Chapter 2

(especially the sonnet addressed to Miss Maria Williams); but, since they have appeared elsewhere, I feel justified in now reprinting even that trivial youthful effusion, signed "Axiologus." I rejoice, however, that there is no likelihood that the "Somersetshire Tragedy" will ever see the light. When I told Wordsworth's successor in the Laureateship that I had burned a copy of that poem, sent to me by one to whom it had been confided, his delight was great. It is the chronicle of a revolting crime, with nothing in the verse to warrant its publication. The only curious thing about it is that Wordsworth wrote it. With this exception, there is no reason why the fragments which he did not himself republish, and others which he published but afterwards suppressed, should not now be printed. The suppression of some of these by the poet himself is as unaccountable, as is his omission of certain stanzas in the earlier poems from their later versions. Even the Cambridge 'Installation Ode', which is so feeble, will be reprinted. [16] 'The Glowworm', which only appeared in the edition of 1807, will be republished in full. 'Andrew Jones',--also suppressed after appearing in "Lyrical Ballads" of 1800, 1802, and 1805,--will be replaced, in like manner. The youthful 'School Exercise' written at Hawkshead, the translation from the 'Georgics' of Virgil, the poem addressed 'To the Queen' in 1846, will appear in their chronological place in vol. viii. There are also a translation of some French stanzas by Francis Wrangham on 'The Birth of Love'-a poem entitled 'The Eagle and the Dove', which was privately printed in a volume, consisting chiefly of French fragments, and called 'La petite Chouannerie, ou Historie d'un College Breton sous l'Empire'--a sonnet on the rebuilding of a church at Cardiff--an Election Squib written during the Lowther and Brougham contest for the representation of the county of Cumberland in 1818--some stanzas written in the Visitors' Book at the Ferry, Windermere, and other fragments. Then, since Wordsworth published some verses by his sister Dorothy in his own volumes, other unpublished fragments by Miss Wordsworth may find a place in this edition. I do not attach much importance, however, to the recovery of these unpublished poems. The truth is, as Sir Henry Taylor--himself a poet and critic of no mean order--remarked [17],

"In these days, when a great man's path to posterity is likely to be more and more crowded, there is a tendency to create an obstruction, in the desire to give an impulse. To gather about a man's work all the details that can be found out about it is, in my opinion, to put a drag upon it; and, as of the Works, so of the Life."

The industrious labour of some editors in disinterring the trivial works of great men is not a commendable industry. All great writers have occasionally written trifles--this is true even of Shakespeare--and if they wished them to perish, why should we seek to resuscitate them? Besides, this labour--whether due to the industry of admiring friends, or to the ambition of the literary resurrectionist--is futile; because the verdict of Time is sure, and posterity is certain to consign the recovered trivialities to kindly oblivion. The question which should invariably present itself to the editor of the fragments of a great writer is, "_Can these bones live_?" If they cannot, they had better never see the light. Indeed the only good reason for reprinting the fragments which have been lost (because the author himself attached no value to them), is that, in a complete collection of the works of a great man, some of them may have a biographic or psychological value. But have we any right to reproduce, from an antiquarian motive, what--in a literary sense--is either trivial, or feeble, or sterile?

We must, however, distinguish between what is suitable for an edition meant either to popularise an author, or to interpret him, and an edition intended to bring together all that is worthy of preservation for posterity. There is great truth in what Mr. Arnold has lately said of Byron:

"I question whether by reading everything which he gives us, we are so likely to acquire an admiring sense, even of his variety and abundance, as by reading what he gives us at his happier moments. Receive him absolutely without omission and compromise, follow his whole outpouring, stanza by stanza, and line by line, from the very commencement to the very end, and he is capable of being tiresome." [18]

This is quite true; nevertheless, English literature demands a complete edition of all the works of Byron: and it may be safely predicted that, for weightier reasons and with greater urgency, it will continue to call for the collected works of Wordsworth.

It should also be noted that the fact of Wordsworth's having dictated to Miss Fenwick (so late as 1843) a stanza from 'The Convict' in his note to 'The Lament of Mary Queen of Scots' (1817), justifies the inclusion of the whole of that (suppressed) poem in such an edition as this.

The fact that Wordsworth did not republish all his Poems, in his final edition of 1849-50, is not conclusive evidence that he thought them unworthy of preservation, and reproduction. It must be remembered that 'The Prelude' itself was a posthumous publication; and also that the fragmentary canto of 'The Recluse', entitled "Home at Grasmere"--as well as the other canto published in 1886, and entitled (most prosaically) "Composed when a probability existed of our being obliged to quit Rydal Mount as a residence"--were not published by the poet himself. I am of opinion that his omission of the stanzas beginning:

Among all lovely things my Love had been,

and of the sonnet on his 'Voyage down the Rhine', was due to sheer forgetfulness of their existence. Few poets remember all their past, fugitive, productions. At the same time, there are other fragments,--written when he was experimenting with his theme, and when the inspiration of genius had forsaken him,--which it is unfortunate that he did not himself destroy.

Among the Poems which Wordsworth suppressed, in his final edition, is the Latin translation of 'The Somnambulist' by his son. This will be republished, more especially as it was included by Wordsworth himself in the second edition of his "Yarrow Revisited."

It may be well to mention the 'repetitions' which are inevitable in this edition,

(1) As already explained, those fragments of 'The Recluse'--which were issued in all the earlier volumes, and afterwards incorporated in 'The Prelude'--are printed as they originally appeared.

(2) Short Notes are extracted from Dorothy Wordsworth's 'Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland' (1803), which illustrate the Poems composed during that Tour, while the whole text of that Tour will be printed in full in subsequent volumes.

(3) Other fragments, including the lines beginning,

Wisdom and Spirit of the universe,

will be printed both by themselves in their chronological place, and in the longer poem of which they form a part, according to the original plan of their author.

A detail, perhaps not too trivial to mention, is that, in this edition--at the suggestion of several friends--I have followed the example of Professor Dowden in his Aldine edition, and numbered the lines of almost all the poems--even the sonnets. When I have not done so, the reason will be obvious; viz. either the structure, or the brevity, of the poem. [19]

In giving the date of each poem, I have used the word "composed," rather than "written," very much because Wordsworth himself,--and his sister, in her Journals--almost invariably use the word "composed"; although he criticised the term as applied to the creation of a poem, as if it were a manufactured article. In his Chronological Table, Mr. Dowden adopts the word "composed"; but, in his edition of the Poems, he has made use of the term" written." [20]

No notice (or almost none) of misprints in Wordsworth's own text is taken, in the notes to this edition. Sometimes an error occurred, and was carried on through more than one edition, and corrected in the next: e.g., in 'The Childless Father', the editions of 1827, 1832, and 1836 have the line:

Fresh springs of green boxwood, not six months before.

In the 'errata' of the edition of 1836 this is corrected to "fresh sprigs." There are other 'errata', which remained in the edition of 1849-50, e.g., in 'Rob Roy's Grave', "Vools" for "Veols," and mistakes in quotations from other poets, such as "invention" for "instruction," in Wither's poem on the Daisy. These are corrected without mention.

I should perhaps add that, while I have included, amongst the illustrative notes, extracts from Henry Crabb Robinson's 'Diary', etc., many of them are now published for the first time. These voluminous MSS. of Robinson's have been re-examined with care; and the reader who compares the three volumes of the 'Diary', etc.--edited by Dr. Sadler--with the extracts now printed from the original MS., will see where sentences omitted by the original editor have been included.

As this edition proceeds, my debt to many--who have been so kind as to put their Wordsworth MSS. and memoranda at my disposal--will be apparent.

It is difficult to acknowledge duly my obligation to collectors of autograph Letters--Mr. Morrison, the late Mr. Locker Lampson, the late Mr. Mackay, of the Grange, Trowbridge, and a score of others--but, I may say in general, that the kindness of those who possess Wordsworth MSS. in allowing me to examine them, has been a very genuine evidence of their interest in the Poet, and his work.

My special thanks are due to Mr. Gordon Wordsworth, who has, in the kindest manner and for many years, placed everything at my disposal, which could further my labour on his grandfather's Works.

Finally, I wish to express the great debt I owe to the late Mr. J. Dykes Campbell, for many suggestions, and for his unwearied interest in this work,--which I think was second only to his interest in Coleridge--and also to Mr. W. B. Kinghorn for his valuable assistance in the revision of proof sheets.

If there are any desiderata, in reference to Wordsworth--in addition to a new Life, a critical Essay, and such a Bibliography of Criticism as will be adequate for posterity--a 'Concordance' to his works is one of them. A correspondent once offered to prepare this for me, if I found a publisher: and another has undertaken to compile a volume of 'parallel passages' from the earlier poets of England, and of the world. A Concordance might very well form part of a volume of 'Wordsworthiana', and be a real service to future students of the poet.

William Knight.

[Footnote 1: In addition to my own detection of errors in the text and notes to the editions 1882-9, I acknowledge special obligation to the late Vice-Chancellor of the Victoria University, Principal Greenwood, who went over every volume with laborious care, and sent me the result. To the late Mr. J. Dykes Campbell, to Mr. J. R. Tutin, to the Rev. Thomas Hutchinson of Kimbolton, and to many others, I am similarly indebted.]

[Footnote 2: See 'Memoirs of William Wordsworth', ii. pp. 113, 114.]

[Footnote 3: It is however different with the fragments which were published in all the editions issued in the poet's lifetime, and afterwards in 'The Prelude', such as the lines on "the immortal boy" of Windermere. These are printed in their chronological place, and also in the posthumous poem.]

[Footnote 4: 'Poems of Wordsworth selected and arranged by Matthew Arnold'. London: Macmillan and Co.]

[Footnote 5: See the 'Life of Sir W. Rowan Hamilton', vol. ii. pp, 132, 135.]

[Footnote 6: See the Preface to the American edition of 1837.]

[Footnote 7: It need hardly be explained that, in the case of a modern poet, these various readings are not like the conjectural guesses of critics and commentators as to what the original text was (as in the case of the Greek Poets, or of Dante, or even of Shakespeare). They are the actual alterations, introduced deliberately as improvements, by the hand of the poet himself.]

[Footnote 8: The collection in the British Museum, and those in all the University Libraries of the country, are incomplete.]

[Footnote 9: The publication of this edition was superintended by Mr. Carter, who acted as Wordsworth's secretary for thirty-seven years, and was appointed one of his literary executors.]

[Footnote 10: Let the indiscriminate admirer of "first editions" turn to this quarto, and perhaps even he may wonder why it has been rescued from oblivion. I am only aware of the existence of five copies of the edition of 1793; and although it has a certain autobiographic value, I do not think that many who read it once will return to it again, except as a literary curiosity. Here--and not in "Lyrical Ballads" or 'The Excursion'--was the quarry where Jeffrey or Gifford might have found abundant material for criticism.]

[Footnote 11: It is unfortunate that the 'Memoirs' do not tell us to what poem the remark applies, or to whom the letter containing it was addressed.]

[Footnote 12: It is important to note that the printed text in several of the editions is occasionally cancelled in the list of 'errata', at the beginning or the end of the volume: also that many copies of the early editions (notably those of 1800), were bound up without the full 'errata' list. In this edition there were two such lists, one of them very brief. But the cancelled words in these 'errata' lists, must be taken into account, in determining the text of each edition.]

[Footnote 13: I. F. note. See vol. i. p. 5.]

[Footnote 14: I. F. note. See vol. i. p. 32.]

[Footnote 15: Advertisement. See vol. i. p. 78.]

[Footnote 16: How much of this poem was Wordsworth's own has not been definitely ascertained. I am of opinion that very little, if any of it, was his. It has been said that his nephew, the late Bishop of Lincoln, wrote most of it; but more recent evidence tends to show that it was the work of his son-in-law, Edward Quillinan.]

[Footnote 17: In a letter to the writer in 1882.]

[Footnote 18: 'The Poetry of Byron, chosen and arranged by Matthew Arnold'. London: Macmillan and Co.]

[Footnote 19: It may not be too trivial a fact to mention that Wordsworth numbered the lines of his earliest publication, 'An Evening Walk, in 1793.--Ed.]

[Footnote 20: Another fact, not too trivial to mention, is that in the original MS. of the 'Lines composed at Grasmere', etc., Wordsworth sent it to the printer "Lines written," but changed it in proof to "Lines composed."--Ed.]

* * * * *

EXTRACT FROM THE CONCLUSION OF A POEM, COMPOSED IN ANTICIPATION OF LEAVING SCHOOL

Composed 1786.--Published 1815

This poem was placed by Wordsworth among his "Juvenile Pieces." The following note was prefixed to that Series, from 1820 to 1832:

"Of the Poems in this class, "THE EVENING WALK" and "DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES" were first published in 1793. They are reprinted with some unimportant alterations that were chiefly made very soon after their publication. It would have been easy to amend them, in many passages, both as to sentiment and expression, and I have not been altogether able to resist the temptation: but attempts of this kind are made at the risk of injuring those characteristic features, which, after all, will be regarded as the principal recommendation of juvenile poems."

In 1836 "unimportant" was erased before "alterations"; and after "temptation" the following was added, "as will be obvious to the attentive reader, in some instances: these are few, for I am aware that attempts of this kind," etc.

"The above, which was written some time ago, scarcely applies to the Poem, 'Descriptive Sketches', as it now stands. The corrections, though numerous, are not, however, such as to prevent its retaining with propriety a place in the class of 'Juvenile Pieces.'"

In the editions of 1845 and 1849, Wordsworth called his "Juvenile Pieces," "Poems written in Youth."--Ed.

["Dear native regions," etc., 1786, Hawkshead. The beautiful image with which this poem concludes suggested itself to me while I was resting in a boat along with my companions under the shade of a magnificent row of sycamores, which then extended their branches from the shore of the promontory upon which stands the ancient, and at that time the more picturesque, Hall of Coniston, the Seat of the Le Flemings from very early times. The Poem of which it was the conclusion, was of many hundred lines, and contained thoughts and images, most of which have been dispersed through my other writings.--I. F.]

In the editions 1815 to 1832, the title given to this poem was 'Extract from the conclusion of a Poem, composed upon leaving School'. The row of sycamores at Hawkshead, referred to in the Fenwick note, no longer exists.

In the "Autobiographical Memoranda," dictated by Wordsworth at Rydal Mount in November 1847, he says, " .... I wrote, while yet a schoolboy, a long poem running upon my own adventures, and the scenery of the county in which I was brought up. The only part of that poem which has been preserved is the conclusion of it, which stands at the beginning of my collected Poems." [A]

In the eighth book of 'The Prelude', (lines 468-475), this fragment is introduced, and there Wordsworth tells us that once, when boating on Coniston Lake (Thurston-mere) in his boyhood, he entered under a grove of trees on its "western marge," and glided "along the line of low-roofed water," "as in a cloister." He adds,

while, in that shade Loitering, I watched the golden beams of light Flung from the setting sun, as they reposed In silent beauty on the naked ridge Of a high eastern hill--thus flowed my thoughts In a pure stream of words fresh from the heart:

Ed.

* * * * *

THE POEM

Dear native regions, [B] I foretell, From what I feel at this farewell, That, wheresoe'er my steps may [1] tend, And whensoe'er my course shall end,

If in that hour a single tie [2] 5 Survive of local sympathy, My soul will cast the backward view, The longing look alone on you.

Thus, while the Sun sinks down to rest Far in the regions of the west, 10 Though to the vale no parting beam Be given, not one memorial gleam, [3] A lingering light he fondly throws [4] On the dear hills [5] where first he rose.

* * * * *

[Footnote A: See the 'Memoirs of William Wordsworth', by Christopher Wordsworth (1851), vol. i. pp. 10-31.--ED]

[Footnote B: Compare the 'Ode, composed in January 1816', stanza v.--Ed.]

* * * * *

[Variant 1:

1832.

....shall 1815.]

[Variant 2:

1815.

That, when the close of life draws near, And I must quit this earthly sphere, If in that hour a tender tie MS.]

[Variant 3:

1845.

Thus, when the Sun, prepared for rest, Hath gained the precincts of the West, Though his departing radiance fail To illuminate the hollow Vale, 1815.

Thus, from the precincts of the West, The Sun, when sinking down to rest, 1832.

... while sinking ... 1836.

Hath reached the precincts ... MS.]

[Variant 4:

1815.

A lingering lustre fondly throws 1832.

The edition of 1845 reverts to the reading of 1815.]

[Variant 5:

1815.

On the dear mountain-tops ... 1820.

The edition of 1845 returns to the text of 1815.]

* * * * *

WRITTEN IN VERY EARLY YOUTH

Composed 1786. [A]--Published 1807 [B]

From 1807 to 1843 this was placed by Wordsworth in his group of "Miscellaneous Sonnets." In 1845, it was transferred to the class of "Poems written in Youth." It is doubtful if it was really written in "'very' early youth." Its final form, at any rate, may belong to a later period.--Ed.

* * * * *

Calm is all nature as a resting wheel. The kine are couched upon the dewy grass; The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass, Is cropping audibly [1] his later meal: [C] Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal 5 O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky. Now, in this blank of things, a harmony, Home-felt, and home-created, comes [2] to heal That grief for which the senses still supply Fresh food; for only then, when memory 10 Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrain Those busy cares that would allay my pain; Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel The officious touch that makes me droop again.

* * * * *

[Footnote A: The date of the composition of this fragment is quite unknown.--Ed.]

[Footnote B: But previously, in 'The Morning Post', Feb. 13, 1802.--Ed.]

[Footnote C: Canon Ainger calls attention to the fact that there is here a parallel, possibly a reminiscence, from the 'Nocturnal Reverie' of the Countess of Winchelsea.

Whose stealing pace and lengthened shade we fear, Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear.

Ed.]

* * * * *

[Variant 1:

1827.

Is up, and cropping yet ... 1807.]

[Variant 2:

1838.

... seems ... 1807.]

* * * * *

AN EVENING WALK

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY

Composed 1787-9. [A]--Published 1793

[The young Lady to whom this was addressed was my Sister. It was composed at School, and during my first two College vacations. There is not an image in it which I have not observed; and, now in my seventy-third year, I recollect the time and place, when most of them were noticed. I will confine myself to one instance:

Waving his hat, the shepherd, from the vale, Directs his winding dog the cliffs to scale,-- The dog, loud barking, 'mid the glittering rocks, Hunts, where his master points, the intercepted flocks.

I was an eye-witness of this for the first time while crossing the Pass of Dunmail Raise. Upon second thought, I will mention another image:

And, fronting the bright west, yon oak entwines Its darkening boughs and leaves, in stronger lines.

This is feebly and imperfectly expressed, but I recollect distinctly the very spot where this first struck me. It was on the way between Hawkshead and Ambleside, and gave me extreme pleasure. The moment was important in my poetical history; for I date from it my consciousness of the infinite variety of natural appearances which had been unnoticed by the poets of any age or country, so far as I was acquainted with them; and I made a resolution to supply in some degree the deficiency. I could not have been at that time above fourteen years of age. The description of the swans, that follows, was taken from the daily opportunities I had of observing their habits, not as confined to the gentleman's park, but in a state of nature. There were two pairs of them that divided the lake of Esthwaite, and its in-and-out flowing streams, between them, never trespassing a single yard upon each other's separate domain. They were of the old magnificent species, bearing in beauty and majesty about the same relation to the Thames swan which that does to the goose. It was from the remembrance of those noble creatures, I took, thirty years after, the picture of the swan which I have discarded from the poem of 'Dion'. [B] While I was a schoolboy, the late Mr. Curwen introduced a little fleet of these birds, but of the inferior species, to the lake of Windermere. Their principal home was about his own island; but they sailed about into remote parts of the lake, and either from real or imagined injury done to the adjoining fields, they were got rid of at the request of the farmers and proprietors, but to the great regret of all who had become attached to them from noticing their beauty and quiet habits. I will conclude my notice of this poem by observing that the plan of it has not been confined to a particular walk, or an individual place; a proof (of which I was unconscious at the time) of my unwillingness to submit the poetic spirit to the chains of fact and real circumstance. The country is idealised rather than described in any one of its local aspects.--I. F.]

The title of this poem, as first published in 1793, was 'An Evening Walk. An epistle; in verse. Addressed to a Young Lady, from the Lakes of the North of England. By W. Wordsworth, B.A., of St. John's, Cambridge'. Extracts from it were published in all the collected editions of the poems under the general title of "Juvenile Pieces," from 1815 to 1843; and, in 1845 and 1849, of "Poems written in Youth." The following prefatory note to the "Juvenile Pieces" occurs in the editions 1820 to 1832.

"They are reprinted with some unimportant alterations that were chiefly made very soon after their publication. It would have been easy to amend them, in many passages, both as to sentiment and expression, and I have not been altogether able to resist the temptation: but attempts of this kind are made at the risk of injuring those characteristic features, which, after all, will be regarded as the principal recommendation of juvenile poems."

To this, Wordsworth added, in 1836,

"The above, which was written some time ago, scarcely applies to the Poem, 'Descriptive Sketches', as it now stands. The corrections, though numerous, are not, however, such as to prevent its retaining with propriety a place in the class of 'Juvenile Pieces.'"

In May 1794 Wordsworth wrote to his friend Mathews,

"It was with great reluctance that I sent these two little works into the world in so imperfect a state. But as I had done nothing at the University, I thought these little things might show that I _could_ do something."

Wordsworth's notes to this poem are printed from the edition of 1793. Slight variations in the text of these notes in subsequent editions, in the spelling of proper names, and in punctuation, are not noted.--Ed.

'General Sketch of the Lakes--Author's regret of his Youth which was passed amongst them--Short description of Noon--Cascade--Noon-tide Retreat--Precipice and sloping Lights--Face of Nature as the Sun declines--Mountain-farm, and the Cock--Slate-quarry--Sunset--Superstition of the Country connected with that moment--Swans--Female Beggar--Twilight-sounds--Western Lights--Spirits--Night--Moonlight--Hope--Night-sounds--Conclusion'.

* * * * *

THE POEM

Far from my dearest Friend, 'tis mine to rove Through bare grey dell, high wood, and pastoral cove; Where Derwent rests, and listens to the roar That stuns the tremulous cliffs of high Lodore; [1] Where peace to Grasmere's lonely island leads, 5 To willowy hedge-rows, and to emerald meads; Leads to her bridge, rude church, and cottaged grounds, Her rocky sheepwalks, and her woodland bounds; Where, undisturbed by winds, Winander [C] sleeps [2] 'Mid clustering isles, and holly-sprinkled steeps; 10 Where twilight glens endear my Esthwaite's shore, And memory of departed pleasures, more.

Fair scenes, erewhile, I taught, a happy child, The echoes of your rocks my carols wild: The spirit sought not then, in cherished sadness, 15 A cloudy substitute for failing gladness. [3] In youth's keen [4] eye the livelong day was bright, The sun at morning, and the stars at night, Alike, when first the bittern's hollow bill Was heard, or woodcocks [D] roamed the moonlight hill. [5] 20

In thoughtless gaiety I coursed the plain, [6] And hope itself was all I knew of pain; For then, the inexperienced heart would beat [7] At times, while young Content forsook her seat, And wild Impatience, pointing upward, showed, 25 Through passes yet unreached, a brighter road. [8] Alas! the idle tale of man is found Depicted in the dial's moral round; Hope with reflection blends her social rays [9] To gild the total tablet of his days; 30 Yet still, the sport of some malignant power, He knows but from its shade the present hour. [10] But why, ungrateful, dwell on idle pain? To show what pleasures yet to me remain, [11] Say, will my Friend, with unreluctant ear, [12] 35 The history of a poet's evening hear?

When, in the south, the wan noon, brooding still, Breathed a pale steam around the glaring hill, And shades of deep-embattled clouds were seen, 40 Spotting the northern cliffs with lights between; When crowding cattle, checked by rails that make A fence far stretched into the shallow lake, Lashed the cool water with their restless tails, Or from high points of rock looked out for fanning gales;[13] 45 When school-boys stretched their length upon the green; And round the broad-spread oak, a glimmering scene, In the rough fern-clad park, the herded deer [14] Shook the still-twinkling tail and glancing ear; When horses in the sunburnt intake [E] stood, 50 And vainly eyed below the tempting flood, Or tracked the passenger, in mute distress, With forward neck the closing gate to press--[15] Then, while I wandered where the huddling rill Brightens with water-breaks the hollow ghyll [F] [16] 55 As by enchantment, an obscure retreat [17] Opened at once, and stayed my devious feet. While thick above the rill the branches close, In rocky basin its wild waves repose, Inverted shrubs, [G] and moss of gloomy green, 60 Cling from the rocks, with pale wood-weeds between; And its own twilight softens the whole scene, [H] Save where aloft the subtle sunbeams shine On withered briars that o'er the crags recline; [18] Save where, with sparkling foam, a small cascade, 65 Illumines, from within, the leafy shade; [19] Beyond, along the vista of the brook, Where antique roots its bustling course [20] o'erlook, The eye reposes on a secret bridge [J] Half grey, half shagged with ivy to its ridge; 70 There, bending o'er the stream, the listless swain Lingers behind his disappearing wain. [21] --Did Sabine grace adorn my living line, Blandusia's praise, wild stream, should yield to thine! Never shall ruthless minister of death 75 'Mid thy soft glooms the glittering steel unsheath; No goblets shall, for thee, be crowned with flowers, No kid with piteous outcry thrill thy bowers; The mystic shapes that by thy margin rove A more benignant sacrifice approve-- 80 A mind, that, in a calm angelic mood Of happy wisdom, meditating good, Beholds, of all from her high powers required, Much done, and much designed, and more desired,-- Harmonious thoughts, a soul by truth refined, 85 Entire affection for all human kind.

Dear Brook, [22] farewell! To-morrow's noon again Shall hide me, wooing long thy wildwood strain; But now the sun has gained his western road, And eve's mild hour invites my steps abroad. 90

While, near the midway cliff, the silvered kite In many a whistling circle wheels her flight; Slant watery lights, from parting clouds, apace Travel along the precipice's base; Cheering its naked waste of scattered stone, 95 By lichens grey, and scanty moss, o'ergrown; Where scarce the foxglove peeps, or [23] thistle's beard; And restless [24] stone-chat, all day long, is heard.

How pleasant, as the sun declines, to view [25] The spacious landscape change in form and hue! 100 Here, vanish, as in mist, before a flood Of bright obscurity, hill, lawn, and wood; There, objects, by the searching beams betrayed, Come forth, and here retire in purple shade; Even the white stems of birch, the cottage white, 105 Soften their glare before the mellow light; The skiffs, at anchor where with umbrage wide Yon chestnuts half the latticed boat-house hide, Shed from their sides, that face the sun's slant beam, Strong flakes of radiance on the tremulous stream: 110 Raised by yon travelling flock, a dusty cloud Mounts from the road, and spreads its moving shroud; The shepherd, all involved in wreaths of fire, Now shows a shadowy speck, and now is lost entire.

Into a gradual calm the breezes [26] sink, [27] 115 A blue rim borders all the lake's still brink; There doth the twinkling aspen's foliage sleep, And insects clothe, like dust, the glassy deep: [28] And now, on every side, the surface breaks Into blue spots, and slowly lengthening streaks; 120 Here, plots of sparkling water tremble bright With thousand thousand twinkling points of light; There, waves that, hardly weltering, die away, Tip their smooth ridges with a softer ray; And now the whole wide lake in deep repose 125 Is hushed, and like a burnished mirror glows, [29] Save where, along the shady western marge, Coasts, with industrious oar, the charcoal barge. [30]

Their panniered train a group of potters goad, Winding from side to side up the steep road; 130 The peasant, from yon cliff of fearful edge Shot, down the headlong path darts with his sledge; [31] Bright beams the lonely mountain-horse illume Feeding 'mid purple heath, "green rings," [K] and broom; While the sharp slope the slackened team confounds, 135 Downward [L] the ponderous timber-wain resounds; [32] In foamy breaks the rill, with merry song, Dashed o'er [33] the rough rock, lightly leaps along; From lonesome chapel at the mountain's feet, Three humble bells their rustic chime repeat; 140 Sounds from the water-side the hammered boat; And 'blasted' quarry thunders, heard remote!

Even here, amid the sweep of endless woods, Blue pomp of lakes, high cliffs and falling floods, Not undelightful are the simplest charms, 145 Found by the grassy [34] door of mountain-farms.

Sweetly ferocious, [M] round his native walks, Pride of [35] his sister-wives, the monarch stalks; Spur-clad his nervous feet, and firm his tread; A crest of purple tops the warrior's head. [36] 150 Bright sparks his black and rolling [37] eye-ball hurls Afar, his tail he closes and unfurls; [38] On tiptoe reared, he strains [39] his clarion throat, Threatened by faintly-answering farms remote: Again with his shrill voice the mountain rings, 155 While, flapped with conscious pride, resound his wings! [40]

Where, mixed with graceful birch, the sombrous pine And yew-tree [41] o'er the silver rocks recline; I love to mark the quarry's moving trains, Dwarf panniered steeds, and men, and numerous wains: 160 How busy all [42] the enormous hive within, While Echo dallies with its [43] various din! Some (hear you not their chisels' clinking sound?) [44] Toil, small as pigmies in the gulf profound; Some, dim between the lofty [45] cliffs descried, 165 O'erwalk the slender [46] plank from side to side; These, by the pale-blue rocks that ceaseless ring, In airy baskets hanging, work and sing.[47]

Just where a cloud above the mountain rears [48] An [49] edge all flame, the broadening sun appears; 170 A long blue bar its ægis orb divides, And breaks the spreading of its golden tides; And now that orb has touched the purple steep Whose softened image penetrates the deep.[50]

'Cross the calm lake's blue shades the cliffs aspire, 175 With towers and woods, a "prospect all on fire"; [N] While [51] coves and secret hollows, through a ray Of fainter gold, a purple gleam betray. Each slip of lawn the broken rocks between Shines in the light with more than earthly green: [52] 180 Deep yellow beams the scattered stems [53] illume, Far in the level forest's central gloom: Waving his hat, the shepherd, from [54] the vale, Directs his winding dog the cliffs to scale,-- The dog, loud barking, 'mid the glittering rocks, 185 Hunts, where his master points, the intercepted flocks. [55] Where oaks o'erhang the road the radiance shoots On tawny earth, wild weeds, and twisted roots; The druid-stones a brightened ring unfold; [56] And all the babbling brooks are liquid gold; 190 Sunk to a curve, the day-star lessens still, Gives one bright glance, and drops [57] behind the hill. [P]

In these secluded vales, if village fame, Confirmed by hoary hairs, belief may claim; When up the hills, as now, retired the light, 195 Strange apparitions mocked the shepherd's sight. [58]

The form appears of one that spurs his steed Midway along the hill with desperate speed; [59] Unhurt pursues his lengthened flight, while all Attend, at every stretch, his headlong fall. 200 Anon, appears a brave, a gorgeous show Of horsemen-shadows moving to and fro; [60] At intervals imperial banners stream, [61] And now the van reflects the solar beam; [62] The rear through iron brown betrays a sullen gleam. 205 While silent stands the admiring crowd below, Silent the visionary warriors go, Winding in ordered pomp their upward way [Q] Till the last banner of their [63] long array Has disappeared, and every trace is fled 210 Of splendour--save the beacon's spiry head Tipt with eve's latest gleam of burning red. [64]

Now, while the solemn evening shadows sail, On slowly-waving pinions, [65] down the vale; And, fronting the bright west, yon oak entwines 215 Its darkening boughs and leaves, in stronger lines; [66] 'Tis pleasant near the tranquil lake to stray [67] Where, winding on along some secret bay, [68] The swan uplifts his chest, and backward flings His neck, a varying arch, between his towering wings: 220 The eye that marks the gliding creature sees How graceful, pride can be, and how majestic, ease. [69]

While tender cares and mild domestic loves With furtive watch pursue her as she moves, The female with a meeker charm succeeds, 225 And her brown little-ones around her leads, Nibbling the water lilies as they pass, Or playing wanton with the floating grass. She, in a mother's care, her beauty's pride Forgetting, calls the wearied to her side; [70] 230 Alternately they mount her back, and rest Close by her mantling wings' embraces prest. [R]

Long may they float upon this flood serene; Theirs be these holms untrodden, still, and green, Where leafy shades fence off the blustering gale, 235 And breathes in peace the lily of the vale![71] Yon isle, which feels not even the milk-maid's feet, Yet hears her song, "by distance made more sweet," [72] [S] Yon isle conceals their home, their hut-like bower; Green water-rushes overspread the floor; [73] 240 Long grass and willows form the woven wall, And swings above the roof the poplar tall. Thence issuing often with unwieldy stalk, They crush with broad black feet their flowery walk; [74] Or, from the neighbouring water, hear at morn [75] 245 The hound, the horse's tread, and mellow horn; Involve their serpent-necks in changeful rings, Rolled wantonly between their slippery wings, Or, starting up with noise and rude delight, Force half upon the wave their cumbrous flight. [76] 250

Fair Swan! by all a mother's joys caressed, Haply some wretch has eyed, and called thee blessed; When with her infants, from some shady seat By the lake's edge, she rose--to face the noontide heat; Or taught their limbs along the dusty road 255 A few short steps to totter with their load. [77]

I see her now, denied to lay her head, On cold blue nights, in hut or straw-built shed, Turn to a silent smile their sleepy cry, By pointing to the gliding moon [78] on high. 260

--[79] When low-hung clouds each star of summer hide, And fireless are the valleys far and wide, Where the brook brawls along the public [80] road Dark with bat-haunted ashes stretching broad, [81] Oft has she taught them on her lap to lay 265 The shining glow-worm; or, in heedless play, Toss it from hand to hand, disquieted; While others, not unseen, are free to shed Green unmolested light upon their mossy bed. [82]

Oh! when the sleety showers her path assail, 270 And like a torrent roars the headstrong gale; [83] No more her breath can thaw their fingers cold, Their frozen arms her neck no more can fold; [84] Weak roof a cowering form two babes to shield, And faint the fire a dying heart can yield! 275 Press the sad kiss, fond mother! vainly fears Thy flooded cheek to wet them with its tears; [85] No tears can chill them, and no bosom warms, Thy breast their death-bed, coffined in thine arms!

Sweet are the sounds that mingle from afar, 280 Heard by calm lakes, as peeps the folding star, Where the duck dabbles 'mid the rustling sedge, And feeding pike starts from the water's edge, Or the swan stirs the reeds, his neck and bill Wetting, that drip upon the water still; 285 And heron, as resounds the trodden shore, Shoots upward, darting his long neck before. [86] Now, with religious awe, the farewell light Blends with the solemn colouring of night; [87] 'Mid groves of clouds that crest the mountain's brow, 290 And round the west's proud lodge their shadows throw, Like Una [T] shining on her gloomy way, The half-seen form of Twilight roams astray; Shedding, through paly loop-holes mild and small, Gleams that upon the lake's still bosom fall; [88] 295 [89] Soft o'er the surface creep those lustres pale Tracking the motions of the fitful gale. [90] With restless interchange at once the bright Wins on the shade, the shade upon the light. No favoured eye was e'er allowed to gaze 300 On lovelier spectacle in faery days; When gentle Spirits urged a sportive chase, Brushing with lucid wands the water's face; While music, stealing round the glimmering deeps, Charmed the tall circle of the enchanted steeps. 305 --The lights are vanished from the watery plains: No wreck of all the pageantry remains. Unheeded night has overcome the vales: On the dark earth the wearied vision fails; The latest lingerer of the forest train, 310 The lone black fir, forsakes the faded plain; Last evening sight, the cottage smoke, no more, Lost in the thickened darkness, glimmers hoar; And, towering from the sullen dark-brown mere, Like a black wall, the mountain-steeps appear. [91] 315

--Now o'er the soothed accordant heart we feel A sympathetic twilight slowly steal, And ever, as we fondly muse, we find The soft gloom deepening on the tranquil mind. Stay! pensive, sadly-pleasing visions, stay! 320 Ah no! as fades the vale, they fade away: Yet still the tender, vacant gloom remains; Still the cold cheek its shuddering tear retains.

The bird, who ceased, with fading light, to thread Silent the hedge or steamy rivulet's bed, [92] 325 From his grey re-appearing tower shall soon Salute with gladsome note the rising moon, While with a hoary light she frosts the ground, And pours a deeper blue to Aether's bound; Pleased, as she moves, her pomp of clouds to fold 330 In robes of azure, fleecy-white, and gold. [93]

Above yon eastern hill, [94] where darkness broods O'er all its vanished dells, and lawns, and woods; Where but a mass of shade the sight can trace, Even now she shows, half-veiled, her lovely face: [95] 335 Across [96] the gloomy valley flings her light, Far to the western slopes with hamlets white; And gives, where woods the chequered upland strew, To the green corn of summer, autumn's hue.

Thus Hope, first pouring from her blessed horn 340 Her dawn, far lovelier than the moon's own morn, 'Till higher mounted, strives in vain to cheer The weary hills, impervious, blackening near; Yet does she still, undaunted, throw the while On darling spots remote her tempting smile. 345

Even now she decks for me a distant scene, (For dark and broad the gulf of time between) Gilding that cottage with her fondest ray, (Sole bourn, sole wish, sole object of my way; 350 How fair its lawns and sheltering [97] woods appear! How sweet its streamlet murmurs in mine ear!) Where we, my Friend, to happy [98] days shall rise, 'Till our small share of hardly-paining sighs (For sighs will ever trouble human breath) 355 Creep hushed into the tranquil breast of death.

But now the clear bright Moon her zenith gains, And, rimy without speck, extend the plains: The deepest cleft the mountain's front displays [99] Scarce hides a shadow from her searching rays; 360 From the dark-blue faint silvery threads divide The hills, while gleams below the azure tide; Time softly treads; throughout the landscape breathes A peace enlivened, not disturbed, by wreaths Of charcoal-smoke, that o'er the fallen wood, 365 Steal down the hill, and spread along the flood.[100]

The song of mountain-streams, unheard by day, Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward way. [U] Air listens, like the sleeping water, still, To catch the spiritual music of the hill, [101] 370 Broke only by the slow clock tolling deep, Or shout that wakes the ferry-man from sleep, The echoed hoof nearing the distant shore, The boat's first motion--made with dashing oar; [102] Sound of closed gate, across the water borne, 375 Hurrying the timid [103] hare through rustling corn; The sportive outcry of the mocking owl; [104] And at long intervals the mill-dog's howl; The distant forge's swinging thump profound; Or yell, in the deep woods, of lonely hound. 380

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE ABOVE POEM:

[Variant 1:

1836.

His wizard course where hoary Derwent takes Thro' craggs, and forest glooms, and opening lakes, Staying his silent waves, to hear the roar That stuns the tremulous cliffs of high Lodore: Where silver rocks the savage prospect chear Of giant yews that frown on Rydale's mere; 1793.

Where Derwent stops his course to hear the roar That stuns the tremulous cliffs ... 1827.

(Omitting two lines of the 1793 text quoted above.)]

[Variant 2:

1836.

Where, bosom'd deep, the shy Winander peeps 1793.

Where, deep embosom'd, shy Winander peeps 1827.]

[Variant 3:

1836.

Fair scenes! with other eyes, than once, I gaze, The ever-varying charm your round displays, Than when, ere-while, I taught, "a happy child," The echoes of your rocks my carols wild: Then did no ebb of chearfulness demand Sad tides of joy from Melancholy's hand; 1793.

Upon the varying charm your round displays, 1820.]

[Variant 4:

1820.

... wild ... 1793.]

[Variant 5:

1836.

... stars of night, Alike, when first the vales the bittern fills, Or the first woodcocks roam'd the moonlight hills. 1793.

Alike, when heard the bittern's hollow bill, Or the first woodcocks roam'd the moonlight hill. 1820.]

[Variant 6:

1820.

Return Delights! with whom my road begun, When Life rear'd laughing up her morning sun; When Transport kiss'd away my april tear, "Rocking as in a dream the tedious year"; When link'd with thoughtless Mirth I cours'd the plain, 1793.]

[Variant 7:

1836.

For then, ev'n then, the little heart would beat 1793.]

[Variant 8:

1836.

And wild Impatience, panting upward, show'd Where tipp'd with gold the mountain-summits glow'd. 1793.]

[Variant 9:

1836.

With Hope Reflexion blends her social rays 1793.]

[Variant 10:

1820.

While, Memory at my side, I wander here, Starts at the simplest sight th' unbidden tear, A form discover'd at the well-known seat, A spot, that angles at the riv'let's feet, The ray the cot of morning trav'ling nigh, And sail that glides the well-known alders by.

Only in the edition of 1793.]

[Variant 11:

1820.

To shew her yet some joys to me remain, 1793.]

[Variant 12:

1820.

... with soft affection's ear, 1793.]

[Variant 13:

1836.

... with lights between; Gazing the tempting shades to them deny'd, When stood the shorten'd herds amid' the tide, Where, from the barren wall's unshelter'd end, Long rails into the shallow lake extend; 1793.

When, at the barren wall's unsheltered end, Where long rails far into the lake extend, Crowded the shortened herds, and beat the tides With their quick tails, and lash'd their speckled sides; 1820.]

[Variant 14:

1836.

And round the humming elm, a glimmering scene! In the brown park, in flocks, the troubl'd deer 1793.

... in herds, ... 1820.]

[Variant 15:

1820.

When horses in the wall-girt intake stood, Unshaded, eying far below, the flood, Crouded behind the swain, in mute distress, With forward neck the closing gate to press; And long, with wistful gaze, his walk survey'd, 'Till dipp'd his pathway in the river shade; 1793.]

[Variant 16:

1845.

--Then Quiet led me up the huddling rill, Bright'ning with water-breaks the sombrous gill; 1793.

--Then, while I wandered up the huddling rill Brightening with water-breaks the sombrous ghyll, 1820.

Then, while I wandered where the huddling rill Brightens with water-breaks the sombrous ghyll, 1836.]

[Variant 17:

1820.

To where, while thick above the branches close, In dark-brown bason its wild waves repose, Inverted shrubs, and moss of darkest green, Cling from the rocks, with pale wood-weeds between; Save that, atop, the subtle sunbeams shine, On wither'd briars that o'er the craggs recline; Sole light admitted here, a small cascade, Illumes with sparkling foam the twilight shade. Beyond, along the visto of the brook, Where antique roots its bustling path o'erlook, The eye reposes on a secret bridge Half grey, half shagg'd with ivy to its ridge. --Sweet rill, farewel! ... 1793.]

[Variant 18:

1845.

But see aloft the subtle sunbeams shine, On withered briars that o'er the crags recline; Thus beautiful! as if the sight displayed, By its own sparkling foam that small cascade; Inverted shrubs, with moss of gloomy green Cling from the rocks, with pale wood-weeds between. C.

Inverted shrubs with pale wood weeds between Cling from the moss-grown rocks, a darksome green, Save where aloft the subtle sunbeams shine And its own twilight softens the whole scene. And sparkling as it foams a small cascade Illumines from within the impervious shade Below, right in the vista of the brook, Where antique roots, etc. MS.]

[Variant 19:

1845.

Sole light admitted here, a small cascade, Illumes with sparkling foam the impervious shade; 1820.]

[Variant 20:

1827.

... path ... 1793.]

[Variant 21:

1845.

Whence hangs, in the cool shade, the listless swain Lingering behind his disappearing wain. 1820.]

[Variant 22:

1845.

--Sweet rill, ... 1793.]

[Variant 23:

1820.

... and ... 1793.]

[Variant 24:

1845.

And desert ... 1793]

[Variant 25:

1820.

How pleasant, as the yellowing sun declines, And with long rays and shades the landscape shines; To mark the birches' stems all golden light, That lit the dark slant woods with silvery white! The willow's weeping trees, that twinkling hoar, Glanc'd oft upturn'd along the breezy shore, Low bending o'er the colour'd water, fold Their moveless boughs and leaves like threads of gold; The skiffs with naked masts at anchor laid, Before the boat-house peeping thro' the shade; Th' unwearied glance of woodman's echo'd stroke; And curling from the trees the cottage smoke. Their pannier'd train ... 1793.]

[Variant 26:

1845.

... zephyrs ... 1820.]

[Variant 27: This stanza was added in the edition of 1820.]

[Variant 28:

1845.

This couplet was added in 1845.]

[Variant 29:

1845.

And now the universal tides repose, And, brightly blue, the burnished mirror glows, 1820.]

[Variant 30:

1845.

The sails are dropped, the poplar's foliage sleeps, And insects clothe, like dust, the glassy deeps.

This couplet followed l. 127 from 1820 to 1843.]

[Variant 31:

1820

Shot, down the headlong pathway darts his sledge; 1793.]

[Variant 32:

1820.

Beside their sheltering [i] cross of wall, the flock Feeds on in light, nor thinks of winter's shock;

Only in the edition of 1793.]

[Variant 33:

1820.

Dashed down ... 1793.]

[Variant 34:

1836.

... verdant ... 1793.]

[Variant 35:

1820.

Gazed by ... 1793.]

[Variant 36:

1836.

... his warrior head. 1793.]

[Variant 37:

1836.

... haggard ... 1793.]

[Variant 38:

1836.

Whose state, like pine-trees, waving to and fro, Droops, and o'er canopies his regal brow,

This couplet was inserted in the editions 1793 to 1832.]

[Variant 39:

1820.

... blows ... 1793.]

[Variant 40: This couplet was first printed in the edition of 1820.]

[Variant 41:

1836.

Bright'ning the cliffs between where sombrous pine, And yew-trees ... 1793.]

[Variant 42:

1836.

How busy the enormous hive within, 1793.]

[Variant 43:

1836.

... with the ... 1793.]

[Variant 44:

1836.

Some hardly heard their chissel's clinking sound, 1793.]

[Variant 45:

1836.

... th' aëreal ... 1793.]

[Variant 46:

1815.

... viewless ... 1793.]

[Variant 47:

1836.

Glad from their airy baskets hang and sing. 1793.]

[Variant 48:

1836.

Hung o'er a cloud, above the steep that rears 1793.]

[Variant 49:

1820.

It's ... 1793.]

[Variant 50:

1845.

And now it touches on the purple steep That flings his shadow on the pictur'd deep. 1793.

That flings its image ... 1832.

And now the sun has touched the purple steep Whose softened image penetrates the deep. 1836.]

[Variant 51:

1836.

The coves ... 1793]

[Variant 52:

1836.

The gilded turn arrays in richer green Each speck of lawn the broken rocks between; 1793.

... invests with richer green 1820.]

[Variant 53:

1827.

... boles ... 1793.]

[Variant 54:

1827.

... in ... 1793.]

[Variant 55:

1836.

That, barking busy 'mid the glittering rocks, Hunts, where he points, the intercepted flocks; 1793.]

[Variant 56:

1845.

The Druid stones [ii] their lighted fane unfold, 1793.

... a burnished ring unfold; 1836.]

[Variant 57:

1827.

... sinks ... 1793.]

[Variant 58:

1845.

In these lone vales, if aught of faith may claim, Thin silver hairs, and ancient hamlet fame; When up the hills, as now, retreats the light, Strange apparitions mock the village sight. 1793.

In these secluded vales, if village fame, Confirmed by silver hairs, belief may claim; When up the hills, as now, retired the light, Strange apparitions mocked the gazer's sight. 1820.

... shepherd's sight. 1836.]

[Variant 59:

1836.

A desperate form appears, that spurs his steed, Along the midway cliffs with violent speed; 1793.]

[Variant 60:

1836.

Anon, in order mounts a gorgeous show Of horsemen shadows winding to and fro; 1793.]

[Variant 61: This line was added in 1820.]

[Variant 62:

1820.

... is gilt with evening's beam, 1793.]

[Variant 63:

1849.

... of the ... 1836.]

[Variant 64:

1836.

Lost gradual o'er the heights in pomp they go, While silent stands th' admiring vale below; Till, but the lonely beacon all is fled, That tips with eve's last gleam his spiry head. 1793.

Till, save the lonely beacon, ... 1820.

In the edition of 1836 the seven lines of the printed text--205-211--replaced these four lines of the editions 1793-1832.]

[Variant 65:

1836.

On red slow-waving pinions ... 1793.]

[Variant 66:

1820.

And, fronting the bright west in stronger lines, The oak its dark'ning boughs and foliage twines, 1793.

The edition of 1815 omitted this couplet. It was restored in its final form in the edition of 1820.]

[Variant 67:

1836.

I love beside the glowing lake to stray, 1793.

How pleasant near the tranquil lake to stray, 1815.]

[Variant 68:

1836.

... to stray, Where winds the road along the secret bay; By rills that tumble down the woody steeps, And run in transport to the dimpling deeps; Along the "wild meand'ring shore" to view, Obsequious Grace the winding swan pursue. 1793.

... a secret bay; 1813.

... meandering shore" ... 1815.]

[Variant 69:

1836.

He swells his lifted chest, and backward flings His bridling neck between his tow'ring wings; Stately, and burning in his pride, divides And glorying looks around, the silent tides: On as he floats, the silver'd waters glow, Proud of the varying arch and moveless form of snow. 1793.

... his towering wings; In all the majesty of ease divides, 1815.]

[Variant 70:

1845.

... her beauty's pride Forgets, unweary'd watching every side, She calls them near, and with affection sweet Alternately relieves their weary feet; 1793.]

[Variant 71:

1836.

Long may ye roam these hermit waves that sleep, In birch-besprinkl'd cliffs embosom'd deep; These fairy holms untrodden, still, and green, Whose shades protect the hidden wave serene; Whence fragrance scents the water's desart gale, The violet, and the [iii] lily of the vale; 1793.

Long may ye float upon these floods serene; Yours be these holms untrodden, still, and green, Whose leafy shades fence off the blustering gale, Where breathes in peace the lily of the vale. 1827.]

[Variant 72:

1820.

Where, tho' her far-off twilight ditty steal, They not the trip of harmless milkmaid feel. 1793.]

[Variant 73:

1836.

Yon tuft conceals your home, your cottage bow'r. Fresh water rushes strew the verdant floor; 1793.

Yon isle conceals ... 1820.]

[Variant 74:

1836.

Thence issuing oft, unwieldly as ye stalk, Ye crush with broad black feet your flow'ry walk; 1793.

Thence issuing often with unwieldly stalk, With broad black feet ye crush your flow'ry walk; 1820.]

[Variant 75:

1820.

Safe from your door ye hear at breezy morn, 1793.]

[Variant 76:

1836.

... and mellow horn; At peace inverted your lithe necks ye lave, With the green bottom strewing o'er the wave; No ruder sound your desart haunts invades, Than waters dashing wild, or rocking shades. Ye ne'er, like hapless human wanderers, throw Your young on winter's winding sheet of snow. 1793.

... and mellow horn; Involve your serpent necks in changeful rings, Rolled wantonly between your slippery wings, Or, starting up with noise and rude delight, Force half upon the wave your cumbrous flight. 1820.]

[Variant 77:

1836.

Fair Swan! by all a mother's joys caress'd, Haply some wretch has ey'd, and call'd thee bless'd; Who faint, and beat by summer's breathless ray, Hath dragg'd her babes along this weary way; While arrowy fire extorting feverish groans Shot stinging through her stark o'er labour'd bones. --With backward gaze, lock'd joints, and step of pain, Her seat scarce left, she strives, alas! in vain, To teach their limbs along the burning road A few short steps to totter with their load, Shakes her numb arm that slumbers with its weight, And eyes through tears the mountain's shadeless height; And bids her soldier come her woes to share, Asleep on Bunker's [iv] charnel hill afar; For hope's deserted well why wistful look? Chok'd is the pathway, and the pitcher broke. 1793.

In 1793 this passage occupied the place of the six lines of the final text (250-255).

... and called thee bless'd; The whilst upon some sultry summer's day She dragged her babes along this weary way; Or taught their limbs along the burning road A few short steps to totter with their load. 1820.

The while ... 1832.]

[Variant 78:

1845.

... a shooting star ... 1793.]

[Variant 79:

1845.

I hear, while in the forest depth he sees, The Moon's fix'd gaze between the opening trees, In broken sounds her elder grief demand, And skyward lift, like one that prays, his hand, If, in that country, where he dwells afar, His father views that good, that kindly star; --Ah me! all light is mute amid the gloom, The interlunar cavern of the tomb. 1793-1832.

In broken sounds her elder child demand, While toward the sky he lifts his pale bright hand, 1836.

--Alas! all light ... 1836.

Those eight lines were withdrawn in 1845.]

[Variant 80:

1836.

... painful ... 1793.]

[Variant 81:

1820.

The distant clock forgot, and chilling dew, Pleas'd thro' the dusk their breaking smiles to view,

Only in the edition of 1793.]

[Variant 82:

1836.

... on her lap to play Delighted, with the glow-worm's harmless ray Toss'd light from hand to hand; while on the ground Small circles of green radiance gleam around. 1793.]

[Variant 83:

1836.

Oh! when the bitter showers her path assail, And roars between the hills the torrent gale, 1793.

... sleety showers ... 1827.]

[Variant 84:

1827.

Scarce heard, their chattering lips her shoulder chill, And her cold back their colder bosoms thrill; All blind she wilders o'er the lightless heath, Led by Fear's cold wet hand, and dogg'd by Death; Death, as she turns her neck the kiss to seek, Breaks off the dreadful kiss with angry shriek. Snatch'd from her shoulder with despairing moan, She clasps them at that dim-seen roofless stone.-- "Now ruthless Tempest launch thy deadliest dart! Fall fires--but let us perish heart to heart." 1793.

The first, third, and fourth of these couplets were omitted from the edition of 1820. The whole passage was withdrawn in 1827.]

[Variant 85:

1820.

Soon shall the Light'ning hold before thy head His torch, and shew them slumbering in their bed,

Only in the edition of 1793.]

[Variant 86:

1820.

While, by the scene compos'd, the breast subsides, Nought wakens or disturbs it's tranquil tides; Nought but the char that for the may-fly leaps, And breaks the mirror of the circling deeps; Or clock, that blind against the wanderer born Drops at his feet, and stills his droning horn. --The whistling swain that plods his ringing way Where the slow waggon winds along the bay; The sugh [v] of swallow flocks that twittering sweep, The solemn curfew swinging long and deep; The talking boat that moves with pensive sound, Or drops his anchor down with plunge profound; Of boys that bathe remote the faint uproar, And restless piper wearying out the shore; These all to swell the village murmurs blend, That soften'd from the water-head descend. While in sweet cadence rising small and still The far-off minstrels of the haunted hill, As the last bleating of the fold expires, Tune in the mountain dells their water lyres.

Only in the edition of 1793.]

[Variant 87:

1845.

... of the night; 1793.]

[Variant 88:

1815.

Thence, from three paly loopholes mild and small, Slow lights upon the lake's still bosom fall, 1793.]

[Variant 89:

1827.

Beyond the mountain's giant reach that hides In deep determin'd gloom his subject tides. --Mid the dark steeps repose the shadowy streams, As touch'd with dawning moonlight's hoary gleams, Long streaks of fairy light the wave illume With bordering lines of intervening gloom, 1793.

The second and third of these couplets were cancelled in the edition of 1815, and the whole passage was withdrawn in 1827.]

[Variant 90:

1836.

Soft o'er the surface creep the lustres pale Tracking with silvering path the changeful gale. 1793.

... those lustres pale Tracking the fitful motions of the gale. 1815.]

[Variant 91:

1815.

--'Tis restless magic all; at once the bright [vi] Breaks on the shade, the shade upon the light, Fair Spirits are abroad; in sportive chase Brushing with lucid wands the water's face, While music stealing round the glimmering deeps Charms the tall circle of th' enchanted steeps. --As thro' th' astonished woods the notes ascend, The mountain streams their rising song suspend; Below Eve's listening Star, the sheep walk stills It's drowsy tinklings on th' attentive hills; The milkmaid stops her ballad, and her pail Stays it's low murmur in th' unbreathing vale; No night-duck clamours for his wilder'd mate, Aw'd, while below the Genii hold their state. --The pomp is fled, and mute the wondrous strains, No wrack of all the pageant scene remains, [vii] So vanish those fair Shadows, human Joys, But Death alone their vain regret destroys. Unheeded Night has overcome the vales, On the dark earth the baffl'd vision fails, If peep between the clouds a star on high, There turns for glad repose the weary eye; The latest lingerer of the forest train, The lone-black fir, forsakes the faded plain; Last evening sight, the cottage smoke no more, Lost in the deepen'd darkness, glimmers hoar; High towering from the sullen dark-brown mere, Like a black wall, the mountain steeps appear, Thence red from different heights with restless gleam Small cottage lights across the water stream, Nought else of man or life remains behind To call from other worlds the wilder'd mind, Till pours the wakeful bird her solemn strains [viii] Heard by the night-calm of the watry plains. --No purple prospects now the mind employ Glowing in golden sunset tints of joy, But o'er the sooth'd ...

Only in the edition of 1793.]

[Variant 92:

1836.

The bird, with fading light who ceas'd to thread Silent the hedge or steaming rivulet's bed, 1793.

The bird, who ceased, with fading light, to thread 1815.]

[Variant 93:

1836.

Salute with boding note the rising moon, Frosting with hoary light the pearly ground, And pouring deeper blue to Aether's bound; Rejoic'd her solemn pomp of clouds to fold In robes of azure, fleecy white, and gold, While rose and poppy, as the glow-worm fades, Checquer with paler red the thicket shades. 1793.

The last two lines occur only in the edition of 1793.

And pleased her solemn pomp of clouds to fold 1815.]

[Variant 94:

1836.

Now o'er the eastern hill, ... 1793.

See, o'er ... 1815.]

[Variant 95:

1836.

She lifts in silence up her lovely face; 1793.]

[Variant 96:

1836.

Above ... 1793.]

[Variant 97:

1815.

... silvery ... 1793.]

[Variant 98:

1815.

... golden ... 1793.]

[Variant 99:

1836.

The deepest dell the mountain's breast displays, 1793.

... the mountain's front ... 1820.]

[Variant 100:

1836.

The scene is waken'd, yet its peace unbroke, By silver'd wreaths of quiet charcoal smoke, That, o'er the ruins of the fallen wood, Steal down the hills, and spread along the flood. 1793.]

[Variant 101:

1836.

All air is, as the sleeping water, still, List'ning th' aëreal music of the hill, 1793.

Air listens, as the sleeping water still, To catch the spiritual music of the hill, 1832.]

[Variant 102:

1836.

Soon follow'd by his hollow-parting oar, And echo'd hoof approaching the far shore; 1793.]

[Variant 103:

1836.

... the feeding ... 1793.]

[Variant 104:

1836.

The tremulous sob of the complaining owl; 1793.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON VARIANTS (Sub-Footnotes)

[Sub-Footnote i: These rude structures, to protect the flocks, are frequent in this country: the traveller may recollect one in Withburne, another upon Whinlatter.--W. W. 1793.]

[Sub-Footnote ii: Not far from Broughton is a Druid monument, of which I do not recollect that any tour descriptive of this country makes mention. Perhaps this poem may fall into the hands of some curious traveller, who may thank me for informing him, that up the Duddon, the river which forms the aestuary at Broughton, may be found some of the most romantic scenery of these mountains.--W. W. 1793.

This circle is at the top of Swinside, a glen about four miles from Broughton. It consists of 50 stones, 90 yards in circumference; and is on the fell, which is part of the range terminating in Black Combe.--Ed.]

[Sub-Footnote iii: The lily of the valley is found in great abundance in the smaller islands of Winandermere.--W. W. 1793.]

[Sub-Footnote iv: In the 1793 edition this line reads "Asleep on Minden's charnel plain afar." The 'errata', list inserted in some copies of that edition gives "Bunker's charnel hill."--Ed.]

[Sub-Footnote v: Sugh, a Scotch word, expressive, as Mr. Gilpin explains it, of the sound of the motion of a stick through the air, or of the wind passing through the trees. See Burns' 'Cottar's Saturday Night'.--W. W. 1793.

The line is in stanza ii., l. 1:

November chill blaws loud, wi' angry sugh.--Ed.]

[Sub-Footnote vi: This long passage occupies, in the edition of 1793, the place of lines 297-314 in the final text given above.--Ed.]

[Sub-Footnote vii:

"So break those glittering shadows, human joys"

(YOUNG).--W. W. 1793.

The line occurs 'Night V, The Complaint', l. 1042, or l. 27 from the end.--Ed.]

[Sub-Footnote viii:

"Charming the night-calm with her powerful song."

A line of one of our older poets.--W. W. 1793.

This line I have been unable to discover, but see Webster and Dekker in 'Westward Hoe', iv. c.

"Charms with her excellent voice an awful silence through all this building."

Ed.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: See note to the "Juvenile Pieces" in the edition of 1836 (p. 1).--Ed.]

[Footnote B: It may not be irrelevant to mention that our late poet, Robert Browning, besought me--both in conversation, and by letter--to restore this "discarded" picture, in editing 'Dion'.--Ed.]

[Footnote C: These lines are only applicable to the middle part of that lake.--W. W. 1793.]

[Footnote D: In the beginning of winter, these mountains, in the moonlight nights, are covered with immense quantities of woodcocks; which, in the dark nights, retire into the woods.--W. W. 1793.]

[Footnote E: The word 'intake' is local, and signifies a mountain-inclosure.--W. W. 1793.]

[Footnote F: Gill is also, I believe, a term confined to this country. Glen, gill, and dingle, have the same meaning.--W. W. 1793.

The spelling "Ghyll" is first used in the edition of 1820 in the text. In the note to that edition it remains "gill". In 1827 the spelling in the note was "ghyll."--Ed.]

[Footnote G: Compare Dr. John Brown:

Not a passing breeze Sigh'd to the grove, which in the midnight air Stood motionless, and in the peaceful floods Inverted hung.

and see note A to page 31.--Ed. [Footnote U of this poem]]

[Footnote H: This line was first inserted in the edition of 1845. In the following line, the edition of 1793 has

Save that, atop, the subtle ...

Subsequent editions previous to 1845 have

Save that aloft ...

Ed.]

[Footnote J: The reader, who has made the tour of this country, will recognize, in this description, the features which characterize the lower waterfall in the gardens of Rydale.--W. W. 1793.]

[Footnote K:

"Vivid rings of green."

Greenwood's Poem on Shooting.--W. W. 1793.

The title is 'A Poem written during a Shooting Excursion on the Moors'. It was published by Cruttwell at Bath in 1787, 4to, pp. 25. The quotation is from stanza xvi., l. 11.--Ed.]

[Footnote L:

"Down the rough slope the pondrous waggon rings."

BEATTIE.--W. W.

1793. See 'The Minstrel', stanza xxxix., l. 4.--Ed.]

[Footnote M:

"Dolcemente feroce."

TASSO. In this description of the cock, I remembered a spirited one of the same animal in the 'L'Agriculture ou Les Géorgiques Françoises', of M. Rossuet.--W. W. 1793.]

[Footnote N: I am unable to trace this quotation.--Ed.]

[Footnote P: From Thomson: see Scott's 'Critical Essays'.--W. W. 1793.

It is difficult to know to what Wordsworth here alludes, but compare 'The Seasons', "Summer," l. 1467.

and now a golden curve, Gives one bright glance, then total disappears.--Ed.]

[Footnote Q: See a description of an appearance of this kind in Clark's 'Survey of the Lakes', accompanied with vouchers of its veracity, that may amuse the reader.--W. W. 1793.

The passage in Clark's folio volume, 'A Survey of the Lakes', etc., which suggested to Wordsworth the above lines in the 'Evening Walk', is to be found in chapter i. of the second book, p. 55. It gives a weird account of the appearance of horsemen being exercised in troops upon

"Southen-fell side, as seen on the 25th of June 1744 by William Lancaster of Blakehills, and a farm servant, David Strichet:

"These visionary horsemen seemed to come from the lowest part of Southen-fell, and became visible just at a place called Knott. They then moved in regular troops along the side of the fell, till they came opposite Blakehills, when they went over the mountain. Then they described a kind of curvilinear path upon the side of the fell, and both these first and last appearances were bounded by the top of the mountain.

"Frequently the last, or last but one, in a troop would leave his place, and gallop to the front, and then take the same pace with the rest--a regular swift walk. Thus changes happened to every troop (for many troops appeared) and oftener than once or twice, yet not at all times alike.... Nor was this phenomenon seen at Blakehill only, it was seen by every person at every cottage within the distance of a mile. Neither was it confined to a momentary view, for from the time that Strichet first observed it, the appearance must have lasted at least two hours and a half, viz. from half past seven till the night coming on prevented further view."

This interesting optical illusion--which suggests the wonderful island in the Atlantic, seen from the isles of Aran near Galway, alluded to in the 'Chorographical description of West, or H-Ier-Connaught', of R. O'Flaherty--was caused by the peculiar angle of the light from the setting sun, the reflection of the water of the Solway, and the refraction of the vapour and clouds above the Solway. These aerial and visionary horsemen were being exercised somewhere above the Kirkcudbright shore. It was not the first time the phenomenon had been seen within historic times, on the same fell-side, and at the same time of year. Canon Rawnsley writes to me,

"I have an idea that the fact that it took place at midsummer eve (June 27), the eve of the Feast of St. John, upon which occasion the shepherds hereabout used to light bonfires on the hills (no doubt a relic of the custom of the Beltane fires of old Norse days, perhaps of earlier sun-worship festivals of British times), may have had something to do with the naming of the mountain Blencathara of which Southen-fell (or Shepherd's-fell, as the name implies) is part. Blencathara, we are told, may mean the Hill of Demons, or the haunted hill. My suggestion is that the old sun-worshippers, who met in midsummer eve on Castrigg at the Druid circle or Donn-ring, saw just the same phenomenon as Strichet and Lancaster saw upon Southen-fell, and hence the name. Nay, perhaps the Druid circle was built where it is, because it was well in view of the Demon Hill."

Ed.]

[Footnote R: This is a fact of which I have been an eye-witness.--W. W. 1793.]

[Footnote S: The quotation is from Collins' 'The Passions', l. 60. Compare 'Personal Talk', l. 26.--Ed.]

[Footnote T: Alluding to this passage of Spenser:

... Her angel face As the great eye of Heaven shined bright, And made a sunshine in that shady place. W. W. 1793.

This passage is in 'The Fairy Queen', book I. canto iii. stanza 4.--Ed.]

[Footnote U: Compare Dr. John Brown:

But the soft murmur of swift-gushing rills, Forth issuing from the mountain's distant steep (Unheard till now, and now scarce heard), proclaim'd All things at rest.

This Dr. John Brown--a singularly versatile English divine (1717-1766)--was one of the first, as Wordsworth pointed put, to lead the way to a true estimate of the English Lakes. His description of the Vale of Keswick, in a letter to a friend, is as fine as anything in Gray's 'Journal'. Wordsworth himself quotes the lines given in this footnote in the first section of his 'Guide through the District of the Lakes'.--Ed.]

* * * * *

LINES WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING

Composed 1789.--Published 1798

[This title is scarcely correct. It was during a solitary walk on the banks of the Cam that I was first struck with this appearance, and applied it to my own feelings in the manner here expressed, changing the scene to the Thames, near Windsor. This, and the three stanzas of the following poem, 'Remembrance of Collins', formed one piece; but, upon the recommendation of Coleridge, the three last stanzas were separated from the other.--I. F.]

The title of the poem in 1798, when it consisted of five stanzas, was 'Lines written near Richmond, upon the Thames, at Evening'. When, in the edition of 1800, it was divided, the title of the first part was, 'Lines written when sailing in a Boat at Evening'; that of the second part was 'Lines written near Richmond upon the Thames'.

From 1815 to 1843, both poems were placed by Wordsworth among those "of Sentiment and Reflection." In 1845 they were transferred to "Poems written in Youth."--Ed.

* * * * *

THE POEM

How richly glows the water's breast Before us, tinged with evening hues, [1] While, facing thus the crimson west, The boat her silent course [2] pursues! And see how dark the backward stream! 5 A little moment past so smiling! And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, Some other loiterers [3] beguiling.

Such views the youthful Bard allure; But, heedless of the following gloom, 10 He deems their colours shall endure Till peace go with him to the tomb. --And let him nurse his fond deceit, And what if he must die in sorrow! Who would not cherish dreams so sweet, 15 Though grief and pain may come to-morrow?

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1815.

How rich the wave, in front, imprest With evening-twilight's summer hues, 1798.]

[Variant 2:

1802.

... path ... 1798.]

[Variant 3:

1815.

... loiterer ... 1798.]

* * * * *

REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS

COMPOSED UPON THE THAMES NEAR RICHMOND [A]

Composed 1789.--Published 1798

* * * * *

Glide gently, thus for ever glide,[B] O Thames! that other bards may see As lovely visions by thy side As now, fair river! come to me. O glide, fair stream! for ever so, 5 Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, Till all our minds for ever flow As thy deep waters now are flowing.

Vain thought!--Yet be as now thou art, That in thy waters may be seen 10 The image of a poet's heart, How bright, how solemn, how serene! Such as did once the Poet bless, [1] Who murmuring here a later [C] ditty, [2] Could find no refuge from distress 15 But in the milder grief of pity.

Now let us, as we float along, [3] For _him_ [4] suspend the dashing oar; [D] And pray that never child of song May know that Poet's sorrows more. [5] 20 How calm! how still! the only sound, The dripping of the oar suspended! --The evening darkness gathers round By virtue's holiest Powers attended.

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1800.

Such heart did once the poet bless, 1798.]

[Variant 2:

1815.

Who, pouring here a _later_ [i] ditty, 1798.]

[Variant 3:

1802.

Remembrance, as we glide along, 1798.

... float ... 1800.]

[Variant 4:

1802.

For him ... 1798.]

[Variant 5:

1802.

May know his freezing sorrows more. 1798.]

[Sub-Footnote i: The italics only occur in the editions of 1798 and 1800.--Ed.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES TO THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The title in the editions 1802-1815 was 'Remembrance of Collins, written upon the Thames near Richmond'.--Ed.]

[Footnote B: Compare the 'After-thought' to "The River Duddon. A Series of Sonnets":

Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide.

Ed.]

[Footnote C: Collins's 'Ode on the Death of Thomson', the last written, I believe, of the poems which were published during his life-time. This Ode is also alluded to in the next stanza.--W. W. 1798.]

[Footnote D: Compare Collins's 'Ode on the Death of Thomson', 'The Scene on the Thames near Richmond':

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore When Thames in summer wreaths is drest. And oft suspend the dashing oar To bid his gentle spirit rest.

As Mr. Dowden suggests, the _him_ was probably italicised by Wordsworth, "because the oar is suspended not for Thomson but for Collins." The italics were first used in the edition of 1802.--Ed.]

* * * * *

DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES TAKEN DURING A PEDESTRIAN TOUR AMONG THE ALPS

Composed 1791-2. [A]--Published 1793

TO THE REV. ROBERT JONES, FELLOW OF ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE

DEAR SIR, [B]--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 our having been companions among the Alps, seemed to give this dedication a propriety sufficient to do away any scruples which your modesty might otherwise have suggested. [C]

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 knapsack of necessaries upon his shoulders. How much more of heart between the two latter!

I am happy in being conscious that 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 Bethgelert, 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, Most sincerely yours, W. WORDSWORTH.

LONDON, 1793.

[Much the greatest part of this poem was composed during my walks upon the banks of the Loire, in the years 1791, 1792. I will only notice that the description of the valley filled with mist, beginning--'In solemn shapes'--was taken from that beautiful region of which the principal features are Lungarn and Sarnen. Nothing that I ever saw in Nature left a more delightful impression on my mind than that which I have attempted, alas, how feebly! to convey to others in these lines. Those two lakes have always interested me especially, from bearing in their size and other features, a resemblance to those of the North of England. It is much to be deplored that a district so beautiful should be so unhealthy as it is.--I. F.]

As the original text of the 'Descriptive Sketches' is printed in Appendix I. (p. 309) to this volume--with all the notes to that edition of 1793--it is not quoted in the footnotes to the final text in the pages which follow, except in cases which will justify themselves. Therefore the various readings which follow begin with the edition of 1815, which was, however, a mere fragment of the original text. Almost the whole of the poem of 1793 was reproduced in 1820, but there were many alterations of the text in that edition, and in those of 1827, 1832, 1836 and 1845. Wordsworth's own footnotes here reproduced are those which he retained in the edition of 1849.

'Descriptive Sketches' was ranked among the "Juvenile Pieces" from 1815 onwards: but in 1836 it was put in a class by itself along with the 'Female Vagrant'. [D]--Ed.

'Happiness (if she had been to be found on earth) among 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; its voluptuous Character; Old man and forest-cottage music--River Tusa--Via Mala and Grison Gipsy--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 its pilgrims--Valley of Chamouny--Mont Blanc--Slavery of Savoy--Influence of liberty on cottage-happiness--France--Wish for the Extirpation of slavery--Conclusion'.

* * * * *

THE POEM

Were there, below, a spot of holy ground Where from distress a refuge might be found, And solitude prepare the soul for heaven; Sure, nature's God that spot to man had given [1] Where falls the purple morning far and wide 5 In flakes of light upon the mountain-side; Where with loud voice the power of water shakes [2] The leafy wood, or sleeps in quiet lakes.

Yet not unrecompensed the man shall roam, Who at the call of summer quits his home, 10 And plods through some wide realm o'er vale and height, Though seeking only holiday delight; [3] At least, not owning to himself an aim To which the sage would give a prouder name. [4] No gains too cheaply earned his fancy cloy, 15 Though every passing zephyr whispers joy; Brisk toil, alternating with ready ease, Feeds the clear current of his sympathies. [5] For him sod-seats the cottage-door adorn; And peeps the far-off spire, his evening bourn! 20 Dear is the forest frowning o'er his head, And dear the velvet green-sward to his tread: [6] Moves there a cloud o'er mid-day's flaming eye? Upward he looks--"and calls it luxury:" [E] Kind Nature's charities his steps attend; 25 In every babbling brook he finds a friend; While [7] chastening thoughts of sweetest use, bestowed By wisdom, moralise his pensive road. Host of his welcome inn, the noon-tide bower, To his spare meal he calls the passing poor; 30 He views the sun uplift his golden fire, Or sink, with heart alive like Memnon's lyre; [F] Blesses the moon that comes with kindly ray, To light him shaken by his rugged way. [8] Back from his sight no bashful children steal; 35 He sits a brother at the cottage-meal; [9] His humble looks no shy restraint impart; Around him plays at will the virgin heart. While unsuspended wheels the village dance, The maidens eye him with enquiring glance, 40 Much wondering by what fit of crazing care, Or desperate love, bewildered, he came there. [10]

A hope, that prudence could not then approve, That clung to Nature with a truant's love, O'er Gallia's wastes of corn my footsteps led; 45 Her files of road-elms, high above my head In long-drawn vista, rustling in the breeze; Or where her pathways straggle as they please By lonely farms and secret villages. But lo! the Alps ascending white in air, [11] 50 Toy with the sun and glitter from afar.

And now, emerging from the forest's gloom, I greet thee, Chartreuse, while I mourn thy doom. Whither is fled that Power whose frown severe Awed sober Reason till she crouched in fear? [12] 55 _That_ Silence, once in deathlike fetters bound, Chains that were loosened only by the sound Of holy rites chanted in measured round? [13]

--The voice of blasphemy the fane alarms, The cloister startles at the gleam of arms. [14] 60 The [15] thundering tube the aged angler hears, [G] Bent o'er the groaning flood that sweeps away his tears. [16] Cloud-piercing pine-trees nod their troubled heads, [17] Spires, rocks, and lawns a browner night o'erspreads; Strong terror checks the female peasant's sighs, 65 And start the astonished shades at female eyes. From Bruno's forest screams the affrighted jay, And slow the insulted eagle wheels away. A viewless flight of laughing Demons mock The Cross, by angels planted [H] on the aërial rock. [18] 70 The "parting Genius" [J] sighs with hollow breath Along the mystic streams of Life and Death.[K] Swelling the outcry dull, that long resounds Portentous through her old woods' trackless bounds, Vallombre, [L] 'mid her falling fanes deplores 75 For ever broke, the sabbath of her bowers.

More pleased, my foot the hidden margin roves Of Como, bosomed deep in chestnut groves. No meadows thrown between, the giddy steeps Tower, bare or sylvan, from the narrow deeps. 80 --To towns, whose shades of no rude noise [19] complain, From ringing team apart [20] and grating wain-- To flat-roofed towns, that touch the water's bound, Or lurk in woody sunless glens profound, Or, from the bending rocks, obtrusive cling, 85 And o'er the whitened wave their shadows fling-- The pathway leads, as round the steeps it twines; [21] And Silence loves its purple roof of vines. The loitering traveller [22] hence, at evening, sees From rock-hewn steps the sail between the trees; 90 Or marks, 'mid opening cliffs, fair dark-eyed maids Tend the small harvest of their garden glades; Or stops the solemn mountain-shades to view Stretch o'er the pictured mirror broad and blue, And track the yellow lights from steep to steep, 95 As up the opposing hills they slowly creep. [23] Aloft, here, half a village shines, arrayed In golden light; [24] half hides itself in shade: While, from amid the darkened roofs, the spire, Restlessly flashing, seems to mount like fire: [25] 100 There, all unshaded, blazing forests throw Rich golden verdure on the lake [26] below. Slow glides the sail along the illumined shore, And steals into the shade the lazy oar; Soft bosoms breathe around contagious sighs, 105 And amorous music on the water dies.

How blest, delicious scene! the eye that greets Thy open beauties, or thy lone retreats; Beholds the unwearied sweep of wood that scales Thy cliffs; the endless waters of thy vales; [27] 110 Thy lowly cots that sprinkle all the shore, [28] Each with its [29] household boat beside the door; [30] Thy torrents shooting from the clear-blue sky; Thy towns, that cleave, like swallows' nests, on high; [31] That glimmer hoar in eve's last light descried 115 Dim from the twilight water's shaggy side, Whence lutes and voices down the enchanted woods Steal, and compose the oar-forgotten floods; [32]--Thy lake, that, streaked or dappled, blue or grey, 'Mid smoking woods gleams hid from morning's ray [33] 120 Slow-travelling down the western hills, to' enfold [34] Its green-tinged margin in a blaze of gold; Thy glittering steeples, whence the matin bell Calls forth the woodman from his desert cell, And quickens the blithe sound of oars that pass 125 Along the steaming lake, to early mass. [35] But now farewell to each and all--adieu To every charm, and last and chief to you, [36] Ye lovely maidens that in noontide shade Rest near your little plots of wheaten glade; [37] 130 To all that binds [38] the soul in powerless trance, Lip-dewing song, and ringlet-tossing dance; Where sparkling eyes and breaking smiles illume The sylvan cabin's lute-enlivened gloom. --Alas! the very murmur of the streams 135 Breathes o'er the failing soul voluptuous dreams, While Slavery, forcing the sunk mind to dwell On joys that might disgrace the captive's cell, Her shameless timbrel shakes on Como's marge, And lures [39] from bay to bay the vocal barge. 140

Yet are thy softer arts with power indued To soothe and cheer the poor man's solitude. By silent cottage-doors, the peasant's home Left vacant for the day, I loved to roam. [40] But once I pierced the mazes of a wood 145 In which a cabin undeserted stood; [41] There an old man an olden measure scanned On a rude viol touched with withered hand. [42] As lambs or fawns in April clustering lie [43] Under a hoary oak's thin canopy, 150 Stretched at his feet, with stedfast upward eye, His children's children listened to the sound; [44] --A Hermit with his family around!

But let us hence; for fair Locarno smiles Embowered in walnut slopes and citron isles: 155 Or seek at eve the banks of Tusa's stream, Where, [45] 'mid dim towers and woods, her [M] waters gleam. From the bright wave, in solemn gloom, retire The dull-red steeps, and, darkening still, aspire To where afar rich orange lustres glow 160 Round undistinguished clouds, and rocks, and snow: Or, led where Via Mala's chasms confine The indignant waters of the infant Rhine, Hang o'er the abyss, whose else impervious gloom [46] His burning eyes with fearful light illume. 165

The mind condemned, without reprieve, to go O'er life's long deserts with its charge of woe, With sad congratulation joins the train Where beasts and men together o'er the plain Move on--a mighty caravan of pain: 170 Hope, strength, and courage, social suffering brings, Freshening the wilderness with shades and springs. --There be whose lot far otherwise is cast: Sole human tenant of the piny waste, [47] By choice or doom a gipsy wanders here, 175 A nursling babe her only comforter; Lo, where she sits beneath yon shaggy rock, A cowering shape half hid in curling smoke! [48]

When lightning among clouds and mountain-snows Predominates, and darkness comes and goes, 180 And the fierce torrent, at the flashes broad Starts, like a horse, beside the glaring road-- She seeks a covert from the battering shower In the roofed bridge [N]; the bridge, in that dread hour, Itself all trembling at the torrent's power. [49] 185

Nor is she more at ease on some _still_ night, When not a star supplies the comfort of its light; Only the waning moon hangs dull and red Above a melancholy mountain's head, Then sets. In total gloom the Vagrant sighs, 190 Stoops her sick head, and shuts her weary eyes; Or on her fingers counts the distant clock, Or, to the drowsy crow of midnight cock, Listens, or quakes while from the forest's gulf Howls near and nearer yet the famished wolf. [50] 195

From the green vale of Urseren smooth and wide Descend we now, the maddened Reuss our guide; [51] By rocks that, shutting out the blessed day, Cling tremblingly to rocks as loose as they; By cells [P] upon whose image, while he prays, 200 The kneeling peasant scarcely dares to gaze; By many a votive death-cross [Q] planted near, And watered duly with the pious tear, That faded silent from the upward eye Unmoved with each rude form of peril nigh; [52] 205 Fixed on the anchor left by Him who saves Alike in whelming snows, and roaring waves.

But soon a peopled region on the sight Opens--a little world of calm delight; [53] Where mists, suspended on the expiring gale, 210 Spread roof like o'er the deep secluded vale, [54] And beams of evening slipping in between, Gently illuminate a sober scene:--[55] Here, on the brown wood-cottages [R] they sleep, [56] There, over rock or sloping pasture creep. [57] 215 On as we journey, in clear view displayed, The still vale lengthens underneath its shade Of low-hung vapour: on the freshened mead The green light sparkles;--the dim bowers recede. [58] While pastoral pipes and streams the landscape lull, 220 And bells of passing mules that tinkle dull, In solemn shapes before the admiring eye Dilated hang the misty pines on high, Huge convent domes with pinnacles and towers, And antique castles seen through gleamy [59] showers. 225

From such romantic dreams, my soul, awake! To sterner pleasure, where, by Uri's lake In Nature's pristine majesty outspread, Winds neither road nor path for foot to tread: [60] The rocks rise naked as a wall, or stretch, 230 Far o'er the water, hung with groves of beech; [61] Aerial pines from loftier steeps ascend, Nor stop but where creation seems to end. [62] Yet here and there, if 'mid the savage scene Appears a scanty plot of smiling green, 235 Up from the lake a zigzag path will creep To reach a small wood-hut hung boldly on the steep. [63] --Before those thresholds (never can they know [64] The face of traveller passing to and fro,) No peasant leans upon his pole, to tell 240 For whom at morning tolled the funeral bell; Their watch-dog ne'er his angry bark foregoes, Touched by the beggar's moan of human woes; The shady porch ne'er offered a cool seat To pilgrims overcome by summer's heat. [65] 245 Yet thither the world's business finds its way At times, and tales unsought beguile the day, And _there_ are those fond thoughts which Solitude, [66] However stern, is powerless to exclude. [67] There doth the maiden watch her lover's sail 250 Approaching, and upbraid the tardy gale; At midnight listens till his parting oar, And its last echo, can be heard no more. [68]

And what if ospreys, cormorants, herons cry, Amid tempestuous vapours driving by, [69] 255 Or hovering over wastes too bleak to rear That common growth of earth, the foodful ear; [70] Where the green apple shrivels on the spray, And pines the unripened pear in summer's kindliest ray; [71] Contentment shares the desolate domain [72] 260 With Independence, child of high Disdain. Exulting 'mid the winter of the skies, Shy as the jealous chamois, Freedom flies, And grasps by fits her sword, and often eyes; And sometimes, as from rock to rock she bounds 265 The Patriot nymph starts at imagined sounds, And, wildly pausing, oft she hangs aghast, Whether some old Swiss air hath checked her haste Or thrill of Spartan fife is caught between the blast. [73]

Swoln with incessant rains from hour to hour, [74] 270 All day the floods a deepening murmur pour: The sky is veiled, and every cheerful sight: Dark is the region as with coming night; But what a sudden burst of overpowering light! Triumphant on the bosom of the storm, 275 Glances the wheeling eagle's glorious form![75] Eastward, in long perspective glittering, shine The wood-crowned cliffs that o'er the lake recline; Those lofty cliffs a hundred streams unfold, [76] At once to pillars turned that flame with gold: 280 Behind his sail the peasant shrinks, to shun The _west_, [77] that burns like one dilated sun, A crucible of mighty compass, felt By mountains, glowing till they seem to melt. [78]

But, lo! the boatman, overawed, before 285 The pictured fane of Tell suspends his oar; Confused the Marathonian tale appears, While his eyes sparkle with heroic tears. [79] And who, that walks where men of ancient days Have wrought with godlike arm the deeds of praise, 290 Feels not the spirit of the place control, Or rouse [80] and agitate his labouring soul? Say, who, by thinking on Canadian hills, Or wild Aosta lulled by Alpine rills, On Zutphen's plain; or on that highland dell, 295 Through which rough Garry cleaves his way, can tell What high resolves exalt the tenderest thought Of him whom passion rivets to the spot, [81] Where breathed the gale that caught Wolfe's happiest sigh, And the last sunbeam fell on Bayard's eye; 300 Where bleeding Sidney from the cup retired, And glad Dundee in "faint huzzas" [S] expired?

But now with other mind I stand alone Upon the summit of this naked cone, And watch the fearless chamois-hunter chase 305 His prey, through tracts abrupt of desolate space, [82] [T] Through vacant worlds where Nature never gave A brook to murmur or a bough to wave, Which unsubstantial Phantoms sacred keep; Thro' worlds where Life, and Voice, and Motion sleep; 310 Where silent Hours their death-like sway extend, Save when the avalanche breaks loose, to rend Its way with uproar, till the ruin, drowned In some dense wood or gulf of snow profound, Mocks the dull ear of Time with deaf abortive sound. [83] 315 --'Tis his, while wandering on from height to height, To see a planet's pomp and steady light In the least star of scarce-appearing night; While the pale moon moves near him, on the bound Of ether, shining with diminished round, [84] 320 And far and wide the icy summits blaze, Rejoicing in the glory of her rays: To him the day-star glitters small and bright, Shorn of its beams, insufferably white, And he can look beyond the sun, and view 325 Those fast-receding depths of sable blue Flying till vision can no more pursue! [85] --At once bewildering mists around him close, And cold and hunger are his least of woes; The Demon of the snow, with angry roar 330 Descending, shuts for aye his prison door. Soon with despair's whole weight his spirits sink; Bread has he none, the snow must be his drink; And, ere his eyes can close upon the day, [86] The eagle of the Alps o'ershades her prey. 335

Now couch thyself where, heard with fear afar, [87] Thunders through echoing pines the headlong Aar; Or rather stay to taste the mild delights Of pensive Underwalden's [U] pastoral heights. --Is there who 'mid these awful wilds has seen 340 The native Genii walk the mountain green? Or heard, while other worlds their charms reveal, Soft music o'er [88] the aërial summit steal? While o'er the desert, answering every close, Rich steam of sweetest perfume comes and goes. 345 --And sure there is a secret Power that reigns Here, where no trace of man the spot profanes, Nought but the _chalets_, [V] flat and bare, on high Suspended 'mid the quiet of the sky; Or distant herds that pasturing upward creep, 350 And, not untended, climb the dangerous steep. [89] How still! no irreligious sound or sight Rouses the soul from her severe delight. An idle voice the sabbath region fills Of Deep that calls to Deep across the hills, 355 And with that voice accords the soothing sound [90] Of drowsy bells, for ever tinkling round; Faint wail of eagle melting into blue Beneath the cliffs, and pine-woods' steady _sugh_; [W] The solitary heifer's deepened low; 360 Or rumbling, heard remote, of falling snow. All motions, sounds, and voices, far and nigh, Blend in a music of tranquillity; [91] Save when, a stranger seen below [92] the boy Shouts from the echoing hills with savage joy. 365

When, from the sunny breast of open seas, And bays with myrtle fringed, the southern breeze Comes on to gladden April with the sight Of green isles widening on each snow-clad height; [93] When shouts and lowing herds the valley fill, 370 And louder torrents stun the noon-tide hill, [94] The pastoral Swiss begin the cliffs to scale, Leaving to silence the deserted vale; [95] And like the Patriarchs in their simple age Move, as the verdure leads, from stage to stage; [96] 375 High and more high in summer's heat they go, [97] And hear the rattling thunder far below; Or steal beneath the mountains, half-deterred, Where huge rocks tremble to the bellowing herd. [98]

One I behold who, 'cross the foaming flood, 380 Leaps with a bound of graceful hardihood; Another high on that green ledge;--he gained The tempting spot with every sinew strained; [99] And downward thence a knot of grass he throws, Food for his beasts in time of winter snows. [100] 385 --Far different life from what Tradition hoar Transmits of happier lot in times of yore! [101] Then Summer lingered long; and honey flowed From out the rocks, the wild bees' safe abode: [102] Continual waters [103] welling cheered the waste, 390 And plants were wholesome, now of deadly taste: Nor Winter yet his frozen stores had piled, Usurping where the fairest herbage smiled: Nor Hunger driven the herds from pastures bare, To climb the treacherous cliffs for scanty fare. [104] 395 Then the milk-thistle flourished through the land, And forced the full-swoln udder to demand, Thrice every day, the pail and welcome hand. [105] Thus does the father to his children tell Of banished bliss, by fancy loved too well. [106] 400 Alas! that human guilt provoked the rod [107] Of angry Nature to avenge her God. Still, Nature, ever just, to him imparts Joys only given to uncorrupted hearts.

'Tis morn: with gold the verdant mountain glows; 405 More high, the snowy peaks with hues of rose. Far-stretched beneath the many-tinted hills, A mighty waste of mist the valley fills, A solemn sea! whose billows wide around [108] Stand motionless, to awful silence bound: 410 Pines, on the coast, through mist their tops uprear, That like to leaning masts of stranded ships appear. A single chasm, a gulf of gloomy blue, Gapes in the centre of the sea--and through That dark mysterious gulf ascending, sound 415 Innumerable streams with roar profound. [109] Mount through the nearer vapours notes of birds, And merry flageolet; the low of herds, The bark of dogs, the heifer's tinkling bell, Talk, laughter, and perchance a church-tower knell: [110] 420 Think not, the peasant from aloft has gazed And heard with heart unmoved, with soul unraised: [111] Nor is his spirit less enrapt, nor less Alive to independent happiness, [112] Then, when he lies, out-stretched, at even-tide 425 Upon the fragrant mountain's purple side: [113] For as the pleasures of his simple day Beyond his native valley seldom stray, Nought round its darling precincts can he find But brings some past enjoyment to his mind; 430 While Hope, reclining upon Pleasure's urn, [114] Binds her wild wreaths, and whispers his return.

Once, Man entirely free, alone and wild, Was blest as free--for he was Nature's child. He, all superior but his God disdained, 435 Walked none restraining, and by none restrained: Confessed no law but what his reason taught, Did all he wished, and wished but what he ought. As man in his primeval dower arrayed The image of his glorious Sire displayed, 440 Even so, by faithful [115] Nature guarded, here The traces of primeval Man appear; The simple [116] dignity no forms debase; The eye sublime, and surly lion-grace: The slave of none, of beasts alone the lord, 445 His book he prizes, nor neglects his sword; [117] --Well taught by that to feel his rights, prepared With this "the blessings he enjoys to guard." [X]

And, as his native hills encircle ground For many a marvellous [118] victory renowned, 450 The work of Freedom daring to oppose, With few in arms, [Y] innumerable foes, When to those famous [119] fields his steps are led, An unknown power connects him with the dead: For images of other worlds are there; 455 Awful the light, and holy is the air. Fitfully, and in flashes, through his soul, Like sun-lit tempests, troubled transports roll; His bosom heaves, his Spirit towers amain, [120] Beyond the senses and their little reign. 460

And oft, when that dread vision hath past by, [121] He holds with God himself communion high, There where the peal [122] of swelling torrents fills The sky-roofed temple of the eternal hills; Or, when upon the mountain's silent brow 465 Reclined, he sees, above him and below, Bright stars of ice and azure fields of snow; While needle peaks of granite shooting bare Tremble in ever-varying tints of air. And when a gathering weight of shadows brown 470 Falls on the valleys as the sun goes down; And Pikes, of darkness named and fear and storms, [Z] Uplift in quiet their illumined forms, [123] In sea-like reach of prospect round him spread, Tinged like an angel's smile all rosy red-- 475 Awe in his breast with holiest love unites, And the near heavens impart their own delights. [124]

When downward to his winter hut he goes, Dear and more dear the lessening circle grows; That hut which on the hills so oft employs 480 His thoughts, the central point of all his joys. [125] And as a swallow, at the hour of rest, Peeps often ere she darts into her nest, So to the homestead, where the grandsire tends A little prattling child, he oft descends, 485 To glance a look upon the well-matched pair; [126] Till storm and driving ice blockade him there. There, [127] safely guarded by the woods behind, He hears the chiding of the baffled wind, Hears Winter calling all his terrors round, 490 And, blest within himself, he shrinks not from the sound. [128]

Through Nature's vale his homely pleasures glide, Unstained by envy, discontent, and pride; The bound of all his vanity, to deck, With one bright bell, a favourite heifer's neck; 495 Well pleased [129] upon some simple annual feast, Remembered half the year and hoped the rest, If dairy-produce, from his inner hoard, Of thrice ten summers dignify [130] the board. --Alas! in every clime a flying ray 500 Is all we have to cheer our wintry way; [131] And here the unwilling mind [132] may more than trace The general sorrows of the human race: The churlish gales of penury, that blow Cold as the north-wind o'er a waste of snow, [133] 505 To them [134] the gentle groups of bliss deny That on the noon-day bank of leisure lie. Yet more;--compelled by Powers which only deign That _solitary_ man disturb their reign, Powers that support an unremitting [135] strife 510 With all the tender charities of life, Full oft the father, when his sons have grown To manhood, seems their title to disown; [136] And from his nest [137] amid the storms of heaven Drives, eagle-like, those sons as he was driven; 515 With stern composure [138] watches to the plain-- And never, eagle-like, beholds again!

When long familiar joys are all resigned, Why does their sad remembrance haunt the mind? [139] Lo! where through flat Batavia's willowy groves, 520 Or by the lazy Seine, the exile roves; O'er the curled waters Alpine measures swell, And search the affections to their inmost cell; Sweet poison spreads along the listener's veins, Turning past pleasures into mortal pains; [140] 525 Poison, which not a frame of steel can brave, Bows his young head with sorrow to the grave. [Aa]

Gay lark of hope, thy silent song resume! Ye flattering eastern lights, once more the hills illume! [141] Fresh [142] gales and dews of life's delicious morn, 530 And thou, lost fragrance of the heart, return! Alas! the little joy to man allowed, Fades like the lustre of an evening cloud; [143] Or like the beauty in a flower installed, Whose season was, and cannot be recalled. 535 Yet, when opprest by sickness, grief, or care, And taught that pain is pleasure's natural heir, We still confide in more than we can know; Death would be else the favourite friend of woe. [144]

'Mid savage rocks, and seas of snow that shine, 540 Between interminable tracts of pine, Within a temple stands an awful shrine, [145] By an uncertain light revealed, that falls On the mute Image and the troubled walls. Oh! give not me that eye of hard disdain 545 That views, undimmed, Ensiedlen's [Bb] wretched fane. While ghastly faces through the gloom appear, [146] Abortive joy, and hope that works in fear; [147] While prayer contends with silenced agony, [148] Surely in other thoughts contempt may die. 550 If the sad grave of human ignorance bear One flower of hope--oh, pass and leave it there! [Cc]

The tall sun, pausing [149] on an Alpine spire, Flings o'er the wilderness a stream of fire: Now meet we other pilgrims ere the day [150] 555 Close on the remnant of their weary way; While they are drawing toward the sacred floor Where, so they fondly think, the worm shall gnaw no more. [151] How gaily murmur and how sweetly taste The fountains [Dd] reared for them [152] amid the waste! 560 Their thirst they slake:--they wash their toil-worn feet, And some with tears of joy each other greet. [153] Yes, I must [154] see you when ye first behold Those holy turrets tipped with evening gold, In that glad moment will for you a sigh 565 Be heaved, of charitable sympathy; [155] In that glad moment when your [156] hands are prest In mute devotion on the thankful breast!

Last, let us turn to Chamouny that shields [157] With rocks and gloomy woods [158] her fertile fields: 570 Five streams of ice amid her cots descend, And with wild flowers and blooming orchards blend;--[Ee] A scene more fair than what the Grecian feigns Of purple lights and ever-vernal plains; Here all the seasons revel hand in hand: 575 'Mid lawns and shades by breezy rivulets fanned [159] [160] They sport beneath that mountain's matchless height [161] That holds no commerce with the summer night. [Ee] From age to age, throughout [162] his lonely bounds The crash of ruin fitfully resounds; 580 Appalling [163] havoc! but serene his brow, Where daylight lingers on [164] perpetual snow; Glitter the stars, and all is black below. [Ee]

What marvel then if many a Wanderer sigh, While roars the sullen Arve in anger by, [165] 585 That not for thy reward, unrivall'd [166] Vale! [Ff] Waves the ripe harvest in the autumnal gale; That thou, the slave of slaves, art doomed to pine And droop, while no Italian arts are thine, To soothe or cheer, to soften or refine. [167] 590

Hail Freedom! whether it was mine to stray, With shrill winds whistling round my lonely way, [168] On [169] the bleak sides of Cumbria's heath-clad moors, Or where dank sea-weed lashes Scotland's shores; To scent the sweets of Piedmont's breathing rose, 595 And orange gale that o'er Lugano blows; Still have I found, where Tyranny prevails, That virtue languishes and pleasure fails, [170] While the remotest hamlets blessings share In thy loved [171] presence known, and only there; 600 _Heart_-blessings--outward treasures too which the eye Of the sun peeping through the clouds can spy, And every passing breeze will testify. [172] There, to the porch, belike with jasmine bound Or woodbine wreaths, a smoother path is wound; [173] 605 The housewife there a brighter garden sees, Where hum on busier wing her happy bees; [174] On infant cheeks there fresher roses blow; And grey-haired men look up with livelier brow,--[175] To greet the traveller needing food and rest; 610 Housed for the night, or but a half-hour's guest. [176]

And oh, fair France! though now the traveller sees Thy three-striped banner fluctuate on the breeze;[177] Though martial songs have banished songs of love, And nightingales desert the village grove, [178] 615 Scared by the fife and rumbling drum's alarms, And the short thunder, and the flash of arms; That cease not till night falls, when far and nigh, Sole sound, the Sourd [Gg] prolongs his mournful cry! [179] --Yet, hast thou found that Freedom spreads her power 620 Beyond the cottage-hearth, the cottage-door: All nature smiles, and owns beneath her eyes Her fields peculiar, and peculiar skies. Yes, as I roamed where Loiret's waters glide Through rustling aspens heard from side to side, 625 When from October clouds a milder light Fell where the blue flood rippled into white; Methought from every cot the watchful bird Crowed with ear-piercing power till then unheard; Each clacking mill, that broke the murmuring streams, 630 Rocked the charmed thought in more delightful dreams; Chasing those pleasant dreams, [180] the falling leaf Awoke a fainter sense [181] of moral grief; The measured echo of the distant flail Wound in more welcome cadence down the vale; 635 With more majestic course the water rolled, And ripening foliage shone with richer gold. [182] --But foes are gathering--Liberty must raise Red on the hills her beacon's far-seen blaze; Must bid the tocsin ring from tower to tower!-- 640 Nearer and nearer comes the trying hour! [183] Rejoice, brave Land, though pride's perverted ire Rouse hell's own aid, and wrap thy fields in fire: Lo, from the flames a great and glorious birth; As if a new-made heaven were hailing a new earth! [184] 645 --All cannot be: the promise is too fair For creatures doomed to breathe terrestrial air: Yet not for this will sober reason frown Upon that promise, not the hope disown; She knows that only from high aims ensue 650 Rich guerdons, and to them alone are due. [185]

Great God! by whom the strifes of men are weighed In an impartial balance, give thine aid To the just cause; and, oh! do thou preside Over the mighty stream now spreading wide: [Hh] 655 So shall its waters, from the heavens supplied In copious showers, from earth by wholesome springs, Brood o'er the long-parched lands with Nile-like wings! And grant that every sceptred child of clay Who cries presumptuous, "Here the flood shall stay," [186] 660 May in its progress see thy guiding hand, And cease the acknowledged purpose to withstand; [187] Or, swept in anger from the insulted shore, Sink with his servile bands, to rise no more! [188]

To-night, my Friend, within this humble cot 665 Be scorn and fear and hope alike forgot [189] In timely sleep; and when, at break of day, On the tall peaks the glistening sunbeams play, [190] With a light heart our course we may renew, The first whose footsteps print the mountain dew. [191] 670

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827.

... a spot of holy ground, By Pain and her sad family unfound, Sure, Nature's God that spot to man had given, Where murmuring rivers join the song of even; Where falls ... 1820.]

[Variant 2:

1836.

Where the resounding power of water shakes 1820.

Where with loud voice the power of waters shakes 1827.]

[Variant 3:

1836.

And not unrecompensed the man shall roam, Who, to converse with Nature, quits his home, And plods o'er hills and vales his way forlorn, Wooing her various charms from eve to morn. 1820.

Yet not unrecompensed the man shall roam, Who at the call of summer quits his home, And plods through some far realm o'er vale and height, Though seeking only holiday delight; 1827.]

[Variant 4: Lines 13 and 14 were introduced in 1827.]

[Variant 5:

1827.

No sad vacuities [i] his heart annoy;-- Blows not a Zephyr but it whispers joy; For him lost flowers their idle sweets exhale; He tastes the meanest note that swells the gale; For him sod-seats ... 1815.

Breathes not a zephyr but it whispers joy; For him the loneliest flowers their sweets exhale; He marks "the meanest note that swells the [ii] gale;" 1820.]

[Variant 6:

1820.

And dear the green-sward to his velvet tread; 1815.]

[Variant 7:

1815.

Whilst ... Only in 1820.]

[Variant 8:

1820.

... with kindest ray To light him shaken by his viewless way. 1815.]

[Variant 9:

1836.

With bashful fear no cottage children steal From him, a brother at the cottage meal, 1815.]

[Variant 10:

1845.

Much wondering what sad stroke of crazing Care, Or desperate Love could lead a wanderer there. 1815.

Much wondering in what fit of crazing care, Or desperate love, a wanderer came there. 1836.]

[Variant 11:

1836.

Me, lured by hope her sorrows to remove, A heart that could not much itself approve, O'er Gallia's wastes of corn dejected led, Her road elms rustling high above my head, Or through her truant pathways' native charms, By secret villages and lonely farms, To where the Alps ... 1820.

... could not much herself approve, 1827.

... lured by hope its sorrows to remove, 1832.

The lines 46, 47, were expanded in the edition of 1836 from one line in the editions of 1820-1832.]

[Variant 12:

1836.

I sigh at hoary Chartreuse' doom. Where now is fled that Power whose frown severe Tamed "sober Reason" till she crouched in fear? That breathed a death-like peace these woods around; The cloister startles ... 1815.

Even now, emerging from the forest's gloom, I heave a sigh at hoary Chartreuse' doom. Where now is fled that Power whose frown severe Tamed "sober Reason" till she crouched in fear? 1820.]

[Variant 13:

1836.

That breathed a death-like silence wide around, Broke only by the unvaried torrent's sound, Or prayer-bell by the dull cicada drown'd. 1820.

The editions of 1827 and 1832 omit these lines.]

[Variant 14:

1836.

The cloister startles at the gleam of arms, And Blasphemy the shuddering fane alarms; 1815.]

[Variant 15:

1793.

That ... 1827.

The edition of 1836 returns to the text of 1793.]

[Variant 16:

1836.

And swells the groaning torrent with his tears. 1815.

In the editions 1815-1832 lines 61, 62 followed line 66.]

[Variant 17:

1836.

Nod the cloud-piercing pines their troubled heads, 1815.]

[Variant 18:

1836.

The cross with hideous laughter Demons mock, By angels planted on the aereal rock. 1815.

The cross, by angels on the aërial rock Planted, a flight of laughing demons mock. 1832.]

[Variant 19:

1836.

... sound ... 1815.]

[Variant 20:

1836.

To ringing team unknown ... 1815.]

[Variant 21:

1827.

Wild round the steeps the little pathway twines, 1815.]

[Variant 22:

1836.

The viewless lingerer ... 1815.]

[Variant 23:

1845.

Tracking the yellow sun from steep to steep, As up the opposing hills, with tortoise foot, they creep. 1815.

And track the yellow light ... 1836.

... on naked steeps As up the opposing hill it slowly creeps. C.]

[Variant 24:

1845.

Here half a village shines, in gold arrayed, Bright as the moon; ... 1815.]

[Variant 25:

1827.

From the dark sylvan roofs the restless spire Inconstant glancing, mounts like springing fire. 1815.]

[Variant 26:

1836.

... the waves ... 1815.]

[Variant 27:

1836.

Th' unwearied sweep of wood thy cliffs that scales; The never-ending waters of thy vales; 1815.]

[Variant 28:

1836.

Line 111 was previously three lines, thus--

The cots, those dim religious groves embower, Or, under rocks that from the water tower Insinuated, sprinkling all the shore, 1815.]

[Variant 29:

1836.

... his ... 1815.]

[Variant 30:

1836.

Whose flaccid sails in forms fantastic droop, Bright'ning the gloom where thick the forests stoop;

Only in the editions 1815 to 1832.]

[Variant 31:

1827.

... like swallows' nests that cleave on high; 1815.]

[Variant 32:

1827.

While Evening's solemn bird melodious weeps, Heard, by star-spotted bays, beneath the steeps;

Only in the editions of 1815 and 1820.]

[Variant 33:

1836.

--Thy lake, mid smoking woods, that blue and grey Gleams, streaked or dappled, hid from morning's ray 1815.

As beautiful the flood where blue or grey Dappled, or streaked, as hid from morning's ray. C.]

[Variant 34:

1836.

... to fold 1815.]

[Variant 35:

1836.

From thickly-glittering spires the matin bell Calling the woodman from his desert cell, A summons to the sound of oars, that pass, Spotting the steaming deeps, to early mass; Slow swells the service o'er the water born, While fill each pause the ringing woods of morn. 1815.

Calls forth the woodman with its cheerful knell. C.]

[Variant 36: This couplet was first added in 1845.]

[Variant 37:

1845.

Farewell those forms that in thy noon-tide shade, Rest, near their little plots of wheaten glade; 1820.

Ye lovely forms that in the noontide shade Rest near their little plots of wheaten glade. C.]

[Variant 38:

1845.

Those charms that bind ... 1820.]

[Variant 39:

1836.

And winds, ... 1820.]

[Variant 40:

1836.

Yet arts are thine that soothe the unquiet heart, And smiles to Solitude and Want impart. I lov'd, 'mid thy most desart woods astray, With pensive step to measure my slow way, By lonely, silent cottage-doors to roam, The far-off peasant's day-deserted home. 1820.

I loved by silent cottage-doors to roam, The far-off peasant's day-deserted home; 1827.

These two lines take the place of the second and third couplets of the 1820 text quoted above.]

[Variant 41:

1836.

Once did I pierce to where a cabin stood; The red-breast peace had buried it in wood, 1820.

And once I pierced the mazes of a wood, Where, far from public haunt, a cabin stood; 1827.]

[Variant 42:

1836.

There, by the door a hoary-headed Sire Touched with his withered hand an ancient lyre; 1820.]

[Variant 43:

1836.

This and the following line were expanded from

Beneath an old-grey oak, as violets lie, 1820.]

[Variant 44:

1836.

... joined the holy sound; 1820.]

[Variant 45:

1836.

While ... 1820.]

[Variant 46:

1845.

Bend o'er th' abyss, the else impervious gloom 1820.

Hang o'er th' abyss:--... 1827.

... the abyss:--... 1832.]

[Variant 47:

1836.

Freshening the waste of sand with shades and springs. --_She_, solitary, through the desart drear Spontaneous wanders, hand in hand with Fear. 1820.

By choice or doom a gipsy wanders here, Companionless, or hand in hand with fear; Lo! where she sits beneath yon shaggy rock, A cowering shape half-seen through curling smoke. MS.]

[Variant 48:

1836.

The Grison gypsey here her tent hath placed, Sole human tenant of the piny waste; Her tawny skin, dark eyes, and glossy locks, Bend o'er the smoke that curls beneath the rocks.[iii] 1820.]

[Variant 49:

1845.

Lines 179-185 were substituted in 1845 for

A giant moan along the forest swells Protracted, and the twilight storm foretels, And, ruining from the cliffs, their deafening load Tumbles,--the wildering Thunder slips abroad; On the high summits Darkness comes and goes, Hiding their fiery clouds, their rocks, and snows; The torrent, traversed by the lustre broad, Starts like a horse beside the flashing road; In the roofed bridge, at that terrific hour, She seeks a shelter from the battering show'r. --Fierce comes the river down; the crashing wood Gives way, and half it's pines torment the flood; [iv] Fearful, beneath, the Water-spirits call, And the bridge vibrates, tottering to its fall. 1820.

When rueful moans along the forest swell Protracted, and the twilight storm foretel, And, headlong from the cliffs, a deafening load Tumbles,--and wildering thunder slips abroad; When on the summits Darkness comes and goes, Hiding their fiery clouds, their rocks, and snows; And the fierce torrent, from the lustre broad, Starts, like a horse beside the flashing road-- She seeks a covert from the battering shower In the roofed bridge; the bridge, in that dread hour, Itself all quaking at the torrent's power. 1836.]

[Variant 50:

1845.

Lines 186-195 were substituted in 1845 for

--Heavy, and dull, and cloudy is the night; No star supplies the comfort of it's light, Glimmer the dim-lit Alps, dilated, round, And one sole light shifts in the vale profound; [s1] While, [s2] opposite, the waning moon hangs still, And red, above her [s3] melancholy hill. By the deep quiet gloom appalled, she sighs, [s4] Stoops her sick head, and shuts her weary eyes. She hears, upon the mountain forest's brow, The death-dog, howling loud and long, below; --Breaking th' ascending roar of desert floods, And insect buzz, that stuns the sultry woods, [s5] On viewless fingers [s6] counts the valley-clock, Followed by drowsy crow of midnight cock. --Bursts from the troubled larch's giant boughs The pie, and, chattering, breaks the night's repose. [s7] The dry leaves stir as with the serpent's walk, And, far beneath, Banditti voices talk; Behind her hill, [s8] the Moon, all crimson, rides, And his red eyes the slinking Water hides. --Vexed by the darkness, from the piny gulf Ascending, nearer howls the famished wolf, [s9] While thro' the stillness scatters wild dismay Her babe's small cry, that leads him to his prey. 1820.

s1-s9: see Sub-Variants below. txt. Ed.]

[Variant 51:

1836.

Now, passing Urseren's open vale serene, Her quiet streams, and hills of downy green, Plunge with the Russ embrowned by Terror's breath, Where danger roofs the narrow walks of death; 1815.

Plunge where the Reuss with fearless might has rent His headlong way along a dark descent. MS.

In the edition of 1836 these two couplets of 1815 were compressed into one, and in that edition lines 200-201 preceded lines 198-199. They were transposed in 1840.]

[Variant 52:

1836.

By floods, that, thundering from their dizzy height, Swell more gigantic on the stedfast sight; Black drizzling crags, that beaten by the din, Vibrate, as if a voice complained within; Bare steeps, where Desolation stalks afraid, Unstedfast, by a blasted yew unstayed; By cells whose image, trembling as he prays, Awe-struck, the kneeling peasant scarce surveys; Loose hanging rocks the Day's bless'd eye that hide, And crosses reared to Death on every side, Which with cold kiss Devotion planted near, And bending water'd with the human tear; That faded "silent" from her upward eye, Unmoved with each rude form of Danger nigh, 1815.]

[Variant 53:

1836.

On as we move a softer prospect opes, Calm huts, and lawns between, and sylvan slopes. 1815.]

[Variant 54:

1845.

While mists, suspended on the expiring gale, Moveless o'er-hang the deep secluded vale, 1815.

Where mists, 1836.

Where mists suspended on the evening gale, Spread roof-like o'er a deep secluded vale, C.

Given to clear view beneath a hoary veil Of mists suspended on the evening gale. MS.]

[Variant 55:

1836.

The beams of evening, slipping soft between, Light up of tranquil joy a sober scene. 1815.

Gently illuminate a sober scene; 1827.]

[Variant 56: In the editions 1815-1832 ll. 214, 215 follow, instead of preceding, ll. 216-219.]

[Variant 57:

1845.

On the low brown wood-huts delighted sleep Along the brightened gloom reposing deep. 1815.

Here, on the brown wood-cottages they sleep, There, over lawns and sloping woodlands creep. 1836.

There, over lawn or sloping pasture creep. C.]

[Variant 58:

1845.

Winding its dark-green wood and emerald glade, The still vale lengthens underneath the shade; While in soft gloom the scattering bowers recede, Green dewy lights adorn the freshened mead, 1815.

Winding its darksome wood and emerald glade, The still vale lengthens underneath the shade Of low-hung vapour: on the freshened mead The green light sparkles;--the dim bowers recede. 1836.]

[Variant 59:

1836.

... drizzling ... 1815.]

[Variant 60:

1845.

... my soul awake, Lo! Fear looks silent down on Uri's lake; Where by the unpathwayed margin still and dread Was never heard the plodding peasant's tread: 1815.]

[Variant 61:

1845.

Tower like a wall the naked rocks, or reach Far o'er the secret water dark with beech; 1815.

Tower-like rise up the naked rocks, or stretch 1836.]

[Variant 62:

1845.

More high, to where creation seems to end, Shade above shade the desert pines ascend. 1815.

... the aërial pines ... 1820.

Shade above shade, the aërial pines ascend, Nor stop but where creation seems to end. 1836.]

[Variant 63:

1845.

(Compressing eight lines into four.)

Yet, with his infants, man undaunted creeps And hangs his small wood-hut upon the steeps, Where'er, below, amid the savage scene Peeps out a little speck of smiling green. A garden-plot the mountain air perfumes, Mid the dark pines a little orchard blooms; A zig-zag path from the domestic skiff, Threading the painful crag, surmounts the cliff. 1815.

... wood-cabin on the steeps. 1820.

... the desert air perfumes, 1820.

Thridding the painful crag, ... 1832.

Yet, wheresoe'er amid the savage scene Peeps out a little spot of smiling green, Man with his babes undaunted thither creeps, And hangs his small wood-hut upon the steeps. A garden-plot ... 1836.]

[Variant 64:

1845.

--Before those hermit doors, that never know 1815.

--Before those lonesome doors, ... 1836.]

[Variant 65:

1845.

The grassy seat beneath their casement shade The pilgrim's wistful eye hath never stayed. 1815.

The shady porch ne'er offered a cool seat To pilgrims overpowered by summer's heat. 1836.]

[Variants 66 and 67: See Appendix III.--Ed.]

[Variant 68:

1845.

Lines 246 to 253 were previously:

--There, did the iron Genius not disdain The gentle Power that haunts the myrtle plain, There might the love-sick Maiden sit, and chide Th' insuperable rocks and severing tide, There watch at eve her Lover's sun-gilt sail Approaching, and upbraid the tardy gale, There list at midnight, till is heard no more, Below, the echo of his parting oar, There hang in fear, when growls the frozen stream, [v] To guide his dangerous tread, the taper's gleam. 1815.

There might the maiden chide, in love-sick mood, The insuperable rocks and severing flood; 1836.

At midnight listen till his parting oar, And its last echo, can be heard no more. 1836.

Yet tender thoughts dwell there, no solitude Hath power youth's natural feelings to exclude; There doth the maiden watch her lover's sail Approaching, and upbraid the tardy gale. C.]

[Variant 69:

1845.

Mid stormy vapours ever driving by, Where ospreys, cormorants, and herons cry; 1815.

Where ospreys, cormorants, and herons cry, 'Mid stormy vapours ever driving by, 1836.]

[Variant 70:

1836.

Where hardly given the hopeless waste to cheer, Denied the bread of life the foodful ear, 1815.

Hovering o'er rugged wastes too bleak to rear That common growth of earth, the foodful ear; 1820.]

[Variant 71:

1820.

Dwindles the pear on autumn's latest spray, And apple sickens pale in summer's ray; 1815.]

[Variant 72:

1845.

Ev'n here Content has fixed her smiling reign 1815.]

[Variant 73:

1845.

And often grasps her sword, and often eyes: Her crest a bough of Winter's bleakest pine, Strange "weeds" and alpine plants her helm entwine, And wildly-pausing oft she hangs aghast, While thrills the "Spartan fife" between the blast. 1815.

Flowers of the loftiest Alps her helm entwine; And, wildly pausing, oft she hangs aghast, As thrills ... 1836.

And oft at Fancy's call she stands aghast, As if some old Swiss air had checked her haste, Or thrill of Spartan fife were caught between the blast. C.]

[Variant 74:

1845.

'Tis storm; and, hid in mist from hour to hour, 1815.]

[Variant 75:

1845.

Glances the fire-clad eagle's wheeling form; 1815.

... glorious form; 1836.]

[Variant 76:

1845.

Wide o'er the Alps a hundred streams unfold, 1815.

Those eastern cliffs ... 1836.]

[Variant 77:

1845.

... strives to shun The west ... 1815.

... tries to shun The _west_, ... 1836.]

[Variant 78:

1845.

Where in a mighty crucible expire The mountains, glowing hot, like coals of fire. 1815.]

[Variant 79:

1836.

While burn in his full eyes the glorious tears. 1820.]

[Variant 80:

1836.

Exalt, and agitate ... 1820.]

[Variant 81:

1836.

On Zutphen's plain; or where, with soften'd gaze, The old grey stones the plaided chief surveys; Can guess the high resolve, the cherished pain Of him whom passion rivets to the plain, 1820.]

[Variant 82:

1836.

And watch, from pike to pike, amid the sky Small as a bird the chamois-chaser fly, 1820.]

[Variant 83:

1836.

Thro' worlds where Life, and Sound, and Motion sleep; Where Silence still her death-like reign extends, Save when the startling cliff unfrequent rends: In the deep snow the mighty ruin drowned, Mocks the dull ear ... 1820.]

[Variant 84:

1836.

While the near moon, that coasts the vast profound, Wheels pale and silent her diminished round, 1820.]

[Variant 85:

1827.

Flying more fleet than vision can pursue! 1820.]

[Variant 86:

1836.

Then with Despair's whole weight his spirits sink, No bread to feed him, and the snow his drink, While, ere his eyes ... 1820.]

[Variant 87:

1836.

Hence shall we turn where, heard with fear afar, 1820.]

[Variant 88:

1836.

... from ... 1820.]

[Variant 89:

1836.

Nought but the herds that pasturing upward creep, Hung dim-discover'd from the dangerous steep, Or summer hamlet, flat and bare, on high Suspended, mid the quiet of the sky. 1815.]

[Variant 90:

1836.

Broke only by the melancholy sound 1815.]

[Variant 91: The two previous lines were added in 1836.]

[Variant 92:

1832.

Save that, the stranger seen below, ... 1815.]

[Variant 93:

1836.

When warm from myrtle bays and tranquil seas, Comes on, to whisper hope, the vernal breeze, When hums the mountain bee in May's glad ear, And emerald isles to spot the heights appear, 1815.]

[Variant 94:

When fragrant scents beneath th' enchanted tread Spring up, his choicest wealth around him spread,

Inserted in the editions 1815 to 1832.]

[Variant 95:

1836.

The pastoral Swiss begins the cliffs to scale, To silence leaving the deserted vale, 1815]

[Variant 96:

1836.

Mounts, where the verdure leads, from stage to stage, And pastures on, as in the Patriarch's age: 1815.]

[Variant 97:

1836.

O'er lofty heights serene and still they go, 1815.]

[Variant 98:

1836.

(Omitting the first of the two following couplets.)

They cross the chasmy torrent's foam-lit bed, Rocked on the dizzy larch's narrow tread; Or steal beneath loose mountains, half deterr'd, That sigh and shudder to the lowing herd. 1815.]

[Variant 99: This couplet was added in the edition of 1836.]

[Variant 100:

1836.

Lines 380-385 were previously:

--I see him, up the midway cliff he creeps To where a scanty knot of verdure peeps, Thence down the steep a pile of grass he throws, The fodder of his herds in winter snows. 1815.]

[Variant 101:

1836.

... to what tradition hoar Transmits of days more blest ... 1815.]

[Variant 102:

1845.

Then Summer lengthened out his season bland, And with rock-honey flowed the happy land. 1815.

Then Summer lingered long; and honey flowed Out of the rocks, the wild bees' safe abode. 1836.]

[Variant 103:

1836.

Continual fountains ... 1815.]

[Variant 104:

1836.

Nor Hunger forced the herds from pastures bare For scanty food the treacherous cliffs to dare. 1815.]

[Variant 105:

1836.

Then the milk-thistle bade those herds demand Three times a day the pail and welcome hand. 1815.]

[Variant 106:

1836.

Thus does the father to his sons relate, On the lone mountain top, their changed estate. 1815.]

[Variant 107:

1836.

But human vices have provoked the rod 1815.

In the editions 1815-1832 this and the following line preceded lines 399-400. They took their final position in the edition of 1836.]

[Variant 108:

1836.

... whose vales and mountains round 1820.]

[Variant 109:

1836.

(Compressing eight lines into six.)

... to awful silence bound. A gulf of gloomy blue, that opens wide And bottomless, divides the midway tide. Like leaning masts of stranded ships appear The pines that near the coast their summits rear; Of cabins, woods, and lawns a pleasant shore Bounds calm and clear the chaps still and hoar; Loud thro' that midway gulf ascending, sound Unnumber'd streams with hollow roar profound: 1820.]

[Variant 110:

1836.

Mount thro' the nearer mist the chaunt of birds, And talking voices, and the low of herds, The bark of dogs, the drowsy tinkling bell, And wild-wood mountain lutes of saddest swell. 1820.]

[Variant 111:

1836.

Think not, suspended from the cliff on high, He looks below with undelighted eye. 1820.]

[Variant 112: This couplet was added in the edition of 1836.]

[Variant 113:

1836.

--No vulgar joy is his, at even tide Stretch'd on the scented mountain's purple side. 1820.]

[Variant 114:

1836.

While Hope, that ceaseless leans on Pleasure's urn, 1820.]

[Variant 115:

1836.

... by vestal ... 1820.]

[Variant 116:

1836.

... native ... 1820.]

[Variant 117:

1832.

He marches with his flute, his book, and sword; 1820.]

[Variant 118:

1845.

... wonderous ... 1820.]

[Variant 119:

1840.

... glorious ... 1820.]

[Variant 120:

1836.

Uncertain thro' his fierce uncultured soul Like lighted tempests troubled transports roll; To viewless realms his Spirit towers amain, 1820.]

[Variant 121:

1836.

And oft, when pass'd that solemn vision by, 1820.]

[Variant 122:

1836.

Where the dread peal ... 1820.]

[Variant 123:

1836.

--When the Sun bids the gorgeous scene farewell, Alps overlooking Alps their state up-swell; Huge Pikes of Darkness named, of Fear and Storms, Lift, all serene, their still, illumined forms, 1820.]

[Variant 124:

1845.

--Great joy, by horror tam'd, dilates his heart, And the near heavens their own delights impart. 1820.

In the editions 1820-1832 this couplet preceded the four lines above quoted.

Fear in his breast with holy love unites, And the near heavens impart their own delights. 1836.]

[Variant 125:

1836.

That hut which from the hills his eyes employs So oft, the central point of all his joys, 1815.

... his eye ... 1832.]

[Variant 126:

1836

And as a swift, by tender cares opprest, Peeps often ere she dart into her nest, So to the untrodden floor, where round him looks His father, helpless as the babe he rocks, Oft he descends to nurse the brother pair, 1820.]

[Variant 127:

1820.

Where, ... 1815.]

[Variant 128:

1836.

Rush down the living rocks with whirlwind sound. 1815.]

[Variant 129:

1820.

Content ... 1815. ]

[Variant 130:

1836.

... consecrate ... 1815.]

[Variant 131: The following lines were erased in 1836, and in all subsequent editions:

"Here," cried a swain, whose venerable head Bloom'd with the snow-drops of Man's narrow bed, Last night, while by his dying fire, as clos'd The day, in luxury my limbs repos'd, Here Penury oft from misery's mount will guide Ev'n to the summer door his icy tide, And here the avalanche of Death destroy The little cottage of domestic Joy. 1793.]

... a Swain, upon whose hoary head The "blossoms of the grave" were thinly spread, 1820.

... a thoughtful Swain, upon whose head 1827.]

[Variant 132:

1836.

But, ah! the unwilling mind ... 1820.]

[Variant 133:

1836.

The churlish gales, that unremitting blow Cold from necessity's continual snow, 1820.]

[Variant 134:

1836.

To us ... 1820.]

[Variant 135:

1836.

... a never-ceasing ... 1820.]

[Variant 136:

1836.

The father, as his sons of strength become To pay the filial debt, for food to roam, 1820.]

[Variant 137:

1836.

From his bare nest ... 1820.]

[Variant 138:

1836.

His last dread pleasure! watches ... 1820.]

[Variant 139:

1836.

When the poor heart has all its joys resigned, Why does their sad remembrance cleave behind? 1820.]

[Variant 140:

1836.

Soft o'er the waters mournful measures swell, Unlocking tender thought's "memorial cell"; Past pleasures are transformed to mortal pains And poison spreads along the listener's veins. 1820.

While poison ... 1827.]

[Variant 141:

1836.

Fair smiling lights the purpled hills illume! 1815.]

[Variant 142:

1836.

Soft ... 1815.]

[Variant 143:

1836.

Soon flies the little joy to man allowed, And grief before him travels like a cloud: 1815.]

[Variant 144:

1836. (Expanding four lines into six.)

For come Diseases on, and Penury's rage, Labour, and Care, and Pain, and dismal Age, Till, Hope-deserted, long in vain his breath Implores the dreadful untried sleep of Death. 1815.]

[Variant 145:

1836.

A Temple stands; which holds an awful shrine, 1815.]

[Variant 146:

1836.

Pale, dreadful faces round the Shrine appear, 1815.]

[Variant 147:

1836. After this line the editions of 1815-1832 have the following couplet:

While strives a secret Power to hush the crowd, Pain's wild rebellious burst proclaims her rights aloud,

and this is followed by lines 545-6 of the final text.]

[Variant 148:

1836.

From 1815 to 1832, the following two couplets followed line 546. The first of these was withdrawn in 1836.

Mid muttering prayers all sounds of torment meet, Dire clap of hands, distracted chafe of feet; While loud and dull ascends the weeping cry, Surely in other thoughts contempt may die. 1815.]

[Variant 149:

1836.

--The tall Sun, tiptoe ... 1820.]

[Variant 150:

1836.

At such an hour there are who love to stray, And meet the advancing Pilgrims ere the day 1820.

Now let us meet the Pilgrims ere the day Close on the remnant of their weary way; 1827.]

[Variant 151:

1836.

For ye are drawing tow'rd that sacred floor, Where the charmed worm of pain shall gnaw no more. 1820.

While they are drawing toward the sacred floor 1827.]

[Variant 152:

1827.

... for you ... 1820.]

[Variant 153:

1836.

--Now with a tearful kiss each other greet, Nor longer naked be your toil-worn feet, 1820.

There some with tearful kiss each other greet, And some, with reverence, wash their toil-worn feet. 1827.]

[Variant 154:

1836.

Yes I will see you when you first behold 1820.

... ye ... 1827.]

[Variant 155: This couplet was added in 1836.]

[Variant 156:

1836.

... the hands ... 1820.]

[Variant 157:

1836.

Last let us turn to where Chamouny shields, 1820.]

[Variant 158:

1827.

Bosomed in gloomy woods, ... 1820.]

[Variant 159:

1836.

Here lawns and shades by breezy rivulets fann'd, Here all the Seasons revel hand in hand. 1820.]

[Variant 160:

1836.

--Red stream the cottage-lights; the landscape fades, Erroneous wavering mid the twilight shades.

Inserted in the editions 1820 to 1832.]

[Variant 161:

1836.

Alone ascends that Mountain named of white, 1820.

Alone ascends that Hill of matchless height, 1827.]

[Variant 162:

1836.

... amid ... 1820.]

[Variant 163:

1836.

Mysterious ... 1820.]

[Variant 164:

1836.

... 'mid ... 1820.]

[Variant 165:

1836.

At such an hour I heaved a pensive sigh, When roared the sullen Arve in anger by, 1820.]

[Variant 166:

1836.

... delicious ... 1820.]

[Variant 167:

1836.

Hard lot!--for no Italian arts are thine To cheat, or chear, to soften, or refine. 1820.

To soothe or cheer, ... 1827.]

[Variant 168:

1836.

Beloved Freedom! were it mine to stray, With shrill winds roaring ... 1820.]

[Variant 169:

1836.

O'er ... 1820.]

[Variant 170:

1836.

(Compressing four lines into two.)

... o'er Lugano blows; In the wide ranges of many a varied round, Fleet as my passage was, I still have found That where proud courts their blaze of gems display, The lilies of domestic joy decay, 1820.

That where despotic courts their gems display, 1827.]

[Variant 171:

1836.

In thy dear ... 1820.]

[Variant 172: The previous three lines were added in the edition of 1836.]

[Variant 173:

1836.

The casement's shed more luscious woodbine binds, And to the door a neater pathway winds; 1820.]

[Variant 174:

1836.

(Compressing six lines into two.)

At early morn, the careful housewife, led To cull her dinner from its garden bed, Of weedless herbs a healthier prospect sees, While hum with busier joy her happy bees; In brighter rows her table wealth aspires, And laugh with merrier blaze her evening fires; 1820.]

[Variant 175:

1836.

Her infants' cheeks with fresher roses glow, And wilder graces sport around their brow; 1820.]

[Variant 176:

1836.

(Compressing four lines into two.)

By clearer taper lit, a cleanlier board Receives at supper hour her tempting hoard; The chamber hearth with fresher boughs is spread, And whiter is the hospitable bed. 1820.]

[Variant 177:

1845.

(Compressing four lines into two.)

And oh, fair France! though now along the shade Where erst at will the grey-clad peasant strayed, Gleam war's discordant garments through the trees, And the red banner mocks the froward breeze; 1820.

... discordant vestments through the trees, And the red banner fluctuates in the breeze; 1827.

... though in the rural shade Where at his will, so late, the grey-clad peasant strayed, Now, clothed in war's discordant garb, he sees The three-striped banner fluctuate on the breeze; 1836.]

[Variant 178:

1836.

Though now no more thy maids their voices suit To the low-warbled breath of twilight lute, And, heard the pausing village hum between, No solemn songstress lull the fading green, 1820.

Though martial songs have banish'd songs of love, And nightingales forsake the village grove, 1827.

(Compressing the four lines of 1820 into two.)]

[Variant 179:

1836.

While, as Night bids the startling uproar die, Sole sound, the Sourd renews his mournful cry! 1820.]

[Variant 180:

1836.

Chasing those long long dreams, ... 1820.]

[Variant 181:

1845.

... fainter pang ... 1820.]

[Variant 182:

1836.

A more majestic tide [vi] the water roll'd, And glowed the sun-gilt groves in richer gold. 1820.]

[Variant 183:

1836.

(Compressing six lines into four.)

--Though Liberty shall soon, indignant, raise Red on the hills his beacon's comet blaze; Bid from on high his lonely cannon sound, And on ten thousand hearths his shout rebound; His larum-bell from village-tower to tower Swing on the astounded ear its dull undying roar; 1820.]

[Variant 184:

1836.

Yet, yet rejoice, though Pride's perverted ire Rouze Hell's own aid, and wrap thy hills on fire! Lo! from the innocuous flames, a lovely birth, With its own Virtues springs another earth: 1820.]

[Variant 185:

1836.

Lines 646-651 were previously

Nature, as in her prime, her virgin reign Begins, and Love and Truth compose her train; While, with a pulseless hand, and stedfast gaze, Unbreathing Justice her still beam surveys. 1820.]

[Variant 186:

1836.

(Expanding eight lines into nine.)

Oh give, great God, to Freedom's waves to ride Sublime o'er Conquest, Avarice, and Pride, To sweep where Pleasure decks her guilty bowers And dark Oppression builds her thick-ribbed towers! --Give them, beneath their breast while gladness springs To brood the nations o'er with Nile-like wings; And grant that every sceptred Child of clay, Who cries, presumptuous, "here their tides shall stay," 1820.]

[Variant 187: This couplet was added in 1836.]

[Variant 188:

1836.

Swept in their anger from the affrighted shore, With all his creatures sink--to rise no more! 1820.]

[Variant 189:

1845.

Be the dead load of mortal ills forgot! 1820

Be fear and joyful hope alike forgot 1836.]

[Variant 190: This couplet was added in 1827.]

[Variant 191:

1836.

Renewing, when the rosy summits glow At morn, our various journey, sad and slow. 1820.

With lighter heart our course we may renew, The first whose footsteps print the mountain dew. 1827.]

* * * * *

SUB-VARIANTS

[Sub-Variant 1:

A single taper in the vale profound Shifts, while the Alps dilated glimmer round; 1832.]

[Sub-Variant 2:

And, ... 1832.]

[Sub-Variant 3:

... above yon ... 1836.]

[Sub-Variant 4:

By the deep gloom appalled, the Vagrant sighs, 1836.]

[Sub-Variant 5: This couplet was cancelled in the edition of 1827.]

[Sub-Variant 6:

Or on her fingers ... 1836.]

[Sub-Variant 7: This couplet was withdrawn in 1827.]

[Sub-Variant 8:

Behind the hill ... 1836.]

[Sub-Variant 9:

Near and yet nearer, from the piny gulf Howls, by the darkness vexed, the famished wolf, 1836.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES

[Footnote A: See note to the "Juvenile Pieces" in the edition of 1836 (p. 1).--Ed.]

[Footnote B: There is something characteristic in Wordsworth's addressing an intimate travelling companion in this way. S. T. C., or Charles Lamb, would have written, as we do, "My dear Jones"; but Wordsworth addressed his friend as "Dear Sir," and described his sister as "a Young Lady," and as a "Female Friend."--Ed.]

[Footnote C: In a small pocket copy of the 'Orlando Furioso' of Ariosto--now in the possession of the poet's grandson, Mr. Gordon Wordsworth--of which the title-page is torn away, the following is written on the first page, "My companion in the Alps with Jones. W. Wordsworth:" also "W. W. to D. W." (He had given it to his sister Dorothy.) On the last page is written, "I carried this Book with me in my pedestrian tour in the Alps with Jones. W. Wordsworth." Dorothy Wordsworth gave this interesting relic to Miss Quillinan, from whose library it passed to that of its present owner.--Ed.]

[Footnote D: By an evident error, corrected in the first reprint of this edition (1840). See p. 79.--Ed. [the end of the introductory text to 'Guilt and Sorrow', the next poem in this text.]]

[Footnote E: See Addison's 'Cato', Act 1. Scene i., l. 171:

Blesses his stars, and thinks it luxury.--Ed.]

[Footnote F: The lyre of Memnon is reported to have emitted melancholy or chearful tones, as it was touched by the sun's evening or morning rays.--W. W. 1793.]

[Footnote G: Compare Pope's 'Windsor Forest', ll. 129, 130;

He lifts the tube, and levels with his eye: Straight a short thunder breaks the frozen sky:

Ed.]

[Footnote H: Alluding to crosses seen on the tops of the spiry rocks of the Chartreuse, which have every appearance of being inaccessible.--W. W. 1793.]

[Footnote J: Compare Milton's 'Ode on the Nativity', stanza xx.--Ed.]

[Footnote K: Names of rivers at the Chartreuse.--W. W. 1793.]

[Footnote L: Name of one of the valleys of the Chartreuse.--W. W. 1793.]

[Footnote M: The river along whose banks you descend in crossing the Alps by the Simplon Pass---W. W. 1793.]

[Footnote N: Most of the bridges among the Alps are of wood and covered: these bridges have a heavy appearance, and rather injure the effect of the scenery in some places.--W. W. 1793.]

[Footnote P: The Catholic religion prevails here; these cells are, as is well known, very common in the Catholic countries, planted, like the Roman tombs, along the roadside.--W. W. 1793.]

[Footnote Q: Crosses commemorative of the deaths of travellers by the fall of snow and other accidents very common along this dreadful road.--W. W. 1793.]

[Footnote R: The houses in the more retired Swiss valleys are all built of wood.--W. W. 1793.]

[Footnote S: See Burns's 'Postscript' to his 'Cry and Prayer':

And when he fa's, His latest draught o' breathin' leaves him In faint huzzas.

Ed.]

[Footnote T: For most of the images in the next sixteen verses I am indebted to M. Raymond's interesting observations annexed to his translation of Coxe's 'Tour in Switzerland'.--W. W. 1793.]

[Footnote U: The people of this Canton are supposed to be of a more melancholy disposition than the other inhabitants of the Alps: this, if true, may proceed from their living more secluded.--W. W. 1793.]

[Footnote V: This picture is from the middle region of the Alps.--W. W. 1815. _Chalets_ are summer huts for the Swiss herdsmen.--W. W. 1836.]

[Footnote W: Sugh, a Scotch word expressive of the sound of the wind through the trees.--W. W. 1793.

It may be as well to add that, in this Scotch word, the "gh" is pronounced; so that, as used colloquially, the word could never rhyme with "blue."--Ed.]

[Footnote X: See Smollett's 'Ode to Leven Water' in 'Humphry Clinker', and compare 'The Italian Itinerant and the Swiss Goatherd', in "Memorials of a Tour on the Continent" in 1820, part ii. 1.--Ed.]

[Footnote Y: Alluding to several battles which the Swiss in very small numbers have gained over their oppressors the house of Austria; and in particular, to one fought at Naeffels near Glarus, where three hundred and thirty men defeated an army of between fifteen and twenty thousand Austrians. Scattered over the valley are to be found eleven stones, with this inscription, 1388, the year the battle was fought, marking out as I was told upon the spot, the several places where the Austrians attempting to make a stand were repulsed anew.--W. W. 1793.]

[Footnote Z: As Schreck-Horn, the pike of terror. Wetter-Horn, the pike of storms, etc., etc.--W. W. 1793.]

[Footnote Aa: The effect of the famous air called in French Ranz des Vaches upon the Swiss troops.--W. W. 1793.]

[Footnote Bb: This shrine is resorted to, from a hope of relief, by multitudes, from every corner of the Catholick world, labouring under mental or bodily afflictions.--W. W. 1793.]

[Footnote Cc: Compare the Stanzas 'Composed in one of the Catholic Cantons', in the "Memorials of a Tour on the Continent" (1820), which refer to Einsiedlen.--Ed.]

[Footnote Dd: Rude fountains built and covered with sheds for the accommodation of the pilgrims, in their ascent of the mountain.--W. W. 1793.]

[Footnote Ee: Compare Coleridge's 'Hymn before Sun-rise, in the Vale of Chamouni':

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! ... ... Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? ... O struggling with the darkness all the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, ... The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly;

Compare also Shelley's 'Mont Blanc'.--Ed.]

[Footnote Ff: See note on Coleridge's 'Hymn before Sun-rise' on previous page.--Ed.[in Footnote Ff directly above]]

[Footnote Gg: An insect so called, which emits a short, melancholy cry, heard, at the close of the summer evenings, on the banks of the Loire.--W. W, 1793.]

[Footnote Hh: The duties upon many parts of the French rivers were so exorbitant that the poorer people, deprived of the benefit of water carriage, were obliged to transport their goods by land.--W. W. 1793.]

* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTES

[Sub-Footnote i: In the edition of 1815, the 28 lines, from "No sad vacuities" to "a wanderer came there," are entitled "Pleasures of the Pedestrian."--Ed.]

[Sub-Footnote ii: See 'Ode on the Pleasure arising from Vicissitude', l. 54:

The meanest floweret of the vale, The simplest note that swells the gale.

Ed.]

[Sub-Footnote iii: In the editions of 1820 to 1832 the four lines beginning "The Grison gypsey," etc., precede those beginning "The mind condemned," etc.--Ed.]

[Sub-Footnote iv: In the edition of 1793 Wordsworth put the following note:

"Red came the river down, and loud, and oft The angry Spirit of the water shriek'd."

(HOME'S _Douglas_.)

See Act III. l. 86; or p. 32 in the edition of 1757.--Ed.]

[Sub-Footnote v: This and the following line are only in the editions of 1815 and 1820.--Ed.]

[Sub-Footnote vi: Compare the Sonnet entitled 'The Author's Voyage down the Rhine, thirty years ago', in the "Memorials of a Tour on the Continent' in 1820, and the note appended to it.--Ed.]

* * * * *

GUILT AND SORROW; OR, INCIDENTS UPON SALISBURY PLAIN

Composed 1791-4.--Published as 'The Female Vagrant' in "Lyrical Ballads" in 1798, and as 'Guilt and Sorrow' in the "Poems of Early and Late Years," and in "Poems written in Youth," in 1845, and onward.

ADVERTISEMENT, PREFIXED TO THE FIRST EDITION OF THIS POEM, PUBLISHED IN 1842.

Not less than one-third of the following poem, though it has from time to time been altered in the expression, was published so far back as the year 1798, under the title of 'The Female Vagrant'. The extract is of such length that an apology seems to be required for reprinting it here; but it was necessary to restore it to its original position, or the rest would have been unintelligible. The whole was written before the close of the year 1794, and I will detail, rather as matter of literary biography than for any other reason, the circumstances under which it was produced.

During the latter part of the summer of 1793, having passed a month in the Isle of Wight, in view of the fleet which was then preparing for sea off Portsmouth at the commencement of the war, I left the place with melancholy forebodings. The American war was still fresh in memory. The struggle which was beginning, and which many thought would be brought to a speedy close by the irresistible arms of Great Britain being added to those of the allies, I was assured in my own mind would be of long continuance, and productive of distress and misery beyond all possible calculation. This conviction was pressed upon me by having been a witness, during a long residence in revolutionary France, of the spirit which prevailed in that country. After leaving the Isle of Wight, I spent two [A] days in wandering on foot over Salisbury Plain, which, though cultivation was then widely spread through parts of it, had upon the whole a still more impressive appearance than it now retains.

The monuments and traces of antiquity, scattered in abundance over that region, led me unavoidably to compare what we know or guess of those remote times with certain aspects of modern society, and with calamities, principally those consequent upon war, to which, more than other classes of men, the poor are subject. In those reflections, joined with some particular facts that had come to my knowledge, the following stanzas originated.

In conclusion, to obviate some distraction in the minds of those who are well acquainted with Salisbury Plain, it may be proper to say, that of the features described as belonging to it, one or two are taken from other desolate parts of England.

* * * * *

[Unwilling to be unnecessarily particular, I have assigned this poem to the dates 1793 and '94; but, in fact, much of the Female Vagrant's story was composed at least two years before. All that relates to her sufferings as a sailor's wife in America, and her condition of mind during her voyage home, were faithfully taken from the report made to me of her own case by a friend who had been subjected to the same trials, and affected in the same way. Mr. Coleridge, when I first became acquainted with him, was so much impressed with this poem, that it would have encouraged me to publish the whole as it then stood; but the mariner's fate appeared to me so tragical, as to require a treatment more subdued, and yet more strictly applicable in expression, than I had at first given to it. This fault was corrected nearly sixty years afterwards, when I determined to publish the whole. It may be worth while to remark, that, though the incidents of this attempt do only in a small degree produce each other, and it deviates accordingly from the general rule by which narrative pieces ought to be governed, it is not, therefore, wanting in continuous hold upon the mind, or in unity, which is effected by the identity of moral interest that places the two personages upon the same footing in the reader's sympathies. My ramble over many parts of Salisbury Plain put me, as mentioned in the preface, upon writing this poem, and left upon my mind imaginative impressions, the force of which I have felt to this day. From that district I proceeded to Bath, Bristol, and so on to the banks of the Wye; where I took again to travelling on foot. In remembrance of that part of my journey, which was in '93, I began the verses,--'Five years have passed,' etc.--I. F.]

* * * * *

The foregoing is the Fenwick note to 'Guilt and Sorrow'. The note to 'The Female Vagrant',--which was the title under which one-third of the longer poem appeared in all the complete editions prior to 1845--is as follows.--Ed.

* * * * *

[I find the date of this is placed in 1792, in contradiction, by mistake, to what I have asserted in 'Guilt and Sorrow'. The correct date is 1793-4. The chief incidents of it, more particularly her description of her feelings on the Atlantic, are taken from life.--I. F.]

* * * * *

In 1798 there were thirty stanzas in this poem; in 1802, twenty-six; in 1815, fourteen; in 1820, twenty-five. Stanzas I. to XXII., XXXV. to XXXVII., and LI. to LXXIV. occur only in the collected edition of 1842, vol. vii. (also published as "Poems, chiefly of Early and Late Years"), and in subsequent editions. Wordsworth placed 'The Female Vagrant' among his "Juvenile Pieces" from 1815 to 1832. In 1836, he included it along with 'Descriptive Sketches' in his Table of Contents; [B] but as he numbered it IV. in the text--the other poems belonging to the "Juvenile Pieces" being numbered I. II. and III.--it is clear that he meant it to remain in that class. The "Poems written in Youth," of the edition of 1845, include many others in addition to the "Juvenile Pieces" of editions 1815 to 1836.--Ed.

* * * * *

I

A traveller on the skirt of Sarum's Plain Pursued his vagrant way, with feet half bare; Stooping his gait, but not as if to gain Help from the staff he bore; for mien and air Were hardy, though his cheek seemed worn with care 5 Both of the time to come, and time long fled: Down fell in straggling locks his thin grey hair; A coat he wore of military red But faded, and stuck o'er with many a patch and shred.

II

While thus he journeyed, step by step led on, 10 He saw and passed a stately inn, full sure That welcome in such house for him was none. No board inscribed the needy to allure Hung there, no bush proclaimed to old and poor And desolate, "Here you will find a friend!" 15 The pendent grapes glittered above the door;-- On he must pace, perchance 'till night descend, Where'er the dreary roads their bare white lines extend.

III

The gathering clouds grew red with stormy fire, In streaks diverging wide and mounting high; 20 That inn he long had passed; the distant spire, Which oft as he looked back had fixed his eye, Was lost, though still he looked, in the blank sky. Perplexed and comfortless he gazed around, And scarce could any trace of man descry, 25 Save cornfields stretched and stretching without bound; But where the sower dwelt was nowhere to be found.

IV

No tree was there, no meadow's pleasant green, No brook to wet his lip or soothe his ear; Long files of corn-stacks here and there were seen, 30 But not one dwelling-place his heart to cheer. Some labourer, thought he, may perchance be near; And so he sent a feeble shout--in vain; No voice made answer, he could only hear Winds rustling over plots of unripe grain, 35 Or whistling thro' thin grass along the unfurrowed plain.

V

Long had he fancied each successive slope Concealed some cottage, whither he might turn And rest; but now along heaven's darkening cope The crows rushed by in eddies, homeward borne. 40 Thus warned he sought some shepherd's spreading thorn Or hovel from the storm to shield his head, But sought in vain; for now, all wild, forlorn, And vacant, a huge waste around him spread; The wet cold ground, he feared, must be his only bed. 45

VI

And be it so--for to the chill night shower And the sharp wind his head he oft hath bared; A Sailor he, who many a wretched hour Hath told; for, landing after labour hard, Full long [1] endured in hope of just reward, 50 He to an armèd fleet was forced away By seamen, who perhaps themselves had shared Like fate; was hurried off, a helpless prey, 'Gainst all that in _his_ heart, or theirs perhaps, said nay.

VII

For years the work of carnage did not cease. 55 And death's dire aspect daily he surveyed, Death's minister; then came his glad release, And hope returned, and pleasure fondly made Her dwelling in his dreams. By Fancy's aid The happy husband flies, his arms to throw 60 Round his wife's neck; the prize of victory laid In her full lap, he sees such sweet tears flow As if thenceforth nor pain nor trouble she could know.

VIII

Vain hope! for fraud took all that he had earned. The lion roars and gluts his tawny brood 65 Even in the desert's heart; but he, returned, Bears not to those he loves their needful food. His home approaching, but in such a mood That from his sight his children might have run, He met a traveller, robbed him, shed his blood; 70 And when the miserable work was done He fled, a vagrant since, the murderer's fate to shun.

IX

From that day forth no place to him could be So lonely, but that thence might come a pang Brought from without to inward misery. 75 Now, as he plodded on, with sullen clang A sound of chains along the desert rang; He looked, and saw upon a gibbet high A human body that in irons swang, Uplifted by the tempest whirling by; 80 And, hovering, round it often did a raven fly. [C]

X

It was a spectacle which none might view, In spot so savage, but with shuddering pain; Nor only did for him at once renew All he had feared from man, but roused a train 85 Of the mind's phantoms, horrible as vain. The stones, as if to cover him from day, Rolled at his back along the living plain; He fell, and without sense or motion lay; But, when the trance was gone, feebly pursued [2] his way. 90

XI

As one whose brain habitual [3] frensy fires Owes to the fit in which his soul hath tossed Profounder quiet, when the fit retires, Even so the dire phantasma which had crossed His sense, in sudden vacancy quite lost, 95 Left his mind still as a deep evening stream. Nor, if accosted now, in thought engrossed, Moody, or inly troubled, would he seem To traveller who might talk of any casual theme.

XII

Hurtle the clouds in deeper darkness piled, 100 Gone is the raven timely rest to seek; He seemed the only creature in the wild On whom the elements their rage might wreak; Save that the bustard, of those regions bleak Shy tenant, seeing by the uncertain light 105 A man there wandering, gave a mournful shriek, And half upon the ground, with strange affright, Forced hard against the wind a thick unwieldy flight.

XIII

All, all was cheerless to the horizon's bound; The weary eye--which, wheresoe'er it strays, 110 Marks nothing but the red sun's setting round, Or on the earth strange lines, in former days Left by gigantic arms--at length surveys What seems an antique castle spreading wide; Hoary and naked are its walls, and raise 115 Their brow sublime: in shelter there to bide He turned, while rain poured down smoking on every side.

XIV

Pile of Stone-henge! so proud to hint yet keep Thy secrets, thou that lov'st to stand and hear The Plain resounding to the whirlwind's sweep, 120 Inmate of lonesome Nature's endless year; Even if thou saw'st the giant wicker rear For sacrifice its throngs of living men, Before thy face did ever wretch appear, Who in his heart had groaned with deadlier pain 125 Than he who, tempest-driven, thy shelter now would gain? [4]

XV

Within that fabric of mysterious form, Winds met in conflict, each by turns supreme; And, from the perilous ground dislodged, [5] through storm And rain he wildered on, no moon to stream 130 From gulf of parting clouds one friendly beam, Nor any friendly sound his footsteps led; Once did the lightning's faint disastrous gleam Disclose a naked guide-post's double head, Sight which tho' lost at once a gleam of pleasure shed. 135

XVI

No swinging sign-board creaked from cottage elm To stay his steps with faintness overcome; 'Twas dark and void as ocean's watery realm Roaring with storms beneath night's starless gloom; No gipsy cower'd o'er fire of furze or broom; 140 No labourer watched his red kiln glaring bright, Nor taper glimmered dim from sick man's room; Along the waste no line of mournful light From lamp of lonely toll-gate streamed athwart the night.

XVII

At length, though hid in clouds, the moon arose; 145 The downs were visible--and now revealed A structure stands, which two bare slopes enclose. It was a spot, where, ancient vows fulfilled, Kind pious hands did to the Virgin build A lonely Spital, the belated swain 150 From the night terrors of that waste to shield: But there no human being could remain, And now the walls are named the "Dead House" of the plain.

XVIII

Though he had little cause to love the abode Of man, or covet sight of mortal face, 155 Yet when faint beams of light that ruin showed, How glad he was at length to find some trace Of human shelter in that dreary place. Till to his flock the early shepherd goes, Here shall much-needed sleep his frame embrace. 160 In a dry nook where fern the floor bestrows He lays his stiffened limbs,--his eyes begin to close;

XIX

When hearing a deep sigh, that seemed to come From one who mourned in sleep, he raised his head, And saw a woman in the naked room 165 Outstretched, and turning on a restless bed: The moon a wan dead light around her shed. He waked her--spake in tone that would not fail, He hoped, to calm her mind; but ill he sped, For of that ruin she had heard a tale 170 Which now with freezing thoughts did all her powers assail;

XX

Had heard of one who, forced from storms to shroud, Felt the loose walls of this decayed Retreat Rock to incessant neighings shrill and loud, While his horse pawed the floor with furious heat; 175 Till on a stone, that sparkled to his feet, Struck, and still struck again, the troubled horse: The man half raised the stone with pain and sweat, Half raised, for well his arm might lose its force Disclosing the grim head of a late murdered corse. 180

XXI

Such tale of this lone mansion she had learned, And, when that shape, with eyes in sleep half drowned, By the moon's sullen lamp she first discerned, Cold stony horror all her senses bound. Her he addressed in words of cheering sound; 185 Recovering heart, like answer did she make; And well it was that, of the corse there found, In converse that ensued she nothing spake; She knew not what dire pangs in him such tale could wake.

XXII

But soon his voice and words of kind intent 190 Banished that dismal thought; and now the wind In fainter howlings told its _rage_ was spent: Meanwhile discourse ensued of various kind, Which by degrees a confidence of mind And mutual interest failed not to create. 195 And, to a natural sympathy resigned, In that forsaken building where they sate The Woman thus retraced her own untoward fate. [6]

XXIII

"By Derwent's side my father dwelt--a man Of virtuous life, by pious parents bred; [7] 200 And I believe that, soon as I began To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed, And in his hearing there my prayers I said: And afterwards, by my good father taught, I read, and loved the books in which I read; 205 For books in every neighbouring house I sought, And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought.

XXIV [8]

"A little croft we owned--a plot of corn, A garden stored with peas, and mint, and thyme, And flowers for posies, oft on Sunday morn 210 Plucked while the church bells rang their earliest chime. Can I forget our freaks at shearing time! My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied; The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy prime; The swans that with white chests upreared in pride 215 Rushing and racing came to meet me at the water-side! [9]

XXV

"The staff I well [10] remember which upbore The bending body of my active sire; His seat beneath the honied sycamore Where [11] the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire; 220 When market-morning came, the neat attire With which, though bent on haste, myself I decked; Our watchful house-dog, that would tease and tire The stranger till its barking-fit I checked; [12] The red-breast, known for years, which at my casement pecked. 225

XXVI

"The suns of twenty summers danced along,-- Too little marked how fast they rolled away: But, through severe mischance and cruel wrong, My father's substance fell into decay: We toiled and struggled, hoping for a day 230 When Fortune might [13] put on a kinder look; But vain were wishes, efforts vain as they; He from his old hereditary nook Must part; the summons [14] came;--our final leave we took. [15] [16]

XXVII

"It was indeed a miserable hour [17] 235 When, from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed, Peering above the trees, the steeple tower That on his marriage day sweet music made! Till then, he hoped his bones might there be laid Close by my mother in their native bowers: 240 Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed;-- I could not pray:--through tears that fell in showers Glimmered our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours! [18]

XXVIII

"There was a Youth whom I had loved so long, That when I loved him not I cannot say: 245 'Mid the green mountains many a thoughtless song [19] We two had sung, like gladsome birds [20] in May; When we began to tire of childish play, We seemed still more and more to prize each other; We talked of marriage and our marriage day; 250 And I in truth did love him like a brother, For never could I hope to meet with such another.

XXIX

"Two years were passed since to a distant town He had repaired to ply a gainful trade: [21] What tears of bitter grief, till then unknown! 255 What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed! To him we turned:--we had no other aid: Like one revived, upon his neck I wept; And her whom he had loved in joy, he said, He well could love in grief; his faith he kept; 260 And in a quiet home once more my father slept.

XXX

"We lived in peace and comfort; and were blest With daily bread, by constant toil supplied. [22] Three lovely babes had lain upon my breast; [23] And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed, 265 And knew not why. My happy father died, When threatened war [24] reduced the children's meal: Thrice happy! that for him the grave could hide [25] The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel, And tears that [26] flowed for ills which patience might [27] 270 not heal.

XXXI

"'Twas a hard change; an evil time was come; We had no hope, and no relief could gain: But soon, with proud parade, [28] the noisy drum Beat round to clear [29] the streets of want and pain. My husband's arms now only served to strain 275 Me and his children hungering in his view; In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain: To join those miserable men he flew, And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we drew.

XXXII

"There were we long neglected, and we bore 280 Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weighed [30] Green fields before us, and our native shore, We breathed a pestilential air, that made Ravage for which no knell was heard. We prayed For our departure; wished and wished--nor knew, 285 'Mid that long sickness and those hopes delayed, [31] That happier days we never more must view. The parting signal streamed--at last the land withdrew.

XXXIII

"But the calm summer season now was past. [32] On as we drove, the equinoctial deep 290 Ran mountains high before the howling blast, And many perished in the whirlwind's sweep. We gazed with terror on their gloomy sleep, [33] Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue, Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap, 295 That we the mercy of the waves should rue: We reached the western world, a poor devoted crew. [34]

XXXIV

"The pains and plagues that on our heads came down, Disease and famine, agony and fear, In wood or wilderness, in camp or town, 300 It would unman the firmest heart to hear. [35] All perished--all in one remorseless year, Husband and children! one by one, by sword And ravenous plague, all perished: every tear Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board 305 A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored."

XXXV

Here paused she of all present thought forlorn, Nor voice, nor sound, that moment's pain expressed, Yet Nature, with excess of grief o'erborne, From her full eyes their watery load released. 310 He too was mute: and, ere her weeping ceased, He rose, and to the ruin's portal went, And saw the dawn opening the silvery east With rays of promise, north and southward sent; And soon with crimson fire kindled the firmament. 315

XXXVI

"O come," he cried, "come, after weary night Of such rough storm, this happy change to view." So forth she came, and eastward looked; the sight Over her brow like dawn of gladness threw; Upon her cheek, to which its youthful hue 320 Seemed to return, dried the last lingering tear, And from her grateful heart a fresh one drew: The whilst her comrade to her pensive cheer Tempered fit words of hope; and the lark warbled near.

XXXVII

They looked and saw a lengthening road, and wain 325 That rang down a bare slope not far remote: The barrows glistered bright with drops of rain, Whistled the waggoner with merry note, The cock far off sounded his clarion throat; But town, or farm, or hamlet, none they viewed, 330 Only were told there stood a lonely cot A long mile thence. While thither they pursued Their way, the Woman thus her mournful tale renewed.

XXXVIII

"Peaceful as this immeasurable plain Is now, by beams of dawning light imprest, [36] 335 In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main; The very ocean hath its hour of rest. I too forgot the heavings of my breast. [37] How quiet 'round me ship and ocean were! As quiet all within me. I was blest, 340 And looked, and fed upon the silent air Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair.[38]

XXXIX

"Ah! how unlike those late terrific sleeps, And groans that rage of racking famine spoke; The unburied dead that lay in festering heaps,[39] 345 The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke, The shriek that from the distant battle broke, The mine's dire earthquake, and the pallid host Driven by the bomb's incessant thunder-stroke To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish tossed, 350 Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost! [40]

XL

"Some mighty gulf of separation passed, I seemed transported to another world; A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast The impatient mariner the sail unfurled, 355 And, whistling, called the wind that hardly curled The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home And from all hope I was for ever hurled. For me--farthest from earthly port to roam Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might come. 360

XLI

"And oft I thought (my fancy was so strong) That I, at last, a resting-place had found; 'Here will I dwell,' said I, 'my whole life long, [41] Roaming the illimitable waters round; Here will I live, of all but heaven disowned, 365 And end my days upon the peaceful flood.'--[42] To break my dream the vessel reached its bound; And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.

XLII

"No help I sought; in sorrow turned adrift, 370 Was hopeless, as if cast on some bare rock; [43] Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift, Nor raised [44] my hand at any door to knock. I lay where, with his drowsy mates, the cock From the cross-timber of an out-house hung: 375 Dismally [45] tolled, that night, the city clock! At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung, Nor to the beggar's language could I fit [46] my tongue.

XLIII

"So passed a second day; and, when the third Was come, I tried in vain the crowd's resort. [47] 380 --In deep despair, by frightful wishes stirred, Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort; There, pains which nature could no more support, With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall; And, after many interruptions short [48] 385 Of hideous sense, I sank, [49] nor step could crawl: Unsought for was the help that did my life recal. [50]

XLIV

"Borne to a hospital, I lay with brain Drowsy and weak, and shattered memory; [51] I heard my neighbours in their beds complain 390 Of many things which never troubled me-- Of feet still bustling round with busy glee, Of looks where common kindness had no part, Of service done with cold formality, [52] Fretting the fever round the languid heart, 395 And groans which, as they said, might [53] make a dead man start.

XLV

"These things just served to stir the slumbering [54] sense, Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. With strength did memory return; [55] and, thence Dismissed, again on open day I gazed, 400 At houses, men, and common light, amazed. The lanes I sought, and, as the sun retired, Came where beneath the trees a faggot blazed; The travellers [56] saw me weep, my fate inquired, And gave me food--and rest, more welcome, more desired. 405 [57]

XLVI

"Rough potters seemed they, trading soberly With panniered asses driven from door to door; But life of happier sort set forth to me, [58] And other joys my fancy to allure-- The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor 410 In barn uplighted; and companions boon, Well met from far with revelry secure Among the forest glades, while jocund June [59] Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon.

XLVII

"But ill they suited me--those journeys dark [60] 415 O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch! To charm the surly house-dog's faithful bark, Or hang on tip-toe at the lifted latch. The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match. The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill, 420 And ear still busy on its nightly watch, Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill: Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still.

XLVIII

"What could I do, unaided and unblest? My [61] father! gone was every friend of thine: 425 And kindred of dead husband are at best Small help; and, after marriage such as mine, With little kindness would to me incline. Nor was I [62] then for toil or service fit; My deep-drawn sighs no effort could confine; 430 In open air forgetful would I sit [63] Whole hours, with [64] idle arms in moping sorrow knit.

XLIX

"The roads I paced, I loitered through the fields; Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused, Trusted my life to what chance bounty yields, [65] 435 Now coldly given, now utterly refused. The ground [66] I for my bed have often used: But what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth, Is that I have my inner self abused, Forgone the home delight of constant truth, 440 And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth.

L

"Through tears the rising sun I oft have viewed, Through tears have seen him towards that world descend [67] Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude: Three years a wanderer now my course I bend--[68] 445 Oh! tell me whither--for no earthly friend Have I."--She ceased, and weeping turned away; As if because her tale was at an end, She wept; because she had no more to say Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay. 450

LI

True sympathy the Sailor's looks expressed, His looks--for pondering he was mute the while. Of social Order's care for wretchedness, Of Time's sure help to calm and reconcile, Joy's second spring and Hope's long-treasured smile, 455 'Twas not for _him_ to speak--a man so tried. Yet, to relieve her heart, in friendly style Proverbial words of comfort he applied, And not in vain, while they went pacing side by side.

LII

Ere long, from heaps of turf, before their sight, 460 Together smoking in the sun's slant beam, Rise various wreaths that into one unite Which high and higher mounts with silver gleam: Fair spectacle,--but instantly a scream Thence bursting shrill did all remark prevent; 465 They paused, and heard a hoarser voice blaspheme, And female cries. Their course they thither bent, And met a man who foamed with anger vehement.

LIII

A woman stood with quivering lips and pale, And, pointing to a little child that lay 470 Stretched on the ground, began a piteous tale; How in a simple freak of thoughtless play He had provoked his father, who straightway, As if each blow were deadlier than the last, Struck the poor innocent. Pallid with dismay 475 The Soldier's Widow heard and stood aghast; And stern looks on the man her grey-haired Comrade cast.

LIV

His voice with indignation rising high Such further deed in manhood's name forbade; The peasant, wild in passion, made reply 480 With bitter insult and revilings sad; Asked him in scorn what business there he had; What kind of plunder he was hunting now; The gallows would one day of him be glad;-- Though inward anguish damped the Sailor's brow, 485 Yet calm he seemed as thoughts so poignant would allow.

LV

Softly he stroked the child, who lay outstretched With face to earth; and, as the boy turned round His battered head, a groan the Sailor fetched As if he saw--there and upon that ground-- 490 Strange repetition of the deadly wound He had himself inflicted. Through his brain At once the griding iron passage found; [D] Deluge of tender thoughts then rushed amain, Nor could his sunken eyes the starting tear restrain. 495

LVI

Within himself he said--What hearts have we! The blessing this a father gives his child! Yet happy thou, poor boy! compared with me, Suffering not doing ill--fate far more mild. The stranger's looks and tears of wrath beguiled 500 The father, and relenting thoughts awoke; He kissed his son--so all was reconciled. Then, with a voice which inward trouble broke Ere to his lips it came, the Sailor them bespoke.

LVII

"Bad is the world, and hard is the world's law 505 Even for the man who wears the warmest fleece; Much need have ye that time more closely draw The bond of nature, all unkindness cease, And that among so few there still be peace: Else can ye hope but with such numerous foes 510 Your pains shall ever with your years increase?"-- While from his heart the appropriate lesson flows, A correspondent calm stole gently o'er his woes.

LVIII

Forthwith the pair passed on; and down they look Into a narrow valley's pleasant scene 515 Where wreaths of vapour tracked a winding brook, That babbled on through groves and meadows green; A low-roofed house peeped out the trees between; The dripping groves resound with cheerful lays, And melancholy lowings intervene 520 Of scattered herds, that in the meadow graze, Some amid lingering shade, some touched by the sun's rays.

LIX

They saw and heard, and, winding with the road Down a thick wood, they dropt into the vale; Comfort by prouder mansions unbestowed 525 Their wearied frames, she hoped, would soon regale. Erelong they reached that cottage in the dale: It was a rustic inn;--the board was spread, The milk-maid followed with her brimming pail, And lustily the master carved the bread, 530 Kindly the housewife pressed, and they in comfort fed.

LX

Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, must part; Wanderers whose course no longer now agrees. She rose and bade farewell! and, while her heart Struggled with tears nor could its sorrow ease, 535 She left him there; for, clustering round his knees, With his oak-staff the cottage children played; And soon she reached a spot o'erhung with trees And banks of ragged earth; beneath the shade Across the pebbly road a little runnel strayed. 540

LXI

A cart and horse beside the rivulet stood; Chequering the canvas roof the sunbeams shone. She saw the carman bend to scoop the flood As the wain fronted her,--wherein lay one, A pale-faced Woman, in disease far gone. 545 The carman wet her lips as well behoved; Bed under her lean body there was none, Though even to die near one she most had loved She could not of herself those wasted limbs have moved.

LXII

The Soldier's Widow learned with honest pain 550 And homefelt force of sympathy sincere, Why thus that worn-out wretch must there sustain The jolting road and morning air severe. The wain pursued its way; and following near In pure compassion she her steps retraced 555 Far as the cottage. "A sad sight is here," She cried aloud; and forth ran out in haste The friends whom she had left but a few minutes past.

LXIII

While to the door with eager speed they ran, From her bare straw the Woman half upraised 560 Her bony visage--gaunt and deadly wan; No pity asking, on the group she gazed With a dim eye, distracted and amazed; Then sank upon her straw with feeble moan. Fervently cried the housewife--"God be praised, 565 I have a house that I can call my own; Nor shall she perish there, untended and alone!"

LXIV

So in they bear her to the chimney seat, And busily, though yet with fear, untie Her garments, and, to warm her icy feet 570 And chafe her temples, careful hands apply. Nature reviving, with a deep-drawn sigh She strove, and not in vain, her head to rear; Then said--"I thank you all; if I must die, The God in heaven my prayers for you will hear; 575 Till now I did not think my end had been so near.

LXV

"Barred every comfort labour could procure, Suffering what no endurance could assuage, I was compelled to seek my father's door, Though loth to be a burthen on his age. 580 But sickness stopped me in an early stage Of my sad journey; and within the wain They placed me--there to end life's pilgrimage, Unless beneath your roof I may remain: For I shall never see my father's door again. 585

LXVI

"My life, Heaven knows, hath long been burthensome; But, if I have not meekly suffered, meek May my end be! Soon will this voice be dumb: Should child of mine e'er wander hither, speak Of me, say that the worm is on my cheek.-- 590 Torn from our hut, that stood beside the sea Near Portland lighthouse in a lonesome creek, My husband served in sad captivity On shipboard, bound till peace or death should set him free.

LXVII

"A sailor's wife I knew a widow's cares, 595 Yet two sweet little ones partook my bed; Hope cheered my dreams, and to my daily prayers Our heavenly Father granted each day's bread; Till one was found by stroke of violence dead, Whose body near our cottage chanced to lie; 600 A dire suspicion drove us from our shed; In vain to find a friendly face we try, Nor could we live together those poor boys and I;

LXVIII

"For evil tongues made oath how on that day My husband lurked about the neighbourhood; 605 Now he had fled, and whither none could say, And _he_ had done the deed in the dark wood-- Near his own home!--but he was mild and good; Never on earth was gentler creature seen; He'd not have robbed the raven of its food. 610 My husband's loving kindness stood between Me and all worldly harms and wrongs however keen."

LXIX

Alas! the thing she told with labouring breath The Sailor knew too well. That wickedness His hand had wrought; and when, in the hour of death, 615 He saw his Wife's lips move his name to bless With her last words, unable to suppress His anguish, with his heart he ceased to strive; And, weeping loud in this extreme distress, He cried--"Do pity me! That thou shouldst live 620 I neither ask nor wish--forgive me, but forgive!"

LXX

To tell the change that Voice within her wrought Nature by sign or sound made no essay; A sudden joy surprised expiring thought, And every mortal pang dissolved away. 625 Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay; Yet still while over her the husband bent, A look was in her face which seemed to say, "Be blest: by sight of thee from heaven was sent Peace to my parting soul, the fulness of content." 630

LXXI

_She_ slept in peace,--his pulses throbbed and stopped, Breathless he gazed upon her face,--then took Her hand in his, and raised it, but both dropped, When on his own he cast a rueful look. His ears were never silent; sleep forsook 635 His burning eyelids stretched and stiff as lead; All night from time to time under him shook The floor as he lay shuddering on his bed; And oft he groaned aloud, "O God, that I were dead!"

LXXII

The Soldier's Widow lingered in the cot; 640 And, when he rose, he thanked her pious care Through which his Wife, to that kind shelter brought, Died in his arms; and with those thanks a prayer He breathed for her, and for that merciful pair. The corse interred, not one hour he remained 645 Beneath their roof, but to the open air A burthen, now with fortitude sustained, He bore within a breast where dreadful quiet reigned.

LXXIII

Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared For act and suffering, to the city straight 650 He journeyed, and forthwith his crime declared: "And from your doom," he added, "now I wait, Nor let it linger long, the murderer's fate." Not ineffectual was that piteous claim: "O welcome sentence which will end though late," 655 He said, "the pangs that to my conscience came Out of that deed. My trust, Saviour! is in thy name!"

LXXIV

His fate was pitied. Him in iron case (Reader, forgive the intolerable thought) They hung not:--no one on _his_ form or face 660 Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought; No kindred sufferer, to his death-place brought By lawless curiosity or chance, When into storm the evening sky is wrought, Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance, 665 And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable trance.

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

Three years ... 1842.]

[Variant 2:

1845.

... rose and pursued ... 1842.]

[Variant 3:

1845.

... demoniac ... 1842.]

[Variant 4:

1845.

Than he who now at night-fall treads thy bare domain! 1842.]

[Variant 5:

1845.

And, from its perilous shelter driven, ... 1842.]

[Variant 6: The following stanza was only in the editions of 1798 and 1800:

By Derwent's side my Father's cottage stood, (The Woman thus her artless story told) One field, a flock, and what the neighbouring flood Supplied, to him were more than mines of gold. Light was my sleep; my days in transport roll'd: With thoughtless joy I stretch'd along the shore My father's nets, or watched, when from the fold High o'er the cliffs I led my fleecy store, A dizzy depth below! his boat and twinkling oar. 1798.

... or from the mountain fold Saw on the distant lake his twinkling oar Or watch'd his lazy boat still less'ning more and more. 1800.]

[Variant 7:

1842.

My father was a good and pious man, An honest man by honest parents bred, 1798.]

[Variant 8: Stanzas XXIV. and XXV. were omitted from the editions of 1802 and 1805. They were restored in 1820.]

[Variant 9:

1842.

Can I forget what charms did once adorn My garden, stored with pease, and mint, and thyme, And rose and lilly for the sabbath morn? The sabbath bells, and their delightful chime; The gambols and wild freaks at shearing time; My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied; The cowslip-gathering at May's dewy prime; The swans, that, when I sought the water-side, From far to meet me came, spreading their snowy pride. 1798.

Can I forget our croft and plot of corn; Our garden, stored ... 1836.

The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy prime; 1820.

The swans, that with white chests upheaved in pride, Rushing and racing came to meet me at the waterside. 1836.]

[Variant 10:

1842.

... yet ... 1798.]

[Variant 11:

1802.

When ... 1798.]

[Variant 12:

1836.

My watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire, When stranger passed, so often I have check'd; 1798.]

[Variant 13:

1845.

... would ... 1842.]

[Variant 14:

1845.

... summer ... 1842.]

[Variant 15:

1845.

The suns of twenty summers danced along,-- Ah! little marked, how fast they rolled away: Then rose a mansion proud our woods among, And cottage after cottage owned its sway, No joy to see a neighbouring house, or stray Through pastures not his own, the master took; My Father dared his greedy wish gainsay; He loved his old hereditary nook, And ill could I the thought of such sad parting brook. 1798.

Then rose a stately hall our woods among, 1800.

... how fast they rolled away: But, through severe mischance, and cruel wrong, My father's substance fell into decay; We toiled, and struggled--hoping for a day When Fortune should put on a kinder look; But vain were wishes--efforts vain as they: He from his old hereditary nook Must part,--the summons came,--our final leave we took. 1820.]

[Variant 16: The following stanza occurs only in the editions 1798 to 1805:

But, when he had refused the proffered gold, To cruel injuries he became a prey, Sore traversed in whate'er he bought and sold: His troubles grew upon him day by day, Till all his substance fell into decay. His little range of water was denied; [i] All but the bed where his old body lay, All, all was seized, and weeping, side by side, We sought a home where we uninjured might abide. 1798.

And all his substance fell into decay. They dealt most hardly with him, and he tried To move their hearts--but it was vain--for they Seized all he had; and, weeping ... 1802-5.]

[Variant 17:

1820.

Can I forget that miserable hour, 1798.

It was in truth a lamentable hour 1802.]

[Variant 18:

1798.

I saw our own dear home, that was ... 1802.

The edition of 1820 returns to the text of 1798.]

[Variant 19:

1827.

... many and many a song 1798.]

[Variant 20:

1800.

... little birds ... 1798.]

[Variant 21:

1836.

His father said, that to a distant town He must repair, to ply the artist's trade. 1798.

Two years were pass'd, since to a distant Town He had repair'd to ply the artist's trade. 1802.]

[Variant 22:

1802.

Four years each day with daily bread was blest, By constant toil and constant prayer supplied. 1798.]

[Variant 23:

1836.

Three lovely infants lay upon my breast; 1798.]

[Variant 24:

1842.

When sad distress... 1798.]

[Variant 25:

1836.

... from him the grave did hide 1798.

... for him ... 1820.]

[Variant 26:

1798.

... which ... Only in 1820.]

[Variant 27:

1836.

... could ... 1798.]

[Variant 28:

1798.

But soon, day after day, ... 1802.

The edition of 1820 reverts to the reading of 1798.]

[Variant 29:

1836.

... to sweep ... 1798.]

[Variant 30:

1836.

There foul neglect for months and months we bore, Nor yet the crowded fleet its anchor stirred. 1798.

There, long were we neglected, and we bore Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weigh'd; 1802.]

[Variant 31:

1802.

Green fields before us and our native shore, By fever, from polluted air incurred, Ravage was made, for which no knell was heard. Fondly we wished, and wished away, nor knew, 'Mid that long sickness, and those hopes deferr'd, 1798.]

[Variant 32:

1802.

But from delay the summer calms were past. 1798.]

[Variant 33:

1802.

We gazed with terror on the gloomy sleep Of them that perished in the whirlwind's sweep, 1798.]

[Variant 34:

Oh! dreadful price of being to resign All that is dear _in_ being! better far In Want's most lonely cave till death to pine, Unseen, unheard, unwatched by any star; Or in the streets and walks where proud men are, Better our dying bodies to obtrude, Than dog-like, wading at the heels of war, Protract a curst existence, with the brood That lap (their very nourishment!) their brother's blood.

Only in the editions of 1798 and 1800.]

[Variant 35:

1842.

It would thy brain unsettle even to hear. 1798.]

[Variant 36:

1842.

Peaceful as some immeasurable plain By the first beams of dawning light impress'd, 1798.]

[Variant 37:

1827.

... has its hour of rest, That comes not to the human mourner's breast. 1798.

I too was calm, though heavily distress'd! 1802.]

[Variant 38:

1842.

Remote from man, and storms of mortal care, A heavenly silence did the waves invest; I looked and looked along the silent air, Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair. 1798.

Oh me, how quiet sky and ocean were! My heart was healed within me, I was bless'd. And looked, and looked ... 1802.

My heart was hushed within me, ... 1815.

As quiet all within me, ... 1827.]

[Variant 39:

1800.

Where looks inhuman dwelt on festering heaps! 1798.]

[Variant 40: The following stanza appeared only in the editions 1798-1805:

Yet does that burst of woe congeal my frame, When the dark streets appeared to heave and gape, While like a sea the storming army came, And Fire from Hell reared his gigantic shape, And Murder, by the ghastly gleam, and Rape Seized their joint prey, the mother and the child! But from these crazing thoughts my brain, escape! --For weeks the balmy air breathed soft and mild, And on the gliding vessel Heaven and Ocean smiled. 1798.

At midnight once the storming Army came, Yet do I see the miserable sight, The Bayonet, the Soldier, and the Flame That followed us and faced us in our flight: When Rape and Murder by the ghastly light Seized their joint prey, the Mother and the Child! But I must leave these thoughts.--From night to night, From day to day, the air breathed soft and mild; And on the gliding vessel Heaven and Ocean smiled. 1802-5.]

[Variant 41:

1802.

And oft, robb'd of my perfect mind, I thought At last my feet a resting-place had found: Here will I weep in peace, (so fancy wrought,) 1798.]

[Variant 42:

1842.

Here watch, of every human friend disowned, All day, my ready tomb the ocean-flood-- 1798.

Here will I live:--of every friend disown'd, Here will I roam about the ocean flood.-- 1802.

And end my days upon the ocean flood."-- 1815.]

[Variant 43:

1842.

By grief enfeebled was I turned adrift, Helpless as sailor cast on desart rock; 1798.

Helpless as sailor cast on some bare rock; 1836.]

[Variant 44:

1842.

Nor dared ... 1798.]

[Variant 45:

1802.

How dismal ... 1798.]

[Variant 46:

1832.

... frame ... 1798.]

[Variant 47:

1836.

So passed another day, and so the third: Then did I try, in vain, the crowd's resort, 1798.]

[Variant 48:

1827.

Dizzy my brain, with interruption short 1798.

And I had many interruptions short 1802.]

[Variant 49:

1802.

... sunk ... 1798.]

[Variant 50:

1827.

And thence was borne away to neighbouring hospital. 1798.

And thence was carried to a neighbouring Hospital. 1802.]

[Variant 51:

1827.

Recovery came with food: but still, my brain Was weak, nor of the past had memory. 1798.]

[Variant 52:

1842.

... with careless cruelty, 1798.]

[Variant 53:

1815.

... would ... 1798.]

[Variant 54:

1836.

... torpid ... 1798.]

[Variant 55:

1827.

Memory, though slow, returned with strength; ... 1798.

My memory and my strength returned; ... 1802.]

[Variant 56:

1802.

The wild brood ... 1798.]

[Variant 57: The following stanza occurs only in the editions of 1798 to 1805:

My heart is touched to think that men like these, The rude earth's tenants, were my first relief: How kindly did they paint their vagrant ease! And their long holiday that feared not grief, For all belonged to all, and each was chief. No plough their sinews strained; on grating road No wain they drove, and yet, the yellow sheaf In every vale for their delight was stowed: For them, in nature's meads, the milky udder flowed. 1798.

My heart is touched to think that men like these, Wild houseless Wanderers, were my first relief: 1802.

In every field, with milk their dairy overflow'd. 1802.]

[Variant 58:

1836.

Semblance, with straw and pannier'd ass, they made Of potters wandering on from door to door: But life of happier sort to me pourtrayed, 1798.

They with their pannier'd Asses semblance made Of Potters ... 1802.]

[Variant 59:

1836.

In depth of forest glade, when ... 1798.

Among the forest glades when ... 1802.]

[Variant 60:

1802.

But ill it suited me, in journey dark 1798.]

[Variant 61:

1802.

Poor father! ... 1798.]

[Variant 62:

1842.

Ill was I ... 1798.]

[Variant 63:

1842.

With tears whose course no effort could confine, By high-way side forgetful would I sit 1798.

By the road-side forgetful would I sit 1802.

In the open air forgetful ... 1836.]

[Variant 64:

1836.

... my ... 1798.]

[Variant 65:

1836.

I lived upon the mercy of the fields, And oft of cruelty the sky accused; On hazard, or what general bounty yields, 1798.

I led a wandering life among the fields; Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused, I liv'd upon what casual bounty yields, 1802.]

[Variant 66:

1802.

The fields ... 1798.]

[Variant 67:

1836.

Three years a wanderer, often have I view'd, In tears, the sun towards that country tend 1798.

Three years thus wandering, ... 1802.]

[Variant 68:

1836.

And now across this moor my steps I bend-- 1798.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES

[Footnote A: In the 'Prelude', he says it was "three summer days." See