road 5 May thence remount at ease. The aged Man Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone That overlays the pile; and, from a bag All white with flour, the dole of village dames, He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one; 10 And scanned them with a fixed and serious look Of idle computation. In the sun, Upon the second step of that small pile, Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills, He sat, and ate [1] his food in solitude: 15 And ever, scattered from his palsied hand, That, still attempting to prevent the waste, Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers Fell on the ground; and the small mountain birds, Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal, 20 Approached within the length of half his staff.
Him from my childhood have I known; and then He was so old, he seems not older now; He travels on, a solitary Man, So helpless in appearance, that for him 25 The sauntering Horseman throws not with a slack And careless hand [2] his alms upon the ground, But stops,—that he may safely lodge the coin Within the old Man's hat; nor quits him so, But still, when he has given his horse the rein, 30 Watches the aged Beggar with a look [3] Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends The toll-gate, when in summer at her door She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees The aged beggar coming, quits her work, 35 And lifts the latch for him that he may pass. The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake The aged Beggar in the woody lane, Shouts to him from behind; and, if thus warned [4] The old man does not change his course, the boy 40 Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside, And passes gently by, without a curse Upon his lips, or anger at his heart.
He travels on, a solitary Man; His age has no companion. On the ground 45 His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along, They move along the ground; and, evermore, Instead of common and habitual sight Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale, And the blue sky, one little span of earth 50 Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day, Bow-bent, his eyes for ever on the ground, [5] He plies his weary journey; seeing still, And seldom [6] knowing that he sees, some straw, Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track, 55 The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left Impressed on the white road,—in the same line, At distance still the same. Poor Traveller! His staff trails with him; scarcely do his feet [7] Disturb the summer dust; he is so still 60 In look and motion, that the cottage curs, [8] Ere he has [9] passed the door, will turn away, Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls, The vacant and the busy, maids and youths, And urchins newly breeched—all pass him by: 65 Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind.
But deem not this Man useless.—Statesmen! ye Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye Who have a broom still ready in your hands To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud, 70 Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate Your talents, power, or [10] wisdom, deem him not A burthen of the earth! 'Tis nature's law That none, the meanest of created things, Of forms created the most vile and brute, 75 The dullest or most noxious, should exist Divorced from good—a spirit and pulse of good, A life and soul, to every mode of being Inseparably linked. Then be assured That least of all can aught—that ever owned 80 The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime [C] Which man is born to—sink, howe'er depressed, So low as to be scorned without a sin; Without offence to God cast out of view; Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower 85 Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement Worn out and worthless. [11] While from door to door This old Man creeps, [12] the villagers in him Behold a record which together binds Past deeds and offices of charity, 90 Else unremembered, and so keeps alive The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years, And that half-wisdom half-experience gives, Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign To selfishness and cold oblivious cares. 95 Among the farms and solitary huts, Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages, Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds, The mild necessity of use compels To acts of love; and habit does the work 100 Of reason; yet prepares that after-joy Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul, By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued Doth find herself [13] insensibly disposed To virtue and true goodness. 105 Some there are, By their good works exalted, lofty minds And meditative, authors of delight And happiness, which to the end of time Will live, and spread, and kindle: even such minds [14] 110 In childhood, from this solitary Being, Or from like wanderer, haply have received [15] (A thing more precious far than all that books Or the solicitudes of love can do!) That first mild touch of sympathy and thought, 115 In which they found their kindred with a world Where want and sorrow were. The easy man Who sits at his own door,—and, like the pear That [16] overhangs his head from the green wall, Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young, 120 The prosperous and unthinking, they who live Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove Of their own kindred;—all behold in him A silent monitor, which on their minds Must needs impress a transitory thought 125 Of self-congratulation, to the heart Of each recalling his peculiar boons, His charters and exemptions; and, perchance, Though he to no one give the fortitude And circumspection needful to preserve 130 His present blessings, and to husband up The respite of the season, he, at least, And 'tis no vulgar service, makes them felt.
Yet further.—Many, I believe, there are Who live a life of virtuous decency, 135 Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel No self-reproach; who of the moral law Established in the land where they abide Are strict observers; and not negligent In acts of love to those with whom they dwell, [17] 140 Their kindred, and the children of their blood. Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace! —But of the poor man ask, the abject poor; Go, and demand of him, if there be here In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, 145 And these inevitable charities, Wherewith to satisfy the human soul? No—man is dear to man; the poorest poor Long for some moments in a weary life When they can know and feel that they have been, 150 Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out Of some small blessings; have been kind to such As needed kindness, for this single cause, That we have all of us one human heart. —Such pleasure is to one kind Being known, 155 My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself By her own wants, she from her store [18] of meal Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door 160 Returning with exhilarated heart, Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven.
Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! And while in that vast solitude to which The tide of things has borne [19] him, he appears 165 To breathe and live but for himself alone, Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about The good which the benignant law of Heaven Has hung around him: and, while life is his, Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers 170 To tender offices and pensive thoughts. [D] —Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! And, long as he can wander, let him breathe The freshness of the valleys; let his blood Struggle with frosty air and winter snows; 175 And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath Beat his grey locks against his withered face. Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness Gives the last human interest to his heart. May never HOUSE, misnamed of INDUSTRY, 180 Make him a captive!—for that pent-up din, Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air, Be his the natural silence of old age! Let him be free of mountain solitudes; And have around him, whether heard or not, 185 The pleasant melody of woodland birds. Few are his pleasures: if his eyes have now Been doomed so long to settle upon earth That not without some effort they behold The countenance of the horizontal sun, [20] 190 Rising or setting, let the light at least Find a free entrance to their languid orbs. And let him, where and when he will, sit down Beneath the trees, or on a [21] grassy bank Of highway side, and with the little birds 195 Share his chance-gathered meal; and, finally, As in the eye of Nature he has lived, So in the eye of Nature let him die! [E]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1805.
... eat ... 1800.]
[Variant 2:
1837.
The sauntering horseman-traveller does not throw With careless hand ... 1800.]
[Variant 3:
1827.
Towards the aged Beggar turns a look, 1800.]
[Variant 4:
1827.
... and, if perchance 1800.]
[Variant 5:
1800.
... and, evermore, Instead of Nature's fair variety,] Her ample scope of hill and dale, of clouds And the blue sky, the same short span of earth Is all his prospect. When the little birds Flit over him, if their quick shadows strike Across his path, he does not lift his head Like one whose thoughts have been unsettled. So Brow-bent, his eyes for ever ... MS.]
[Variant 6:
1827.
And never ... 1800.]
[Variant 7:
1800.
... his slow footsteps scarce MS.]
[Variant 8:
1800.
... that the miller's dog Is tired of barking at him. MS.]
[Variant 9:
1837.
... have ... 1800.]
[Variant 10:
1837.
... and ... 1800.]
[Variant 11: The lines from "Then be assured" to "worthless" were added in the edition of 1837.]
[Variant 12:
1837.
... While thus he creeps From door to door, ... 1800.]
[Variant 13:
1832.
... itself ... 1800.]
[Variant 14:
1827.
... ; minds like these, 1800.]
[Variant 15:
1827.
This helpless wanderer, have perchance receiv'd, 1800.]
[Variant 16:
1827.
Which ... 1800.]
[Variant 17:
1827.
... and not negligent, Meanwhile, in any tenderness of heart Or act of love ... 1800.]
[Variant 18:
1827.
... chest ... 1800.]
[Variant 19:
1827.
... led ... 1800.]
[Variant 20:
1837.
... if his eyes, which now Have been so long familiar with the earth, No more behold the horizontal sun 1800.
... if his eyes have now Been doomed so long to settle on the earth That not without some effort they behold The countenance of the horizontal sun, 1815.]
[Variant 21:
1837.
... or by the ... 1800.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: In an early MS. the title of this poem is 'Description of a Beggar', and in the editions 1800 to 1820 the title was 'The Old Cumberland Beggar, a Description'.—Ed.]
[Footnote B: Wordsworth went to Racedown in 1795, when he was twenty-five years of age; and was at Alfoxden in his twenty-eighth year.—Ed.]
[Footnote C: Compare Ovid's 'Metamorphoses' I. 84:
Os homini sublime dedit, coelumque videre Jussit et erectos ad sidera tollere vultus.
Ed.]
[Footnote D: With this poem compare Frederick William Faber's "Hymn," which he called 'The Old Labourer', beginning:
What end doth he fulfil! He seems without a will. Ed.]
[Footnote E: In January 1801 Charles Lamb thus wrote to Wordsworth of his 'Old Cumberland Beggar':
"It appears to me a fault that the instructions conveyed in it are too direct, and like a lecture: they don't slide into the mind of the reader while he is imagining no such matter,"
At the same time he refers to
"the delicate and curious feeling in the wish of the Beggar that he may have about him the melody of birds, although he hears them not."
('The Letters of Charles Lamb', edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i. p. 163.)—Ed.]
* * * * *
ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY
Composed 1798.—Published 1798.
[If I recollect right, these verses were an overflowing from 'The Old Cumberland Beggar'.—I. F.]
They were published in the first edition of "Lyrical Ballads" (1798), but 'The Old Cumberland Beggar' was not published till 1800. In an early MS., however, the two are incorporated.
In the edition of 1798, the poem was called, 'Old Man Travelling; Animal Tranquillity and Decay, a Sketch'. In 1800, the title was 'Animal Tranquillity and Decay. A Sketch'. In 1845, it was 'Animal Tranquillity and Decay'.
It was included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Old Age."—Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
The little hedgerow birds, That peck along the road, regard him not. He travels on, and in his face, his step, His gait, is one expression: every limb, His look and bending figure, all bespeak 5 A man who does not move with pain, but moves With thought.—He is insensibly subdued To settled quiet: he is one by whom All effort seems forgotten; one to whom Long patience hath [1] such mild composure given, 10 That patience now doth seem a thing of which He hath no need. He is by nature led To peace so perfect that the young behold With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels. [2]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1805.
...has... 1798.]
[Variant 2:
1815.
—I asked him whither he was bound, and what The object of his journey; he replied "Sir! I am going many miles to take A last leave of my son, a mariner, Who from a sea-fight has been brought to Falmouth, And there is dying in an hospital." 1798.
... he replied That he was going many miles to take A last leave of his son, a mariner, Who from a sea-fight had been brought to Falmouth, And there was dying [i] in an hospital. 1800 to 1805.]
* * * * *
SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE VARIANT
[Sub-Footnote i: The edition of 1800 has "lying," evidently a misprint.—Ed.]
* * * * *
APPENDIX
I
The following is the full text of the original edition of 'Descriptive Sketches', first published in 1793:
DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES
IN VERSE. TAKEN DURING A PEDESTRIAN TOUR IN THE ITALIAN, GRISON, SWISS, AND SAVOYARD ALPS. BY W. WORDSWORTH, B.A. OF ST. JOHN'S, CAMBRIDGE. "LOCA PASTORUM DESERTA ATQUE OTIA DIA." 'Lucret'. "CASTELLA IN TUMULIS— ET LONGE SALTUS LATEQUE VACANTES." 'Virgil'. LONDON: PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, ST. PAUL'S CHURCH-YARD. 1793.
TO THE REV. ROBERT JONES, FELLOW OF ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.
Dear sir, However desirous I might have been of giving you proofs of the high place you hold in my esteem, I should have been cautious of wounding your delicacy by thus publicly addressing you, had not the circumstance of my having accompanied you amongst the Alps, seemed to give this dedication a propriety sufficient to do away any scruples which your modesty might otherwise have suggested.
In inscribing this little work to you I consult my heart. You know well how great is the difference between two companions lolling in a post chaise, and two travellers plodding slowly along the road, side by side, each with his little knap-sack of necessaries upon his shoulders. How much more of heart between the two latter!
I am happy in being conscious I shall have one reader who will approach the conclusion of these few pages with regret. You they must certainly interest, in reminding you of moments to which you can hardly look back without a pleasure not the less dear from a shade of melancholy. You will meet with few images without recollecting the spot where we observed them together, consequently, whatever is feeble in my design, or spiritless in my colouring, will be amply supplied by your own memory.
With still greater propriety I might have inscribed to you a description of some of the features of your native mountains, through which we have wandered together, in the same manner, with so much pleasure. But the sea-sunsets which give such splendour to the vale of Clwyd, Snowdon, the chair of Idris, the quiet village of Bethkelert, Menai and her druids, the Alpine steeps of the Conway, and the still more interesting windings of the wizard stream of the Dee remain yet untouched. Apprehensive that my pencil may never be exercised on these subjects, I cannot let slip this opportunity of thus publicly assuring you with how much affection and esteem,
I am Dear Sir,
Your most obedient very humble Servant
W. WORDSWORTH.
ARGUMENT
'Happiness (if she had been to be found on Earth) amongst the Charms of Nature—Pleasures of the pedestrian Traveller—Author crosses France to the Alps—Present state of the Grande Chartreuse—Lake of Como—Time, Sunset—Same Scene, Twilight—Same Scene, Morning, it's Voluptuous Character; Old Man and Forest Cottage Music—River Tusa—Via Mala and Grison Gypsey. Valley of Sckellenen-thal—Lake of Uri, Stormy Sunset—Chapel of William Tell—force of Local Emotion—Chamois Chaser—View of the higher Alps—Manner of Life of a Swiss Mountaineer interspersed with views of the higher Alps—Golden Age of the Alps—Life and Views continued—Ranz des Vaches famous Swiss Air—Abbey of Einsiedlen and it's Pilgrims—Valley of Chamouny—Mont Blanc—Slavery of Savoy—Influence of Liberty on Cottage Happiness—France—Wish for the extirpation of Slavery—Conclusion.'
DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES [A]
Were there, below, a spot of holy ground, By Pain and her sad family unfound, Sure, Nature's GOD that spot to man had giv'n, Where murmuring rivers join the song of ev'n; Where falls the purple morning far and wide 5 In flakes of light upon the mountain-side; Where summer Suns in ocean sink to rest, Or moonlight Upland lifts her hoary breast; Where Silence, on her night of wing, o'er-broods Unfathom'd dells and undiscover'd woods; 10 Where rocks and groves the power of waters shakes In cataracts, or sleeps in quiet lakes.
But doubly pitying Nature loves to show'r Soft on his wounded heart her healing pow'r, Who plods o'er hills and vales his road forlorn, 15 Wooing her varying charms from eve to morn. No sad vacuities 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; 20 For him sod-seats the cottage-door adorn, And peeps the far-off spire, his evening bourn! Dear is the forest frowning o'er his head, And dear the green-sward to his velvet tread; Moves there a cloud o'er mid-day's flaming eye? 25 Upward he looks—and calls it luxury; Kind Nature's charities his steps attend, In every babbling brook he finds a friend, While chast'ning thoughts of sweetest use, bestow'd By Wisdom, moralize his pensive road. 30 Host of his welcome inn, the noon-tide bow'r, To his spare meal he calls the passing poor; He views the Sun uprear his golden fire, Or sink, with heart alive like [B] Memnon's lyre; Blesses the Moon that comes with kindest ray 35 To light him shaken by his viewless way. With bashful fear no cottage children steal From him, a brother at the cottage meal, His humble looks no shy restraint impart, Around him plays at will the virgin heart. 40 While unsuspended wheels the village dance, The maidens eye him with inquiring glance, Much wondering what sad stroke of crazing Care Or desperate Love could lead a wanderer there.
Me, lur'd by hope her sorrows to remove, 45 A heart, that could not much itself approve, O'er Gallia's wastes of corn dejected led, [C] Her road elms rustling thin above my head, Or through her truant pathway's native charms, By secret villages and lonely farms, 50 To where the Alps, ascending white in air, Toy with the Sun, and glitter from afar.
Ev'n now I sigh at hoary Chartreuse' doom Weeping beneath his chill of mountain gloom. Where now is fled that Power whose frown severe 55 Tam'd "sober Reason" till she crouch'd in fear? That breath'd a death-like peace these woods around Broke only by th' unvaried torrent's sound, Or prayer-bell by the dull cicada drown'd. The cloister startles at the gleam of arms, 60 And Blasphemy the shuddering fane alarms; Nod the cloud-piercing pines their troubl'd heads, Spires, rocks, and lawns, a browner night o'erspreads. Strong terror checks the female peasant's sighs, And start th' astonish'd shades at female eyes. 65 The thundering tube the aged angler hears, And swells the groaning torrent with his tears. From Bruno's forest screams the frighted jay, And slow th' insulted eagle wheels away. The cross with hideous laughter Demons mock, 70 By [D] angels planted on the aereal rock. The "parting Genius" sighs with hollow breath Along the mystic streams of [E] Life and Death. Swelling the outcry dull, that long resounds Portentous, thro' her old woods' trackless bounds, 75 Deepening her echoing torrents' awful peal And bidding paler shades her form conceal, [F] Vallombre, mid her falling fanes, deplores, For ever broke, the sabbath of her bow'rs.
More pleas'd, my foot the hidden margin roves 80 Of Como bosom'd deep in chesnut groves. No meadows thrown between, the giddy steeps Tower, bare or sylvan, from the narrow deeps. To towns, whose shades of no rude sound complain, To ringing team unknown and grating wain, 85 To flat-roof'd towns, that touch the water's bound, Or lurk in woody sunless glens profound, Or from the bending rocks obtrusive cling, And o'er the whiten'd wave their shadows fling; Wild round the steeps the little [G] pathway twines, 90 And Silence loves it's purple roof of vines. The viewless lingerer hence, at evening, sees From rock-hewn steps the sail between the trees; Or marks, mid opening cliffs, fair dark-ey'd maids Tend the small harvest of their garden glades, 95 Or, led by distant warbling notes, surveys, With hollow ringing ears and darkening gaze, Binding the charmed soul in powerless trance, Lip-dewing Song and ringlet-tossing Dance, Where sparkling eyes and breaking smiles illume 100 The bosom'd cabin's lyre-enliven'd gloom; Or stops the solemn mountain-shades to view Stretch, o'er their pictur'd mirror, broad and blue, Tracking the yellow sun from steep to steep, As up th' opposing hills, with tortoise foot, they creep. 105 Here half a village shines, in gold array'd, Bright as the moon, half hides itself in shade. From the dark sylvan roofs the restless spire Inconstant glancing, mounts like springing fire. There, all unshaded, blazing forests throw no 110 Rich golden verdure on the waves below. Slow glides the sail along th' illumin'd shore, And steals into the shade the lazy oar. Soft bosoms breathe around contagious sighs, And amourous music on the water dies. 115 Heedless how Pliny, musing here, survey'd Old Roman boats and figures thro' the shade, Pale Passion, overpower'd, retires and woos The thicket, where th' unlisten'd stock-dove coos. |
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