Chapter 1

of 1817).--Ed.]

This poem illustrates the way in which Wordsworth's imagination worked upon a minimum of fact, idealizing a simple story, and adding

'the gleam, The light that never was, on sea or land, The consecration, and the Poet's dream.'

It is the only poem of his referring to Ennerdale; but perhaps the chief association with that dale, to those who visit it after becoming acquainted with this poem, will be the fact that the brothers Ewbank were supposed to have spent their youth under the shadow of the Pillar, and Leonard to have had this conversation, on his return from sea, with the venerable priest of Ennerdale. The district is described with all that local accuracy which Wordsworth invariably showed in idealization. The height whence James Ewbank is supposed to have fallen is not the Pillar-Rock--a crag somewhat difficult to ascend, except by practised climbers, and which has only been accessible since mountaineering became an art and a passion to Englishmen. But, if we suppose the conversation with the priest of Ennerdale to have taken place at the Bridge, below the Lake--as that is the only place where there is both a hamlet and "a churchyard"--the "precipice" will refer to the Pillar "Mountain." Both are alluded to in the poem. The lines,

'You see yon precipice;--it wears the shape Of a vast building made of many crags; And in the midst is one particular rock That rises like a column from the vale, Whence by our shepherds it is called, _The Pillar_,'

are definite enough. The great mass of the Pillar Mountain is first referred to, and then the Rock which is a characteristic spur, halfway up the mountain on its northern side. The "aëry summit crowned with heath," however, on which "the loiterer" "lay stretched at ease," could neither be the top of this "rock" nor the summit of the "mountain": not the former, because there is no heath on it, and it would be impossible for a weary man, loitering behind his companions, to ascend it to rest; not the latter, because no one resting on the summit of the mountain could be "not unnoticed by his comrades," and they would not pass that way over the top of the mountain "on their return" to Ennerdale. This is an instance, therefore, in which precise localization is impossible. Probably Wordsworth did not know either that the pillar "rock" was bare on the summit, or that it had never been ascended in 1800; and he idealised it to suit his imaginative purpose. In connection with this poem, a remark he made to the Hon. Mr. Justice Coleridge may be recalled.

"He said there was some foundation in fact, however slight, for every poem he had written of a narrative kind; ... 'The Brothers' was founded on a young shepherd, in his sleep, having fallen down a crag, his staff remaining suspended mid-way."

(See the 'Memoirs of Wordsworth', by the late Bishop of Lincoln, vol. ii. p. 305.) It should be added that the character of Leonard Ewbank was drawn in large part from that of the poet's brother John--Ed.

* * * * *

THE SEVEN SISTERS; OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE [A]

Composed 1800. [B]--Published 1807

The Story of this Poem is from the German of Frederica Brun. [C]--W. W. 1807.

One of the "Poems of the Fancy."--Ed.

I Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald, All children of one mother: You could [1] not say in one short day What love they bore each other. A garland, of seven lilies, wrought! 5 Seven Sisters that together dwell; But he, bold Knight as ever fought, Their Father, took of them no thought, He loved the wars so well. Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, 10 The solitude of Binnorie!

II Fresh blows the wind, a western wind, And from the shores of Erin, Across the wave, a Rover brave To Binnorie is steering: 15 Right onward to the Scottish strand The gallant ship is borne; The warriors leap upon the land, And hark! the Leader of the band Hath blown his bugle horn. 20 Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie.

III Beside a grotto of their own, With boughs above them closing, The Seven are laid, and in the shade 25 They lie like fawns reposing. But now, upstarting with affright At noise of man and steed, Away they fly to left, to right-- Of your fair household, Father-knight, 30 Methinks you take small heed! Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie.

IV Away the seven fair Campbells fly, And, over hill and hollow, 35 With menace proud, and insult loud, The youthful Rovers [2] follow. Cried they, "Your Father loves to roam: Enough for him to find The empty house when he comes home; 40 For us your yellow ringlets comb, For us be fair and kind!" Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie.

V Some close behind, some side by side, 45 Like clouds in stormy weather; They run, and cry, "Nay, let us die, And let us die together." A lake was near; the shore was steep; There never foot had been; 50 They ran, and with a desperate leap Together plunged into the deep, [3] Nor ever more were seen. Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie. 55

VI The stream that flows out of the lake, As through the glen it rambles, Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone, For those seven lovely Campbells. Seven little Islands, green and bare, 60 Have risen from out the deep: The fishers say, those sisters fair, By faeries all are buried there, And there together sleep. Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, 65 The solitude of Binnorie.

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1836.

I could ... 1807.]

[Variant 2:

1807.

The Irish Rovers ... MS.]

[Variant 3:

1807.

The sisters ran like mountain sheep MS.

And in together did they leap MS.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: It is a well-known Scottish Ballad. In Jamieson's 'Popular Ballads', vol. i. p. 50 (1806), its title is "The Twa Sisters." In Walter Scott's 'Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border', vol. iii. p. 287, it is called "The Cruel Sisters." In 'The Ballads of Scotland', collected by W. Edmonstone Aytoun (1858), vol. i. p. 194, it is printed "Binnorie." In 1807 Wordsworth printed the sub-title 'The Solitude of Binnorie'.--Ed.]

[Footnote B: In Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal there is an entry, under date August 16, 1800,

"William read us 'The Seven Sisters'."

It is uncertain whether this refers to his own poem or not, but I incline to think it does.--Ed.]

[Footnote C: In a MS. copy this note runs thus:

"This poem, in the groundwork of the story, is from the German of Frederica Brun."

Ed.]

* * * * *

RURAL ARCHITECTURE

Composed 1800.--Published 1800

[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. These structures, as every one knows, are common amongst our hills, being built by shepherds, as conspicuous marks, and occasionally by boys in sport.--I. F.]

Included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."--Ed.

There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore, [1] Three rosy-cheeked school-boys, the highest not more Than the height of a counsellor's bag; To the top of GREAT HOW [A] did it please them to climb: [2] And there they built up, without mortar or lime, 5 A Man on the peak of the crag.

They built him of stones gathered up as they lay: They built him and christened him all in one day, An urchin both vigorous and hale; And so without scruple they called him Ralph Jones. 10 Now Ralph is renowned for the length of his bones; The Magog of Legberthwaite dale.

Just half a week after, the wind sallied forth, And, in anger or merriment, out of the north, Coming on with a terrible pother, 15 From the peak of the crag blew the giant away. And what did these school-boys?--The very next day They went and they built up another.

--Some little I've seen of blind boisterous works By Christian disturbers more savage than Turks, [3] 20 Spirits busy to do and undo: At remembrance whereof my blood sometimes will flag; Then, light-hearted Boys, to the top of the crag; And I'll build up a giant with you. [4]

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1800.

From the meadows of ARMATH, on THIRLMERE'S wild shore, 1827.

The text of 1832 reverts to that of 1800.]

[Variant 2:

1800.

... were once tempted to climb; 1827

The text of 1832 reverts to that of 1800.]

[Variant 3:

1820.

In Paris and London, 'mong Christians or Turks, 1800]

[Variant 4: This last stanza was omitted from the editions of 1805 and 1815. It was restored in 1820.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Great How is a single and conspicuous hill, which rises towards the foot of Thirl-mere, on the western side of the beautiful dale of Legberthwaite, along the high road between Keswick and Ambleside.--W. W. 1800.]

The editions of 1836, 1840, 1841, 1842, 1843, and 1845, and the Fenwick note, assign this poem to the year 1801. It must, however, have been composed during the previous year, because it was published in the "Lyrical Ballads" of 1800. The locality referred to--which is also associated with 'The Waggoner'--is easily identified.

In a letter to Wordsworth, written in the year 1815, Charles Lamb said: "How I can be brought in, _felo de omittendo_, for that ending to the Boy-builders is a mystery. I can't say positively now, I only know that no line oftener or readier occurs than that 'Light-hearted boys, I will build up a Giant with you.' It comes naturally, with a warm holiday, and the freshness of the blood. It is a perfect summer amulet, that I tie round my legs to quicken their motion when I go out a maying." (See _Letters of Charles Lamb_, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i. p. 287.)--Ed.

* * * * *

A CHARACTER

Composed 1800.--Published 1800

[The principal features are taken from my friend Robert Jones.--I. F.]

Included among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."--Ed.

I marvel how Nature could ever find space For so many strange contrasts in one human face: [1] There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.

There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain; 5 Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease, Would be rational peace--a philosopher's ease.

There's indifference, alike when he fails or [2] succeeds, And attention full ten times as much as there needs; 10 Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy; And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy.

There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there, There's virtue, the title it surely may claim, 15 Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy the name.

This picture from nature may seem to depart, [3] Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart; And I for five centuries right gladly would be Such an odd such a kind happy creature as he. 20

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1837.

For the weight and the levity seen in his face: 1800.]

[Variant 2:

1837.

... and ... 1800.]

[Variant 3:

1837.

What a picture! 'tis drawn without nature or art, 1800.]

The full title of this poem, in "Lyrical Ballads," 1800, is 'A Character, in the antithetical Manner'. It was omitted from all subsequent editions till 1837. With this early friend, Robert Jones--a fellow collegian at St. John's College, Cambridge--Wordsworth visited the Continent (France and Switzerland), during the long vacation of 1790; and to him he dedicated the first edition of 'Descriptive Sketches', in 1793. With him he also made a pedestrian tour in Wales in 1791. Jones afterwards became the incumbent of Soulderne, near Deddington, in Oxfordshire; and Wordsworth described his parsonage there in the sonnet, beginning "Where holy ground begins, unhallowed ends." (See Wordsworth's note to the sonnet 'Composed near Calais', p. 333.)--Ed.

* * * * *

INSCRIPTION FOR THE SPOT WHERE THE HERMITAGE STOOD ON ST. HERBERT'S ISLAND, DERWENT-WATER

Composed 1800.--Published 1800

Included in 1815 among the "Poems referring to the Period of Old Age," and in all subsequent editions among the "Inscriptions."--Ed.

If thou in the dear love of some one Friend Hast been so happy that thou know'st what thoughts Will sometimes in the happiness of love Make the heart sink, [A] then wilt thou reverence This quiet spot; and, Stranger! not unmoved 5 Wilt thou behold this shapeless heap of stones, The desolate ruins of St. Herbert's Cell. Here stood his threshold; here was spread the roof That sheltered him, a self-secluded Man, After long exercise in social cares 10 And offices humane, intent to adore The Deity, with undistracted mind, And meditate on everlasting things, In utter solitude.--But he had left A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man loved 15 As his own soul. And, when with eye upraised To heaven he knelt before the crucifix, While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore Pealed to his orisons, and when he paced Along the beach of this small isle and thought 20 Of his Companion, he would pray that both (Now that their earthly duties were fulfilled) Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain So prayed he:--as our chronicles report, Though here the Hermit numbered his last day 25 Far from St. Cuthbert his belovèd Friend, Those holy Men both died in the same hour. [1]

* * * * *

VARIANT ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1832.

The text of this poem underwent so many changes, which are not easily shown by the plan adopted throughout this edition--portions of the earliest version of 1800 being abandoned and again adopted, and the whole arrangement of the passages being altered--that it seems desirable to append the entire text of 1800, and extensive parts of that of subsequent years. The final text of 1832 is printed above.

If thou in the dear love of some one friend Hast been so happy, that thou know'st what thoughts Will, sometimes, in the happiness of love Make the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence This quiet spot.--St. Herbert hither came And here, for many seasons, from the world Remov'd, and the affections of the world He dwelt in solitude. He living here, This island's sole inhabitant! had left A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man lov'd As his own soul; and when within his cave Alone he knelt before the crucifix While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore Peal'd to his orisons, and when he pac'd Along the beach of this small isle and thought Of his Companion, he had pray'd that both Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain So pray'd he:--as our Chronicles report, Though here the Hermit number'd his last days, Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved friend, Those holy men both died in the same hour. 1800.

The text of the editions of 1802 and 1805 (which are identical), omits one line of the text of 1800. The passage reads:

He dwelt in solitude.--But he had left A Fellow-labourer, whom ...

And the following variants occur in 1802 and 1805:

Make the heart sick, ....

... he would pray that both

The text of 1815, which is continued in 1820, begins thus:

This Island, guarded from profane approach By mountains high and waters widely spread, Is that recess to which St. Herbert came In life's decline; a self-secluded Man, After long exercise in social cares And offices humane, intent to adore The Deity, with undistracted mind, And meditate on everlasting things. --Stranger! this shapeless heap of stones and earth (Long be its mossy covering undisturbed!) Is reverenced as a vestige of the Abode In which, through many seasons, from the world Removed, and the affections of the world, He dwelt in solitude.--But he had left A Fellow-labourer, ... 1815 and 1820.

In 1827 the poem began thus:

Stranger! this shapeless heap of stones and earth Is the last relic of St. Herbert's Cell. Here stood his threshold; here was spread the roof That sheltered him, a self-secluded Man, 1827.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare the last stanza of "Strange fits of passion have I known," p. 79 of this volume.--Ed.]

The "shapeless heap of stones" in St. Herbert's Island, which were "desolate ruins" in 1800, are even more "shapeless" and "desolate" now, but they can easily be identified. The island is near the centre of the lake, and is in area about four acres. The legend of St. Herbert dates from the middle of the seventh century. The rector of Clifton, Westmoreland, Dr. Robinson, writing in 1819, says:

"The remains of his hermitage are still visible, being built of stone and mortar, and formed into two apartments, one of which, about twenty feet long and sixteen feet wide, seems to have been his chapel; the other, of less dimensions, his cell. Near these ruins the late Sir Wilfred Lawson (to whose representative the island at present belongs) erected some years ago a small octagonal cottage, which, being built of unhewn stone, and artificially mossed over, has a venerable appearance."

(See _Guide to the Lakes_, by John Robinson, D.D., 1819). This cottage has now disappeared. The following version of this "Inscription" occurs in a letter from Wordsworth to Lady Beaumont, dated 26th November 1811:

This Island, guarded from profane approach By mountains high and waters widely spread, Gave to St. Herbert a benign retreat. Upon a staff supported, and his Brow White with the peaceful diadem of age. Hither he came--a self-secluded Man, ... Behold that shapeless Heap of stones and earth! "Tis reverenced as a Vestige of the Abode ... ...--And when within his Cell Alone he knelt before the crucifix,

In a previous letter to Sir George Beaumont, dated 16th November 1811:

By mountains high and waters widely spread, Is that Seclusion which St. Herbert chose; ... Hither he came in life's austere decline: And, Stranger! this blank Heap of stones and earth Is reverenced ...

Ed.

* * * * *

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL UPON A STONE IN THE WALL OF THE HOUSE (AN OUT-HOUSE), ON THE ISLAND AT GRASMERE [A]

Composed 1800.--Published 1800

Included among the "Inscriptions."--Ed.

Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained Proportions more harmonious, and approached To closer fellowship with ideal grace. But take it in good part:--alas! the poor [1] 5 Vitruvius of our village had no help From the great City; never, upon leaves [2] Of red Morocco folio saw displayed, In long succession, pre-existing ghosts [3] Of Beauties yet unborn--the rustic Lodge 10 Antique, and Cottage with verandah graced, Nor lacking, for fit company, alcove, Green-house, shell-grot, and moss-lined hermitage. [4] Thou see'st a homely Pile, [5] yet to these walls The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here 15 The new-dropped lamb finds shelter from the wind. And hither does one Poet sometimes row His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled With plenteous store of heath and withered fern, (A lading which he with his sickle cuts, 20 Among the mountains) and beneath this roof He makes his summer couch, and here at noon Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, the Sheep, Panting beneath the burthen of their wool, Lie round him, even as if they were a part 25 Of his own Household: nor, while from his bed He looks, through the open door-place, [6] toward the lake And to the stirring breezes, does he want Creations lovely as the work of sleep-- Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy! 30

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1837.

... and approach'd To somewhat of a closer fellowship With the ideal grace. Yet as it is Do take it in good part; for he, the poor 1800.

... alas! the poor 1815.]

[Variant 2:

1837.

... on the leaves 1800.]

[Variant 3:

1837.

The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts 1800.]

[Variant 4:

1837.

... yet unborn, the rustic Box, Snug Cot, with Coach-house, Shed and Hermitage. 1800.]

[Variant 5:

1815.

It is a homely pile, ... 1800.]

[Variant 6:

1837.

He through that door-place looks ... 1800.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The title of this poem in the edition of 1800 was simply 'Inscription for the House (an Out-house) on the Island at Grasmere'.--Ed.]

This "homely pile" on the island of Grasmere--very homely--still remains.--Ed.

* * * * *

MICHAEL

A PASTORAL POEM [A]

Composed 1800.--Published 1800

[Written at the Town-end, Grasmere, about the same time as 'The Brothers'. The sheepfold, on which so much of the poem turns, remains, or rather the ruins of it. The character and circumstances of Luke were taken from a family to whom had belonged, many years before, the house we lived in at Town-end, along with some fields and woodlands on the eastern shore of Grasmere. The name of the Evening Star was not in fact given to this house, but to another on the same side of the valley, more to the north.--I.F.]

Included among the "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed.

If from the public way you turn your steps Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, You will suppose that with an upright path Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. 5 But, courage! for around [1] that boisterous brook The mountains have all opened out themselves, And made a hidden valley of their own. No habitation can be seen; but they Who journey thither find themselves alone [2] 10 With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites That overhead are sailing in the sky. It is in truth an utter solitude; Nor should I have made mention of this Dell But for one object which you might pass by, 15 Might see and notice not. Beside the brook Appears [3] a straggling heap of unhewn stones! And to that simple object appertains A story--unenriched with strange events, Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, [4] 20 Or for the summer shade. It was the first Of those domestic tales that spake to me [5] Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men Whom I already loved;--not verily For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills 25 Where was their occupation and abode. And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects, led me on to feel 30 For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life. Therefore, although it be a history Homely and rude, I will relate the same 35 For the delight of a few natural hearts; And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake Of youthful Poets, who among these hills Will be my second self when I am gone.

Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale 40 There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name; An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen, Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs, 45 And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt And watchful more than ordinary men. Hence had he learned [6] the meaning of all winds, Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes, When others heeded not, He heard the South 50 Make subterraneous music, like the noise Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock Bethought him, and he to himself would say, "The winds are now devising work for me!" 55 And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives The traveller to a shelter, summoned him Up to the mountains: he had been alone Amid the heart of many thousand mists, That came to him, and left him, on the heights. 60 So lived he till his eightieth year was past. And grossly that man errs, who should suppose That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks, Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed 65 The common air; hills, which with vigorous step He had so often climbed; [7] which had impressed So many incidents upon his mind Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; Which, like a book, preserved the memory 70 Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved, Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts The certainty of honourable gain; Those fields, those hills--what could they less? had laid [8] Strong hold on his affections, were to him 75 A pleasurable feeling of blind love, The pleasure which there is in life itself.

His days had not been passed in singleness. His Helpmate was a comely matron, old--[9] Though younger than himself full twenty years. 80 She was a woman of a stirring life, Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had Of antique form; this large, for spinning wool; That small, for flax; and if one wheel had rest, It was because the other was at work. 85 The Pair had but one inmate in their house, An only Child, who had been born to them When Michael, telling o'er his years, began To deem that he was old,--in shepherd's phrase, With one foot in the grave. This only Son, 90 With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm, The one of an inestimable worth, Made all their household. I may truly say, That they were as a proverb in the vale For endless industry. When day was gone, 95 And from their occupations out of doors The Son and Father were come home, even then, Their labour did not cease; unless when all Turned to the [10] cleanly supper-board, and there, Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, 100 Sat round the [11] basket piled with oaten cakes, And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the [12] meal Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named) And his old Father both betook themselves To such convenient work as might employ 105 Their hands by the fire-side; perhaps to card Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, Or other implement of house or field.

Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge, 110 That [13] in our ancient uncouth country style With huge and black projection overbrowed [14] Large space beneath, as duly as the light Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp; An aged utensil, which had performed 115 Service beyond all others of its kind. Early at evening did it burn--and late, Surviving comrade of uncounted hours, Which, going by from year to year, had found, And left the couple neither gay perhaps 120 Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, Living a life of eager industry. And now, when Luke had reached his [15] eighteenth year, There by the light of this old lamp they sate, Father and Son, while far [16] into the night 125 The Housewife plied her own peculiar work, Making the cottage through the silent hours Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. [B] [17] This [18] light was famous in its neighbourhood, And was a public symbol of the life 130 That [19] thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced, Their cottage on a plot of rising ground Stood single, with large prospect, north and south, High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise, And westward to the village near the lake; 135 And from this constant light, so regular And so far seen, the House itself, by all Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, Both old and young, was named THE EVENING STAR.

Thus living on through such a length of years, 140 The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michael's heart This son of his old age was yet more dear-- Less from instinctive tenderness, [20] the same Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all--[21] 145 Than [22] that a child, more than all other gifts That earth can offer to declining man, [23] Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, And stirrings of inquietude, when they By tendency of nature needs must fail. 150 [24] Exceeding was the love he bare to him, His heart and his heart's joy! For oftentimes Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, Had done him female service, not alone For pastime [25] and delight, as is the use 155 Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand. [26] And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love, 160 Albeit of a stern unbending mind, To have the Young-one in his sight, when he Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stool Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched Under the large old oak, that near his door 165 Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade, [27] Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun, Thence in our rustic dialect was called The CLIPPING TREE, [C] a name which yet it bears. There, while they two were sitting in the shade, 170 With others round them, earnest all and blithe, Would Michael exercise his heart with looks Of fond correction and reproof bestowed Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep By catching at their legs, or with his shouts 175 Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears.

And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew up A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek Two steady roses that were five years old; Then Michael from a winter coppice cut 180 With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped With iron, making it throughout in all Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff, And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipt He as a watchman oftentimes was placed 185 At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock; And, to his office prematurely called, There stood the urchin, as you will divine, Something between a hindrance and a help; And for this cause not always, I believe, 190 Receiving from his Father hire of praise; Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice, Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform.

But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights, 200 Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, He with his Father daily went, and they Were as companions, why should I relate That objects which the Shepherd loved before Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came 205 Feelings and emanations--things which were Light to the sun and music to the wind; And that the old Man's heart seemed born again?

Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew up: And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year, 210 He was his comfort and his daily hope. [D]

While in this sort the simple household lived [28] From day to day, to Michael's ear there came Distressful tidings. Long before the time Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound 215 In surety for his brother's son, a man Of an industrious life, and ample means; But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly Had prest upon him; and old Michael now Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, 220 A grievous penalty, but little less Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim, At the first hearing, for a moment took More hope out of his life than he supposed That any old man ever could have lost. 225 As soon as he had armed himself with strength To look his trouble in the face, it seemed The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once [29] A portion of his patrimonial fields. Such was his first resolve; he thought again, 230 And his heart failed him. "Isabel," said he, Two evenings after he had heard the news, "I have been toiling more than seventy years, And in the open sunshine of God's love Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours 235 Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think That I could not lie quiet in my grave. Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself [30] Has scarcely been more diligent than I; And I have lived to be a fool at last 240 To my own family. An evil man That was, and made an evil choice, if he Were false to us; and if he were not false, There are ten thousand to whom loss like this Had been no sorrow. I forgive him;--but 245 'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus.

"When I began, my purpose was to speak Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land Shall not go from us, and it shall be free; 250 He shall possess it, free as is the wind That passes over it. We have, thou know'st, Another kinsman--he will be our friend In this distress. He is a prosperous man, Thriving in trade--and Luke to him shall go, 255 And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift He quickly will repair this loss, and then He may return to us. [31] If here he stay, What can be done? Where every one is poor, What can be gained?" 260 At this the old Man paused, And Isabel sat silent, for her mind Was busy, looking back into past times. There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself, [E] He was a parish-boy--at the church-door 265 They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought A basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares; And, with this basket on his arm, the lad Went up to London, found a master there, 270 Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy To go and overlook his merchandise Beyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich, And left estates and monies to the poor, And, at his birth-place, built a chapel floored 275 With marble, which he sent from foreign lands. These thoughts, and many others of like sort, Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, And her face brightened. The old Man was glad, And thus resumed:--"Well, Isabel! this scheme 280 These two days, has been meat and drink to me. Far more than we have lost is left us yet. --We have enough--I wish indeed that I Were younger;--but this hope is a good hope. Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best 285 Buy for him more, and let us send him forth To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night: --If he _could_ [32] go, the Boy should go to-night."

Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth With a light heart. [F] The Housewife for five days 290 Was restless morn and night, and all day long Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare Things needful for the journey of her son. But Isabel was glad when Sunday came To stop her in her work: for, when she lay 295 By Michael's side, she through the last two nights [33] Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep: And when they rose at morning she could see That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon She said to Luke, while they two by themselves 300 Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not go: We have no other Child but thee to lose, None to remember--do not go away, For if thou leave thy Father he will die." The Youth [34] made answer with a jocund voice; 305 And Isabel, when she had told her fears, Recovered heart. That evening her best fare Did she bring forth, and all together sat Like happy people round a Christmas fire.

With daylight [35] Isabel resumed her work; 310 And all the ensuing week the house appeared As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length The expected letter from their kinsman came, With kind assurances that he would do His utmost for the welfare of the Boy; 315 To which, requests were added, that forthwith He might be sent to him. Ten times or more The letter was read over; Isabel Went forth to show it to the neighbours round; Nor was there at that time on English land 320 A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel Had to her house returned, the old Man said, "He shall depart to-morrow." To this word The Housewife answered, talking much of things Which, if at such short notice he should go, 325 Would surely be forgotten. But at length She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.

Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, In that deep valley, Michael had designed To build a Sheep-fold; [G] and, before he heard 330 The tidings of his melancholy loss, For this same purpose he had gathered up A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge [36] Lay thrown together, ready for the work. With Luke that evening thitherward he walked: 335 And soon as they had reached the place he stopped, And thus the old Man spake to him:--"My Son, To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full heart I look upon thee, for thou art the same That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, 340 And all thy life hast been my daily joy. I will relate to thee some little part Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good When thou art from me, even if I should touch On things [37] thou canst not know of.--After thou 345 First cam'st into the world--as oft befals [38] To new-born infants--thou didst sleep away Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on, And still I loved thee with increasing love. 350 Never to living ear came sweeter sounds Than when I heard thee by our own fire-side First uttering, without words, a natural tune; While [39] thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month followed month, 355 And in the open fields my life was passed And on [40] the mountains; else I think that thou Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees. But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills, As well thou knowest, in us the old and young 360 Have played together, nor with me didst thou Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." Luke had a manly heart; but at these words He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand, And said, "Nay, do not take it so--I see 365 That these are things of which I need not speak. --Even to the utmost I have been to thee A kind and a good Father: and herein I but repay a gift which I myself Received at others' hands; for, though now old 370 Beyond the common life of man, I still Remember them who loved me in my youth. Both of them sleep together: here they lived, As all their Forefathers had done; and when At length their time was come, they were not loth 375 To give their bodies to the family mould. I wished that thou should'st live the life they lived: But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son, And see so little gain from threescore years. [41] These fields were burthened when they came to me; 380 Till I was forty years of age, not more Than half of my inheritance was mine. I toiled and toiled; God blessed me in my work, And till these three weeks past the land was free. --It looks as if it never could endure 385 Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good That thou should'st go,"

At this the old Man paused; Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood, 390 Thus, after a short silence, he resumed: "This was a work for us; and now, my Son, It is a work for me. But, lay one stone-- Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. [42] Nay, Boy, be of good hope;--we both may live 395 To see a better day. At eighty-four I still am strong and hale [43];--do thou thy part; I will do mine.--I will begin again With many tasks that were resigned to thee: Up to the heights, and in among the storms, 400 Will I without thee go again, and do All works which I was wont to do alone, Before I knew thy face.--Heaven bless thee, Boy! Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast With many hopes; it should be so--yes--yes--405 I knew that thou could'st never have a wish To leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to me Only by links of love: when thou art gone, What will be left to us!--But, I forget My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone, 410 As I requested; and hereafter, Luke, When thou art gone away, should evil men Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts, And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear 415 And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, [44] Who, being innocent, did for that cause Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well-- When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see 420 A work which is not here: a covenant 'Twill be between us; but, whatever fate Befal thee, I shall love thee to the last, And bear thy memory with me to the grave."

The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stooped down, 425 And, as his Father had requested, laid The first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the sight The old Man's grief broke from him; to his heart He pressed his Son, he kissèd him and wept; And to the house together they returned. 430 --Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace, [45] Ere the night fell:--with morrow's dawn the Boy [46] Began his journey, and when he had reached The public way, he put on a bold face; And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors, 435 Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers, That followed him till he was out of sight.

A good report did from their Kinsman come, Of Luke and his well doing: and the Boy Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, 440 Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout "The prettiest letters that were ever seen." Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. So, many months passed on: and once again The Shepherd went about his daily work 445 With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour He to that valley took his way, and there Wrought at the Sheep-fold. Meantime Luke began To slacken in his duty; and, at length, 450 He in the dissolute city gave himself To evil courses: ignominy and shame Fell on him, so that he was driven at last To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas.

There is a comfort in the strength of love; 455 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else Would overset the brain, or break the heart: [47] I have conversed with more than one who well Remember the old Man, and what he was Years after he had heard this heavy news. 460 His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud, [48] And listened to the wind; and, as before, Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep, 465 And for the land, his small inheritance. And to that hollow dell from time to time Did he repair, to build the Fold of which His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet The pity which was then in every heart 470 For the old Man--and 'tis believed by all That many and many a day he thither went, And never lifted up a single stone.

There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, [49] 475 Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. The length of full seven years, from time to time, He at the building of this Sheep-fold wrought, And left the work unfinished when he died. Three years, or little more, did Isabel 480 Survive her Husband: at her death the estate Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. The Cottage which was named the EVENING STAR Is gone--the ploughshare has been through the ground On which it stood; great changes have been wrought 485 In all the neighbourhood:--yet the oak is left That grew beside their door; and the remains Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll.

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827.

... beside ... 1800.]

[Variant 2:

1827.

No habitation there is seen; but such As journey thither ... 1800.]

[Variant 3:

1827.

There is ... 1800.]

[Variant 4:

1836.

And to that place a story appertains, Which, though it be ungarnish'd with events, Is not unfit, ... 1800.]

[Variant 5:

1827.

... It was the first, The earliest of those tales ... 1800.]

[Variant 6:

1827.

... he had learn'd ... 1800.]

[Variant 7:

1836.

... the hills, which he so oft Had climb'd with vigorous steps; ... 1800.]

[Variant 8:

1832.

... linking to such acts, So grateful in themselves, the certainty Of honourable gains; these fields, these hills Which were his living Being, even more Than his own Blood--what could they less? had laid 1800.

... gain ... 1805.]

[Variant 9:

1815.

He had not passed his days in singleness. He had a Wife, a comely Matron, old 1800.]

[Variant 10:

1836.

... their ... 1800.]

[Variant 11:

1836.

... their ... 1800.]

[Variant 12:

1836.

... their ... 1800.]

[Variant 13:

1827.

Which ... 1800.]

[Variant 14:

1836.

Did with a huge projection overbrow 1800.]

[Variant 15:

1827.

... was in his ... 1800.]

[Variant 16:

1836.

... while late ... 1800.]

[Variant 17:

Not with a waste of words, but for the sake Of pleasure, which I know that I shall give To many living now, I of this Lamp Speak thus minutely: for there are no few Whose memories will bear witness to my tale.

These lines appeared only in the editions of 1800 and 1802.]

[Variant 18:

1815.

The ... 1800.]

[Variant 19:

1832.

The ... 1800.]

[Variant 20:

1827.

... yet more dear-- Effect which might perhaps have been produc'd By that instinctive tenderness, ... 1800.]

[Variant 21:

1836.

Blind Spirit, which is in the blood of all, 1800.]

[Variant 22:

1827.

Or ... 1800.]

[Variant 23: This line was first printed in the edition of 1836.]

[Variant 24:

From such, and other causes, to the thoughts Of the old Man his only Son was now The dearest object that he knew on earth.

Only in the editions of 1800 to 1820.]

[Variant 25:

1827.

For dalliance ... 1800.]

[Variant 26:

1836.

His cradle with a woman's gentle hand. 1800.]

[Variant 27:

1836.

... when he Had work by his own door, or when he sate With sheep before him on his Shepherd's stool, Beneath that large old Oak, which near their door Stood, and from its enormous breadth of shade 1800.]

[Variant 28:

1815.

While this good household thus were living on 1800.

While in the fashion which I have described This simple Household thus were living on 1800 (2nd issue).]

[Variant 29:

1836.

As soon as he had gather'd so much strength That he could look his trouble in the face, It seem'd that his sole refuge was to sell 1800.]

[Variant 30:

1827.

... itself 1800.]

[Variant 31:

1836.

May come again to us ... 1800.]

[Variant 32: Italics were first used in 1827.]

[Variant 33:

1836.

... for the two last nights 1800.

... through the 1815.]

[Variant 34:

1815.

The Lad ... 1800.]

[Variant 35:

1820.

Next morning ... 1800.]

[Variant 36:

1815.

... which close to the brook side 1800.]

[Variant 37:

1836.

... should speak Of things ... 1800.]

[Variant 38:

1827.

... as it befalls 1800.]

[Variant 39:

1836.

When ... 1800.]

[Variant 40:

1815.

... in ... 1800.]

[Variant 41:

1827.

... from sixty years. 1800.]

[Variant 42:

I for the purpose brought thee to this place.

This line appears only in the edition of 1800.]

[Variant 43:

1827.

... stout; ... 1800.]

[Variant 44:

1802.

... should evil men Be thy companions, let this Sheep-fold be Thy anchor and thy shield; amid all fear And all temptation, let it be to thee An emblem of the life thy Fathers liv'd, 1800.]

[Variant 45: This line was added in the edition of 1815.]

[Variant 46:

1815.

Next morning, as had been resolv'd, the Boy 1800.]

[Variant 47:

1820.

Would break the heart:--Old Michael found it so. 1800.]

[Variant 48:

1836.

... look'd up upon the sun, 1800.

... towards the sun, 1832.]

[Variant 49:

1836.

Sitting alone, with that his faithful Dog, 1800.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The Rev. Thomas Hutchinson, Kimbolton, tells me that in his copy of the edition of "Lyrical Ballads" of 1800 there is

"on the blank page facing the announcement, written in Wordsworth's handwriting, the following lines:

'Though it be in th' humblest rank of life, And in the lowest region of our speech, Yet is it in that kind as best accords With rural passion.'"

Ed.]

[Footnote B: The following lines were written before April 1801, and were at one time meant to be inserted after "summer flies," and before "Not with a waste of words." They are quoted in a letter of Wordsworth's to Thomas Poole of Nether Stowey, dated April 9th, 1801.

'Though in their occupations they would pass Whole hours with but small interchange of speech, Yet were there times in which they did not want Discourse both wise and prudent, shrewd remarks Of daily providence, clothed in images Lively and beautiful, in rural forms That made their conversation fresh and fair As is a landscape;--And the shepherd oft Would draw out of his heart the obscurities And admirations that were there, of God And of His works, or, yielding to the bent Of his peculiar humour, would let loose The tongue and give it the wind's freedom,--then Discoursing on remote imaginations, story, Conceits, devices, day-dreams, thoughts and schemes, The fancies of a solitary man.'

Ed.]

[Footnote C: Clipping is the word used in the North of England for shearing.--W. W. 1800]

[Footnote D: The lines from "Though nought was left," to "daily hope" (192-206) were, by a printer's blunder, omitted from the first issue of 1800. In the second issue of that year they are given in full.--Ed.]

[Footnote E: The story alluded to here is well known in the country. The chapel is called Ings Chapel; and is on the right hand side of the road leading from Kendal to Ambleside.--W. W. 1800.

Ings chapel is in the parish of Kendal, about two miles east of Windermere. The following extract from Lewis's Topographical Dictionary further explains the allusion in the poem:

"_Hugil_, a chapelry six and a quarter miles from Kendal. The chapel, rebuilt in 1743 by Robert Bateman, stands in the village of Ings, which is in this chapelry. The free school was endowed with land in 1650 by Roland Wilson, producing at present £12 per annum. The average number of boys is twenty-five. This endowment was augmented by £8 per annum by Robert Bateman, who gave £1000 for purchasing an estate, and erected eight alms-houses for as many poor families, besides a donation of £12 per annum to the curate. This worthy benefactor was born here, and from a state of indigence succeeded in amassing considerable wealth by mercantile pursuits. He is stated to have been poisoned, in the straits of Gibraltar, on his voyage from Leghorn, with a valuable cargo, by the captain of the vessel,"

(See 'The Topographical Dictionary of England', by Samuel Lewis, vol. ii. p. 1831.)--Ed.]

[Footnote F: There is a slight inconsistency here. The conversation is represented as taking place in the evening (see l. 227).--Ed.]

[Footnote G: It may be proper to inform some readers, that a sheep-fold in these mountains is an unroofed building of stone walls, with different divisions. It is generally placed by the side of a brook, for the convenience of washing the sheep; but it is also useful as a shelter for them, and as a place to drive them into, to enable the shepherds conveniently to single out one or more for any particular purpose.--W. W. 1800.]

From the Fenwick note it will be seen that Michael's sheep-fold, in Green-head Ghyll, existed--at least the remains of it--in 1843. Its site, however, is now very difficult to identify. There is a sheep-fold above Boon Beck, which one passes immediately on entering the common, going up Green-head Ghyll. It is now "finished," and used when required. There are remains of walling, much higher up the ghyll; but these are probably the work of miners, formerly engaged there. Michael's cottage had been destroyed when the poem was written, in 1800. It stood where the coach-house and stables of "the Hollins" now stand. But one who visits Green-head Ghyll, and wishes to realize Michael in his old age--as described in this poem--should ascend the ghyll till it almost reaches the top of Fairfield; where the old man, during eighty years,

'had learned the meaning of all winds, Of blasts of every tone,'

and where he

'had been alone, Amid the heart of many thousand mists, That came to him, and left him, on the heights.'

By so doing he will be better able to realize the spirit of the poem, than by trying to identify the site either of the "unfinished sheep-fold," or of the house named the "Evening Star." What Wordsworth said to the Hon. Mr. Justice Coleridge in reference to 'The Brothers' has been quoted in the note to that poem, p. 203. On the same occasion he remarked, in reference to 'Michael':

"'Michael' was founded on the son of an old couple having become dissolute, and run away from his parents; and on an old shepherd having been seven years in building up a sheep-fold in a solitary valley."

('Memoirs of Wordsworth', by the late Bishop of Lincoln, vol. ii. p. 305.)

The following extracts from Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal, show the carefulness with which the poem 'Michael' was composed, and the frequent revisions which it underwent:

'Oct. 11 [1800.] "We walked up Green-head ghyll in search of a sheepfold.... The sheepfold is falling away. It is built nearly in the form of a heart unequally divided."

13. "William composing in the evening."

15. "W. composed a little." ... "W. again composed at the sheepfold after dinner."

18. "W. worked all the morning at the sheepfold, but in vain. He lay down till 7 o'clock, but did not sleep."

19. "William got to work."

20. "W. worked in the morning at the sheepfold."

21. "W. had been unsuccessful in the morning at the sheepfold."

22. "W. composed, without much success, at the sheepfold."

23. "W. was not successful in composition in the evening."

24. "W. was only partly successful in composition."

26. "W. composed a good deal all the morning."

28. "W. could not compose much; fatigued himself with altering."

30. "W. worked at his poem all the morning."

Nov. 10. "W. at the sheepfold."

12. "W. has been working at the sheepfold."

Dec. 9. "W. finished his poem to-day."'

It is impossible to say with certainty that the entry under Dec. 9 refers to 'Michael', but if it does, it is evident that Wordsworth wrought continuously at this poem for nearly two months.

On April 9, 1801, Wordsworth wrote to Thomas Poole:

"In writing it" ('Michael'), "I had your character often before my eyes; and sometimes thought that I was delineating such a man as you yourself would have been, under the same circumstances."

The following is part of a letter written by Wordsworth to Charles James Fox in 1802, and sent with a copy of "Lyrical Ballads":

"In the two poems, 'The Brothers' and 'Michael', I have attempted to draw a picture of the domestic affections, as I know they exist amongst a class of men who are now almost confined to the north of England. They are small independent 'proprietors' of land, here called 'statesmen,' men of respectable education, who daily labour on their own little properties. The domestic affections will always be strong amongst men who live in a country not crowded with population; if these men are placed above poverty. But, if they are proprietors of small estates which have descended to them from their ancestors, the power which these affections will acquire amongst such men, is inconceivable by those who have only had an opportunity of observing hired labourers, farmers, and the manufacturing poor. Their little tract of land serves as a kind of permanent rallying point for their domestic feelings, as a tablet on which they are written, which makes them objects of memory in a thousand instances, when they would otherwise be forgotten. It is a fountain fitted to the nature of social man, from which supplies of affection as pure as his heart was intended for, are daily drawn. This class of men is rapidly disappearing.... The two poems that I have mentioned were written with a view to show that men who do not wear fine clothes can feel deeply. 'Pectus enim est quod disertos facit, et vis mentis. Ideoque imperitis quoque, si modo sint aliquo affectu concitati, verba non desunt.' The poems are faithful copies from nature; and I hope whatever effect they may have upon you, you will at least be able to perceive that they may excite profitable sympathies in many kind and good hearts; and may in some small degree enlarge our feelings of reverence for our species, and our knowledge of human nature, by showing that our best qualities are possessed by men whom we are too apt to consider, not with reference to the points in which they resemble us, but to those in which they manifestly differ from us." (See 'Correspondence of Sir Thomas Hanmer', by Sir Henry Burnbury, p. 436.)

A number of fragments, originally meant to be parts of 'Michael',--or at least written with such a possibility in view,--will be found in the Appendix to the eighth volume of this edition.--Ed.

* * * * *

1801

'The Sparrow's Nest', and the sonnet on Skiddaw, along with some translations from Chaucer, belong to the year 1801. During this year, however, 'The Excursion' was in progress. In its earlier stages, and before the plan of 'The Recluse' was matured, the introductory part was familiarly known, and talked of in the Wordsworth household, by the name of "The Pedlar." The following extracts from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal of 1801 will show the progress that was being made with it:

"Dec. 21.--Wm. sate beside me, and wrote 'The Pedlar.' 22nd.--W. composed a few lines of 'The Pedlar.' 23rd.--William worked at 'The Ruined Cottage'" (this was the name of the first part of 'The Excursion', in which 'The Pedlar' was included), "and made himself very ill," etc.

Ed.

* * * * *

THE SPARROW'S NEST

Composed 1801.--Published 1807

[Written in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. At the end of the garden of my father's house at Cockermouth was a high terrace that commanded a fine view of the river Derwent and Cockermouth Castle. This was our favourite play-ground. The terrace wall, a low one, was covered with closely-clipt privet and roses, which gave an almost impervious shelter to birds who built their nests there. The latter of these stanzas [A] alludes to one of those nests.--I.F.]

This poem was first published in the series entitled "Moods of my own Mind," in 1807. In 1815 it was included among the "Poems founded on the Affections," and in 1845 was transferred to the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."--Ed.

Behold, within the leafy shade, Those bright blue eggs together laid! On me the chance-discovered sight Gleamed like a vision of delight. [1] I started--seeming to espy 5 The home and sheltered bed, The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by My Father's house, in wet or dry My sister Emmeline and I Together visited. 10

She looked at it and seemed to fear it; Dreading, tho' wishing, to be near it: [2] Such heart was in her, being then A little Prattler among men. The Blessing of my later years 15 Was with me when a boy: She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; And humble cares, and delicate fears; A heart, the fountain of sweet tears; And love, and thought, and joy. 20

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1815.

Look, five blue eggs are gleaming there! Few visions have I seen more fair, Nor many prospects of delight More pleasing than that simple sight! 1807.]

[Variant 2:

1845.

She look'd at it as if she fear'd it; Still wishing, dreading to be near it: 1807.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE

[Footnote A: So it stands in the Fenwick note; but it should evidently read, "The following stanzas allude."--Ed.]

Wordsworth's "sister Emmeline" was his only sister, Dorothy; and in the MS. sent originally to the printer the line was "My sister Dorothy and I." This poem is referred to in a subsequent one, 'A Farewell', l. 56. See page 326 of this volume.--Ed.

* * * * *

"PELION AND OSSA FLOURISH SIDE BY SIDE"

Composed 1801.--Published 1815

One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets." From 1836 onwards it bore the title '1801'.--Ed.

Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side, Together in immortal [1] books enrolled: His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold; And that inspiring Hill, which "did divide Into two ample horns his forehead wide," [A] 5 Shines with poetic radiance as of old; While not an English Mountain we behold By the celestial Muses glorified. Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in crowds: What was the great Parnassus' self to Thee, 10 Mount Skiddaw? In his natural sovereignty Our British Hill is nobler [2] far; he shrouds His double front among Atlantic clouds, [3] And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly.

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1815.

illustrious ... MS.]

[Variant 2:

1837.

fairer ... 1815.]

[Variant 3:

1827.

His double-fronted head in higher clouds, 1815.

... among Atlantic clouds, MS.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: See Spenser's translation of 'Virgil's Gnat', ll. 21-2:

'Or where on Mount Parnasse, the Muses brood. Doth his broad forehead like two horns divide, And the sweet waves of sounding Castaly With liquid foot doth glide down easily.'

Ed.]

* * * * *

SELECTIONS FROM CHAUCER

MODERNISED

Wordsworth's modernisations of Chaucer were all written in 1801. Two of them were from the Canterbury Tales, but his version of one of these--'The Manciple's Tale'--has never been printed. Of the three poems which were published, the first--'The Prioress' Tale'--was included in the edition of 1820. The 'Troilus and Cressida' and 'The Cuckoo and the Nightingale' were included in the "Poems of Early and Late Years" (1842); but they had been published the year before, in a small volume entitled 'The Poems of Geoffrey Chaucer Modernised' (London, 1841), a volume to which Elizabeth Barrett, Leigh Hunt, R. H. Home, Thomas Powell, and others contributed. Wordsworth wrote thus of the project to Mr. Powell, in an unpublished and undated letter, written probably in 1840:

"I am glad that you enter so warmly into the Chaucerian project, and that Mr. L. Hunt is disposed to give his valuable aid to it. For myself, I cannot do more than I offered, to place at your disposal 'The Prioress' Tale' already published, 'The Cuckoo and the Nightingale', 'The Manciple's Tale', and I rather think (but I cannot just now find it) a small portion of the 'Troilus and Cressida'. You ask my opinion about that poem. Speaking from a recollection only, of many years past, I should say it would be found too long and probably tedious. 'The Knight's Tale' is also very long; but, though Dryden has executed it, in his own way observe, with great spirit and harmony, he has suffered so much of the simplicity, and with that of the beauty and occasional pathos of the original to escape, that I should be pleased to hear that a new version was to be attempted upon my principle by some competent person. It would delight me to read every part of Chaucer over again--for I reverence and admire him above measure--with a view to your work; but my eyes will not permit me to do so. Who will undertake the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales? For your publication that is indispensable, and I fear it will prove very difficult. It is written, as you know, in the couplet measure; and therefore I have nothing to say upon its metre, but in respect to the poems in stanza, neither in 'The Prioress' Tale' nor in 'The Cuckoo and Nightingale' have I kept to the rule of the original as to the form, and number, and position of the rhymes; thinking it enough if I kept the same number of lines in each stanza; and this is, I think, all that is necessary, and all that can be done without sacrificing the substance of sense too often to the mere form of sound."

In a subsequent letter to Professor Henry Reed of Philadelphia, dated "Rydal Mount, January 13th, 1841," Wordsworth said:

"So great is my admiration of Chaucer's genius, and so profound my reverence for him as an instrument in the hands of Providence, for spreading the light of literature through his native land, that notwithstanding the defects and faults in this publication" (referring, I presume, to the volume, 'The Poems of Geoffrey Chaucer Modernised'), "I am glad of it, as a means of making many acquainted with the original, who would otherwise be ignorant of everything about him but his name."

Ed.

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THE PRIORESS' TALE

Translated 1801. [A]--Published 1820

"Call up him who left half told The story of Cambuscan bold." [B]

In the following Piece I have allowed myself no farther deviations from the original than were necessary for the fluent reading, and instant understanding, of the Author: so much however is the language altered since Chaucer's time, especially in pronunciation, that much was to be removed, and its place supplied with as little incongruity as possible. The ancient accent has been retained in a few conjunctions, such as _also_ and _alway_, from a conviction that such sprinklings of antiquity would be admitted, by persons of taste, to have a graceful accordance with the subject.--W. W. (1820).

The fierce bigotry of the Prioress forms a fine back ground for her tender-hearted sympathies with the Mother and Child; and the mode in which the story is told amply atones for the extravagance of the miracle.--W. W. (added in 1827).

In the editions of 1820 and 1827 'The Prioress' Tale' followed 'The White Doe of Rylstone'. In 1832 it followed the "Inscriptions"; and in 1836 it was included among the "Poems founded on the Affections." In 1845 it found its appropriate place in the "Selections from Chaucer modernised."--Ed.

I "O Lord, our Lord! how wondrously," (quoth she) "Thy name in this large world is spread abroad! For not alone by men of dignity Thy worship is performed and precious laud; But by the mouths of children, gracious God! 5 Thy goodness is set forth; they when they lie Upon the breast thy name do glorify.

II "Wherefore in praise, the worthiest that I may, Jesu! of thee, and the white Lily-flower Which did thee bear, and is a Maid for aye, 10 To tell a story I will use my power; Not that I may increase her honour's dower, For she herself is honour, and the root Of goodness, next her Son, our soul's best boot.

III "O Mother Maid! O Maid and Mother free! 15 O bush unburnt! burning in Moses' sight! That down didst ravish from the Deity, Through humbleness, the spirit that did alight Upon thy heart, whence, through that glory's might, Conceived was the Father's sapience, 20 Help me to tell it in thy reverence!

IV "Lady! thy goodness, thy magnificence, Thy virtue, and thy great humility, Surpass all science and all utterance; For sometimes, Lady! ere men pray to thee 25 Thou goest before in thy benignity, The light to us vouchsafing of thy prayer, To be our guide unto thy Son so dear.

V "My knowledge is so weak, O blissful Queen! To tell abroad thy mighty worthiness, 30 That I the weight of it may not sustain; But as a child of twelvemonths old or less, That laboureth his language to express, Even so fare I; and therefore, I thee pray, Guide thou my song which I of thee shall say. 35

VI "There was in Asia, in a mighty town, 'Mong Christian folk, a street where Jews might be, Assigned to them and given them for their own By a great Lord, for gain and usury, Hateful to Christ and to his company; 40 And through this street who list might ride and wend; Free was it, and unbarred at either end.

VII "A little school of Christian people stood Down at the farther end, in which there were A nest of children come of Christian blood, 45 That learnèd in that school from year to year Such sort of doctrine as men used there, That is to say, to sing and read also, As little children in their childhood do.

VIII "Among these children was a Widow's son, 50 A little scholar, scarcely seven years old, [C] Who day by day unto this school hath gone, And eke, when he the image did behold Of Jesu's Mother, as he had been told, This Child was wont to kneel adown and say 55 _Ave Marie_, as he goeth by the way.

IX "This Widow thus her little Son hath taught Our blissful Lady, Jesu's Mother dear, To worship aye, and he forgat it not; For simple infant hath a ready ear. 60 Sweet is the holiness of youth: and hence, Calling to mind this matter when I may, Saint Nicholas in my presence standeth aye, For he so young to Christ did reverence. [D]

X "This little Child, while in the school he sate 65 His Primer conning with an earnest cheer, [E] The whilst the rest their anthem-book repeat The _Alma Redemptoris_ did he hear; And as he durst he drew him near and near, And hearkened to the words and to the note, 70 Till the first verse he learned it all by rote.

XI "This Latin knew he nothing what it said, For he too tender was of age to know; But to his comrade he repaired, and prayed That he the meaning of this song would show, 75 And unto him declare why men sing so; This oftentimes, that he might be at ease, This child did him beseech on his bare knees.

XII "His Schoolfellow, who elder was than he, Answered him thus:--'This song, I have heard say, 80 Was fashioned for our blissful Lady free; Her to salute, and also her to pray To be our help upon our dying day: If there is more in this, I know it not: Song do I learn,--small grammar I have got.' 85

XIII "'And is this song fashioned in reverence Of Jesu's Mother?' said this Innocent; 'Now, certès, I will use my diligence To con it all ere Christmas-tide be spent; Although I for my Primer shall be shent, 90 And shall be beaten three times in an hour, Our Lady I will praise with all my power.'

XIV "His Schoolfellow, whom he had so besought, As they went homeward taught him privily And then he sang it well and fearlessly, 95 From word to word according to the note: Twice in a day it passèd through his throat; Homeward and schoolward whensoe'er he went, On Jesu's Mother fixed was his intent.

XV "Through all the Jewry (this before said I) 100 This little Child, as he came to and fro, Full merrily then would he sing and cry, O _Alma Redemptoris!_ high and low: The sweetness of Christ's Mother piercèd so His heart, that her to praise, to her to pray, 105 He cannot stop his singing by the way.

XVI "The Serpent, Satan, our first foe, that hath His wasp's nest in Jew's heart, upswelled--'O woe, O Hebrew people!' said he in his wrath, 'Is it an honest thing? Shall this be so? 110 That such a Boy where'er he lists [1] shall go In your despite, and sing his hymns and saws, Which is against the reverence of our laws!'

XVII "From that day forward have the Jews conspired Out of the world this Innocent to chase; 115 And to this end a Homicide they hired, That in an alley had a privy place, And, as the Child 'gan to the school to pace, This cruel Jew him seized, and held him fast And cut his throat, and in a pit him cast. 120

XVIII "I say that him into a pit they threw, A loathsome pit, whence noisome scents exhale; O cursèd folk! away, ye Herods new! What may your ill intentions you avail? Murder will out; certès it will not fail; 125 Know, that the honour of high God may spread, The blood cries out on your accursèd deed.

XIX "O Martyr 'stablished in virginity! Now may'st thou sing for aye before the throne, Following the Lamb celestial," quoth she, 130 "Of which the great Evangelist, Saint John, In Patmos wrote, who saith of them that go Before the Lamb singing continually, That never fleshly woman they did know.

XX "Now this poor widow waiteth all that night 135 After her little Child, and he came not; For which, by earliest glimpse of morning light, With face all pale with dread and busy thought, She at the School and elsewhere him hath sought, Until thus far she learned, that he had been 140 In the Jews' street, and there he last was seen.

XXI "With Mother's pity in her breast enclosed She goeth, as she were half out of her mind, To every place wherein she hath supposed By likelihood her little Son to find; 145 And ever on Christ's Mother meek and kind She cried, till to the Jewry she was brought, And him among the accursèd Jews she sought.

XXII "She asketh, and she piteously doth pray To every Jew that dwelleth in that place 150 To tell her if her child had passed that way; They all said--Nay; but Jesu of his grace Gave to her thought, that in a little space She for her Son in that same spot did cry Where he was cast into a pit hard by. 155

XXIII "O thou great God that dost perform thy laud By mouths of Innocents, lo! here thy might; This gem of chastity, this emerald, And eke of martyrdom this ruby bright, There, where with mangled throat he lay upright, 160 The _Alma Redemptoris_ 'gan to sing So loud, that with his voice the place did ring.

XXIV "The Christian folk that through the Jewry went Come to the spot in wonder at the thing; And hastily they for the Provost sent; 165 Immediately he came, not tarrying, And praiseth Christ that is our heavenly King, And eke his Mother, honour of Mankind: Which done, he bade that they the Jews should bind.

XXV "This Child with piteous lamentation then 170 Was taken up, singing his song alwày; And with procession great and pomp of men To the next Abbey him they bare away; His Mother swooning by the body [2] lay: And scarcely could the people that were near 175 Remove this second Rachel from the bier.

XXVI "Torment and shameful death to every one This Provost doth for those bad Jews prepare That of this murder wist, and that anon: Such wickedness his judgments cannot spare; 180 Who will do evil, evil shall he bear; Them therefore with wild horses did he draw, And after that he hung them by the law.

XXVII "Upon his bier this Innocent doth lie Before the altar while the Mass doth last: 185 The Abbot with his convent's company Then sped themselves to bury him full fast; And, when they holy water on him cast, Yet spake this Child when sprinkled was the water; And sang, O _Alma Redemptoris Mater!_ 190

XXVIII "This Abbot, for he was a holy man, As all Monks are, or surely ought to be, [3] In supplication to the Child began Thus saying, 'O dear Child! I summon thee In virtue of the holy Trinity 195 Tell me the cause why thou dost sing this hymn, Since that thy throat is cut, as it doth seem.'

XXIX "'My throat is cut unto the bone, I trow,' Said this young Child, 'and by the law of kind I should have died, yea many hours ago; 200 But Jesus Christ, as in the books ye find, Will that his glory last, and be in mind; And, for the worship of his Mother dear, Yet may I sing, _O Alma!_ loud and clear.

XXX "'This well of mercy, Jesu's Mother sweet, 205 After my knowledge I have loved alwày; And in the hour when I my death did meet To me she came, and thus to me did say, "Thou in thy dying sing this holy lay," As ye have heard; and soon as I had sung 210 Methought she laid a grain upon my tongue.

XXXI "'Wherefore I sing, nor can from song refrain, In honour of that blissful Maiden free, Till from my tongue off-taken is the grain; And after that thus said she unto me; 215 "My little Child, then will I come for thee Soon as the grain from off thy tongue they take: Be not dismayed, I will not thee forsake!"'

XXXII "This holy Monk, this Abbot--him mean I, Touched then his tongue, and took away the grain; 220 And he gave up the ghost full peacefully; And, when the Abbot had this wonder seen, His salt tears trickled down like showers of rain; And on his face he dropped upon the ground, And still he lay as if he had been bound. 225

XXXIII "Eke the whole Convent on the pavement lay, Weeping and praising Jesu's Mother dear; And after that they rose, and took their way, And lifted up this Martyr from the bier, And in a tomb of precious marble clear 230 Enclosed his uncorrupted body sweet.--[F] Where'er he be, God grant us him to meet!

XXXIV "Young Hew of Lincoln! in like sort laid low By cursèd Jews--thing well and widely known, For it was done a little while ago--[4] 235 Pray also thou for us, while here we tarry Weak sinful folk, that God, with pitying eye, In mercy would his mercy multiply On us, for reverence of his Mother Mary!"

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VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827.

... list ... 1820.]

[Variant 2:

1845.

... by the Bier ... 1820.]

[Variant 3:

1827.

This Abbot who had been a holy man And was, as all Monks are, or ought to be, [a] 1820.]

[Variant 4:

1836.

For not long since was dealt the cruel blow, 1820.]

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FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A:

"Friday, 4th December 1801.... William translating 'The Prioress' Tale'."

"Saturday, 5th. William finished 'The Prioress' Tale', and after tea, Mary and he wrote it out"

(Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal).--Ed.]

[Footnote B: See 'Il Penseroso', l. 110.--Ed.]

[Footnote C: Chaucer's phrase is "a litel clergeon," Wordsworth's, "a little scholar;" but "clergeon" is a chorister, not a scholar.--Ed.]

[Footnote D:

"Chaucer's text is:

'Thus hath this widow her litel child i-taught Our blissful lady, Criste's moder deere, To worschip ay, and he forgat it nought; For sely child wil alway soone leere.'

'For sely child wil alway soone leere,' i.e. for a happy child will always learn soon. Wordsworth renders:

'For simple infant hath a ready ear,'

and adds:

'Sweet is the holiness of youth,'

extending the stanza to receive this addition from seven to eight lines, with an altered rhyme-system."

(Professor Edward Dowden, in the 'Transactions of the Wordsworth Society', No. III.)--Ed.]

[Footnote E: Chaucer's text is:

'This litel child his litel book lernynge As he sat in the schole in his primere.'

Ed.]

[Footnote F: Chaucer's text is:

'And in a tombe of marble stoones clere Enclosed they this litel body swete.'

Ed.]

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SUB-FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Sub-Footnote a: This was erased in the 'Errata' of 1820, but it may be reproduced here.--Ed.]

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THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE

Translated 1801. [A]--Published 1841 [B]

I The God of Love--_ah, benedicite!_ How mighty and how great a Lord is he! For he of low hearts can make high, of high He can make low, and unto death bring nigh; And hard hearts he can make them kind and free. [1] 5

II Within a little time, as hath been found, He can make sick folk whole and fresh and sound: Them who are whole in body and in mind, He can make sick,--bind can he and unbind All that he will have bound, or have unbound. 10

III To tell his might my wit may not suffice; Foolish men he can make them out of wise;-- For he may do all that he will devise; Loose livers he can make abate their vice, And proud hearts can make tremble in a trice. 15

IV In brief, the whole of what he will, he may; Against him dare not any wight say nay; To humble or afflict whome'er he will, To gladden or to grieve, he hath like skill; But most his might he sheds on the eve of May. 20

V For every true heart, gentle heart and free, That with him is, or thinketh so to be, Now against May shall have some stirring--whether To joy, or be it to some mourning; never At other time, methinks, in like degree. 25

VI For now when they may hear the small birds' song, And see the budding leaves the branches throng, This unto their remembrance doth bring All kinds of pleasure mix'd with sorrowing; And longing of sweet thoughts that ever long. 30

VII And of that longing heaviness doth come, Whence oft great sickness grows of heart and home; Sick are they all for lack of their desire; And thus in May their hearts are set on fire, So that they burn forth in great martyrdom. 35

VIII In sooth, I speak from feeling, what though now Old am I, and to genial pleasure slow; Yet have I felt of sickness through the May, Both hot and cold, and heart-aches every day,-- How hard, alas! to bear, I only know. 40

IX Such shaking doth the fever in me keep Through all this May that I have little sleep; And also 'tis not likely unto me, That any living heart should sleepy be In which Love's dart its fiery point doth steep. 45

X But tossing lately on a sleepless bed, I of a token thought which Lovers heed; How among them it was a common tale, That it was good to hear the Nightingale, Ere the vile Cuckoo's note be utterèd. 50

XI And then I thought anon as it was day, I gladly would go somewhere to essay If I perchance a Nightingale might hear, For yet had I heard none, of all that year, And it was then the third night of the May. 55

XII And soon as I a glimpse of day espied, No longer would I in my bed abide, But straightway to a wood that was hard by, Forth did I go, alone and fearlessly, And held the pathway down by a brook-side; 60

XIII Till to a lawn I came all white and green, I in so fair a one had never been. The ground was green, with daisy powdered over; Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover, All green and white; and nothing else was seen. [C] 65

XIV There sate I down among the fair fresh flowers, And saw the birds come tripping from their bowers, Where they had rested them all night; and they, Who were so joyful at the light of day, Began to honour May with all their powers. 70

XV Well did they know that service all by rote, And there was many and many a lovely note, Some, singing loud, as if they had complained; Some with their notes another manner feigned; And some did sing all out with the full throat. 75

XVI They pruned themselves, and made themselves right gay, Dancing and leaping light upon the spray; And ever two and two together were, The same as they had chosen for the year, Upon Saint Valentine's returning day. 80

XVII Meanwhile the stream, whose bank I sate upon, Was making such a noise as it ran on Accordant to the sweet Birds' harmony; Methought that it was the best melody Which ever to man's ear a passage won. 85

XVIII And for delight, but how I never wot, I in a slumber and a swoon was caught, Not all asleep and yet not waking wholly; And as I lay, the Cuckoo, bird unholy, Broke silence, or I heard him in my thought. 90

XIX And that was right upon a tree fast by, And who was then ill satisfied but I? Now, God, quoth I, that died upon the rood, From thee and thy base throat, keep all that's good, Full little joy have I now of thy cry. 95

XX And, as I with the Cuckoo thus 'gan chide, In the next bush that was me fast beside, I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing, That her clear voice made a loud rioting, Echoing through all the green wood wide. [D] 100

XXI Ah! good sweet Nightingale! for my heart's cheer, Hence hast thou stayed a little while too long; For we have had [2] the sorry Cuckoo here, And she hath been before thee with her song; Evil light on her! she hath done me wrong. 105

XXII But hear you now a wondrous thing, I pray; As long as in that swooning-fit I lay, Methought I wist right well what these birds meant, And had good knowing both of their intent, And of their speech, and all that they would say. 110

XXIII The Nightingale thus in my hearing spake:-- Good Cuckoo, seek some other bush or brake, And, prithee, let us that can sing dwell here; For every wight eschews thy song to hear, Such uncouth singing verily dost thou make. 115

XXIV What! quoth she then, what is't that ails thee now? It seems to me I sing as well as thou; For mine's a song that is both true and plain,-- Although I cannot quaver so in vain As thou dost in thy throat, I wot not how. 120

XXV All men may understanding have of me, But, Nightingale, so may they not of thee; For thou hast many a foolish and quaint cry:-- Thou say'st, OSEE, OSEE, then how may I Have knowledge, I thee pray, what this may be? 125

XXVI Ah, fool! quoth she, wist thou not what it is? Oft as I say OSEE, OSEE, I wis, Then mean I, that I should be wondrous fain That shamefully they one and all were slain, Whoever against Love mean aught amiss. 130

XXVII And also would I that they all were dead, Who do not think in love their life to lead; For who is both the God of Love to obey, Is only fit to die, I dare well say, And for that cause OSEE I cry; take heed! 135

XXVIII Ay, quoth the Cuckoo, that is a quaint law, That all must love or die; but I withdraw, And take my leave of all such company, For mine intent it neither is to die, Nor ever while I live Love's yoke to draw. 140

XXIX For lovers of all folk that be alive, The most disquiet have and least do thrive; Most feeling have of sorrow [3] woe and care, And the least welfare cometh to their share; What need is there against the truth to strive? 145

XXX What! quoth she, thou art all out of thy mind, That in thy churlishness a cause canst find To speak of Love's true Servants in this mood; For in this world no service is so good To every wight that gentle is of kind. 150

XXXI For thereof comes all goodness and all worth; All gentiless [4] and honour thence come forth; Thence worship comes, content and true heart's pleasure, And full-assured trust, joy without measure, And jollity, fresh cheerfulness, and mirth; 155

XXXII And bounty, lowliness, and courtesy, And seemliness, and faithful company, And dread of shame that will not do amiss; For he that faithfully Love's servant is, Rather than be disgraced, would chuse to die. 160

XXXIII And that the very truth it is which I Now say--in such belief I'll live and die; And Cuckoo, do thou so, by my advice. Then, quoth she, let me never hope for bliss, If with that counsel I do e'er comply. 165

XXXIV Good Nightingale! thou speakest wondrous fair, Yet for all that, the truth is found elsewhere; For Love in young folk is but rage, I wis; And Love in old folk a great dotage is; Who most it useth, him 'twill most impair. 170

XXXV For thereof come all contraries to gladness; Thence sickness comes, and overwhelming sadness, Mistrust and jealousy, despite, debate, Dishonour, shame, envy importunate, Pride, anger, mischief, poverty, and madness. 175

XXXVI Loving is aye an office of despair, And one thing is therein which is not fair; For whoso gets of love a little bliss, Unless it alway stay with him, I wis He may full soon go with an old man's hair. 180

XXXVII And, therefore, Nightingale! do thou keep nigh, For trust me well, in spite of thy quaint cry, If long time from thy mate thou be, or far, Thou'lt be as others that forsaken are; Then shall thou raise a clamour as do I. 185

XXXVIII Fie, quoth she, on thy name, Bird ill beseen! The God of Love afflict thee with all teen, For thou art worse than mad a thousand fold; For many a one hath virtues manifold, Who had been nought, if Love had never been. 190

XXXIX For evermore his servants Love amendeth, And he from every blemish them defendeth; And maketh them to burn, as in a fire, In loyalty, and worshipful desire, And, when it likes him, joy enough them sendeth. 195

XL Thou Nightingale! the Cuckoo said, be still, For Love no reason hath but his own will;-- For to th' untrue he oft gives ease and joy; True lovers doth so bitterly annoy, He lets them perish through that grievous ill. 200

XLI With such a master would I never be; [E] For he, in sooth, is blind, and may not see, And knows not when he hurts and when he heals; Within this court full seldom Truth avails, So diverse in his wilfulness is he. 205

XLII Then of the Nightingale did I take note, How from her inmost heart a sigh she brought, And said, Alas! that ever I was born, Not one word have I now, I am so forlorn,-- And with that word, she into tears burst out. 210

XLIII Alas, alas! my very heart will break, Quoth she, to hear this churlish bird thus speak Of Love, and of his holy services; Now, God of Love! thou help me in some wise, That vengeance on this Cuckoo I may wreak. 215

XLIV And so methought I started up anon, And to the brook I ran and got a stone, Which at the Cuckoo hardily I cast, And he for dread did fly away full fast; And glad, in sooth, was I when he was gone. 220

XLV And as he flew, the Cuckoo, ever and aye, Kept crying, "Farewell!--farewell, Popinjay!" As if in scornful mockery of me; And on I hunted him from tree to tree, Till he was far, all out of sight, away. 225

XLVI Then straightway came the Nightingale to me, And said, Forsooth, my friend, do I thank thee, That thou wert near to rescue me; and now Unto the God of Love I make a vow, That all this May I will thy songstress be. 230

XLVII Well satisfied, I thanked her, and she said, By this mishap no longer be dismayed, Though thou the Cuckoo heard, ere thou heard'st me; Yet if I live it shall amended be, When next May comes, if I am not afraid. 235

XLVIII And one thing will I counsel thee also, The Cuckoo trust not thou, nor his Love's saw; All that she said is an outrageous lie. Nay, nothing shall me bring thereto, quoth I, For Love, and it hath done me mighty woe. 240

XLIX Yea, hath it? use, quoth she, this medicine; This May-time, every day before thou dine, Go look on the fresh daisy; then say I, Although for pain thou may'st be like to die, Thou wilt be eased, and less wilt droop and pine. 245

L And mind always that thou be good and true, And I will sing one song, of many new, For love of thee, as loud as I may cry; And then did she begin this song full high, "Beshrew all them that are in love untrue." 250

LI And soon as she had sung it to the end, Now farewell, quoth she, for I hence must wend; And, God of Love, that can right well and may, Send unto thee as mickle joy this day, As ever he to Lover yet did send. 255

LII Thus takes the Nightingale her leave of me; I pray to God with her always to be, And joy of love to send her evermore; And shield us from the Cuckoo and her lore, For there is not so false a bird as she. 260

LIII Forth then she flew, the gentle Nightingale, To all the Birds that lodged within that dale, And gathered each and all into one place; And them besought to hear her doleful case, And thus it was that she began her tale. 265

LIV The Cuckoo--'tis not well that I should hide How she and I did each the other chide, And without ceasing, since it was daylight; And now I pray you all to do me right Of that false Bird whom Love can not abide. 270

LV Then spake one Bird, and full assent all gave; This matter asketh counsel good as grave, For birds we are--all here together brought; And, in good sooth, the Cuckoo here is not; And therefore we a Parliament will have. 275

LVI And thereat shall the Eagle be our Lord, And other Peers whose names are on record; A summons to the Cuckoo shall be sent, And judgment there be given; or that intent Failing, we finally shall make accord. 280

LVII And all this shall be done, without a nay, The morrow after Saint Valentine's day, Under a maple that is well beseen, Before the chamber-window of the Queen, At Woodstock, on the meadow green and gay. 285

LVIII She thankèd them; and then her leave she took, And flew into a hawthorn by that brook; And there she sate and sung--upon that tree-- "For term of life Love shall have hold of me"-- So loudly, that I with that song awoke. 290

Unlearnèd Book and rude, as well I know, For beauty thou hast none, nor eloquence, Who did on thee the hardiness bestow To appear before my Lady? but a sense Thou surely hast of her benevolence, 295 Whereof her hourly bearing proof doth give; For of all good she is the best alive.

Alas, poor Book! for thy unworthiness, To show to her some pleasant meanings writ In winning words, since through her gentiless, [5] 300 Thee she accepts as for her service fit! Oh! it repents me I have neither wit Nor leisure unto thee more worth to give; For of all good she is the best alive.

Beseech her meekly with all lowliness, 305 Though I be far from her I reverence, To think upon my truth and stedfastness, And to abridge my sorrow's violence, Caused by the wish, as knows your sapience, She of her liking proof to me would give; 310 For of all good she is the best alive.

L'ENVOY Pleasure's Aurora, Day of gladsomeness! Luna by night, with heavenly influence Illumined! root of beauty and goodnesse, Write, and allay, by your beneficence, 315 My sighs breathed forth in silence,--comfort give! Since of all good, you are the best alive.

EXPLICIT

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1: In 1819 Wordsworth wrote the opening stanza of his version of 'The Cuckoo and the Nightingale', in the album of Mrs. Calvert at Keswick, thus:

'The God of Love--ah, benedicite!' How mighty and how great a Lord is He! High can he make the heart that's low and poor, And high hearts low--through pains that they endure, And hard hearts, He can make them kind and free.

W. W., Nov. 27, 1819.]

[Variant 2:

1842.

... have heard ... 1841.]

[Variant 3:

1842

... sorrow's ... 1841.]

[Variant 4:

1842.

... gentleness ... 1841.]

[Variant 5:

1842.

... gentleness, ... 1841.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The following extracts from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal show the date of the composition of this poem.

"Sunday, 6th December 1801. A very fine beautiful sun-shiny morning. William worked a while at Chaucer; then he set forward to walk into Easdale.... In the afternoon I read Chaucer aloud."

"Monday, 7th.... William at work with Chaucer, 'The God of Love'...."

"8th November ... William worked at 'The Cuckoo and the Nightingale' till he was tired."

"Wednesday, December 9th. I read 'Palemon and Arcite', William writing out his alterations of Chaucer's 'Cuckoo and Nightingale'."

The question as to whether 'The Cuckoo and the Nightingale' was written by Chaucer or not, may be solved either way without affecting the literary value of Wordsworth's "modernisation" of it.--Ed.]

[Footnote B: In 'The Poems of Geoffrey Chaucer Modernised'.--Ed.]

[Footnote C:

"In 'The Cuckoo and Nightingale', a poem of the third of May--a date corresponding to the mid-May, the very heart of May according to our modern reckoning--the poet after a wakeful night rises, and goes forth at dawn, and comes to a 'laund' or plain 'of white and green.'

'So feire oon had I nevere in bene, The grounde was grene, y poudred with daysé, The floures and the gras ilike al hie, Al grene and white, was nothing elles sene.'

Nothing seen but the short green grass and the white daisies,--grass and daisies being of equal height. Unfortunately in Tyrwhitt's text the description is nonsensical,

'The flowres and the greves like hie.'

The daisy flowers are as high as the _groves_! Wordsworth retained the groves, but refused to make daisies of equal height with them.

'Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover, All green and white; and nothing else was seen.'"

(Professor Dowden, in the 'Transactions of the Wordsworth Society'. No. III.)--Ed.]

[Footnote D:

"In Chaucer's poem, after 'the cuckoo, bird unholy,' has said his evil say, the Nightingale breaks forth 'so lustily,'

'That with her clere voys she made rynge Thro out alle the grene wode wide,'

Wordsworth has taken a poet's licence with these lines:

'I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing, That her clear voice made 'a loud rioting', Echoing through all the green wood wide.'

This 'loud rioting' is Wordsworth's, not Chaucer's; and it belongs, as it were, to that other passage of his:

'O Nightingale, thou surely art A creature of a fiery heart, These notes of thine--they pierce and pierce; Tumultuous harmony and fierce! Thou sing'st as if the God of wine Had helped thee to a Valentine.'"

(Professor Dowden, in the 'Transactions of the Wordsworth Society', No. III.)--Ed.]

[Footnote E: From a manuscript in the Bodleian, as are also stanzas 44 and 45--W. W.

(1841), which are necessary to complete the sense--W. W. (added in 1842).]

* * * * *

TROILUS AND CRESIDA

Translated 1801.--Published 1841 [A]

Next morning Troilus began to clear His eyes from sleep, at the first break of day, And unto Pandarus, his own Brother dear, For love of God, full piteously did say, We must the Palace see of Cresida; 5 For since we yet may have no other feast, Let us behold her Palace at the least!

And therewithal to cover his intent A cause he found into the Town to go, [B] And they right forth to Cresid's Palace went; 10 But, Lord, this simple Troilus was woe, Him thought his sorrowful heart would break [1] in two; For when he saw her doors fast bolted all, Well nigh for sorrow down he 'gan to fall.

Therewith when this true Lover 'gan behold, 15 How shut was every window of the place, Like frost he thought his heart was icy cold; For which, with changèd, pale, and deadly face, Without word uttered, forth he 'gan to pace; And on his purpose bent so fast to ride, 20 That no wight his continuance espied. [C]

Then said he thus,--O Palace desolate! O house of houses, once so richly dight! O Palace empty and disconsolate! Thou lamp of which extinguished is the light; 25 O Palace whilom day that now art night, Thou ought'st to fall and I to die; since she Is gone who held us both in sovereignty.

O, of all houses once the crownèd boast! Palace illumined with the sun of bliss; 30 O ring of which the ruby now is lost, O cause of woe, that cause has [2] been of bliss: Yet, since I may no better, would I kiss Thy cold doors; but I dare not for this rout; Farewell, thou shrine of which the Saint is out! 35

Therewith he cast on Pandarus an eye, [3] With changed face, and piteous to behold; And when he might his time aright espy, Aye as he rode, to Pandarus he told Both his new sorrow and his joys of old, 40 So piteously, and with so dead a hue, That every wight might on his sorrow rue.

Forth from the spot he rideth up and down, And everything to his rememberance Came as he rode by places of the town 45 Where he had felt such perfect pleasure once. Lo, yonder saw I mine own Lady dance, And in that Temple she with her bright eyes, My Lady dear, first bound me captive-wise.

And yonder with joy-smitten heart have I 50 Heard my own Cresid's laugh; and once at play I yonder saw her eke full blissfully; And yonder once she unto me 'gan say-- Now, my sweet Troilus, love me well, I pray! And there so graciously did me behold, 55 That hers unto the death my heart I hold.

And at the corner of that self-same house Heard I my most beloved Lady dear, So womanly, with voice melodious Singing so well, so goodly, and so clear, 60 That in my soul methinks I yet do hear The blissful sound; and in that very place My Lady first me took unto her grace.

O blissful God of Love! then thus he cried, When I the process have in memory, 65 How thou hast wearied [D] me on every side, Men thence a book might make, a history; What need to seek a conquest over me, Since I am wholly at thy will? what joy Hast thou thy own liege subjects to destroy? 70

Dread Lord! so fearful when provoked, thine ire Well hast thou wreaked on me by pain and grief; Now mercy, Lord! thou know'st well I desire Thy grace above all pleasures first and chief; And live and die I will in thy belief; 75 For which I ask for guerdon but one boon, That Cresida again thou send me soon.

Constrain her heart as quickly to return, As thou dost mine with longing her to see, Then know I well that she would not sojourn. 80 Now, blissful Lord, so cruel do not be Unto the blood of Troy, I pray of thee, As Juno was unto the Theban blood, From whence to Thebes came griefs in multitude.

And after this he to the gate did go 85 Whence Cresid rode, as if in haste she was; And up and down there went, and to and fro, And to himself full oft he said, alas! From hence my hope, and solace forth did pass. O would the blissful God now for his joy, 90 I might her see again coming to Troy!

And up to yonder hill was I her guide; Alas, and there I took of her my leave; Yonder I saw her to her Father ride, For very grief of which my heart shall cleave;--95 And hither home I came when it was eve; And here I dwell an outcast from all joy, And shall, unless I see her soon in Troy.

And of himself did he imagine oft, That he was blighted, pale, and waxen less 100 Than he was wont; and that in whispers soft Men said, what may it be, can no one guess Why Troilus hath all this heaviness? All which he of himself conceited wholly Out of his weakness and his melancholy. 105

Another time he took into his head, That every wight, who in the way passed by, Had of him ruth, and fancied that they said, I am right sorry Troilus will die: And thus a day or two drove wearily; 110 As ye have heard; such life 'gan he to lead As one that standeth betwixt hope and dread.

For which it pleased him in his songs to show The occasion of his woe, as best he might; And made a fitting song, of words [4] but few, 115 Somewhat his woeful heart to make more light; And when he was removed from all men's sight, With a soft night voice, [5] he of his Lady dear, That absent was, 'gan sing as ye may hear.

O star, of which I lost have all the light, 120 With a sore heart well ought I to bewail, That ever dark in torment, night by night, Toward my death with wind I steer and sail; [E] For which upon the tenth night if thou fail With thy bright beams to guide me but one hour, 125 My ship and me Charybdis will devour.

As soon as he this song had thus sung through, He fell again into his sorrows old; And every night, as was his wont to do, Troilus stood the bright moon to behold; 130 And all his trouble to the moon he told, And said; I wis, when thou art horn'd anew, I shall be glad if all the world be true.

Thy horns were old as now upon that morrow, When hence did journey my bright Lady dear, 135 That cause is of my torment and my sorrow; For which, oh, gentle Luna, bright and clear, For love of God, run fast above [F] thy sphere; For when thy horns begin once more to spring, Then shall she come, that with her bliss may bring. 140

The day is more, and longer every night Than they were wont to be--for he thought so; And that the sun did take his course not right, By longer way than he was wont to go; And said, I am in constant dread I trow, 145 That Phäeton his son is yet alive, His too fond father's car amiss to drive.

Upon the walls fast also would he walk, To the end that he the Grecian host might see; And ever thus he to himself would talk:--150 Lo! yonder is my [6] own bright Lady free; Or yonder is it that the tents must be; And thence does come this air which is so sweet, That in my soul I feel the joy of it.

And certainly this wind, that more and more 155 By moments thus increaseth in my face, Is of my Lady's sighs heavy and sore; I prove it thus; for in no other space Of all this town, save only in this place, Feel I a wind, that soundeth so like pain; 160 It saith, Alas, why severed are we twain?

A weary while in pain he tosseth thus, Till fully past and gone was the ninth night; And ever [7] at his side stood Pandarus, Who busily made use of all his might 165 To comfort him, and make his heart more light; [8] Giving him always hope, that she the morrow Of the tenth day will come, and end his sorrow.

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1842.

... burst 1841.]

[Variant 2:

1842.

... hast ... 1841.]

[Variant 3:

1842.

... his eye, 1841.]

[Variant 4:

1842.

... whose words ... 1841.]

[Variant 5:

1842.

With a soft voice, ... 1841.]

[Variant 6:

1842.

... mine ... 1841.]

[Variant 7: The "even" of 1841 is evidently a misprint.]

[Variant 8:

1842.

... too light; 1841.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: In 'The Poems of Geoffrey Chaucer Modernised'. It is an extract from 'Troilus and Cressida', book v. ll. 518-686.--Ed.]

[Footnote B:

"Chaucer's text is:

'And therwithalle his meynye for to blende A cause he fonde in toune for to go.'

'His meynye for to blende,' i. e. to keep his household or his domestics in the dark. But Wordsworth writes:

'And therewithal to cover his _intent_,'

possibly mistaking 'meynye' for 'meaning'."

(Professor Dowden, in the 'Transactions of the Wordsworth Society', No. III.)--Ed.]

[Footnote C:

"When Troilus sees the shut windows and desolate aspect of his lady's house, his face grows blanched, and he rides past in haste, so fast, says Wordsworth,

'That no wight his continuance espied.'

But in Chaucer he rides fast that his white face may not be noticed:

'And as God wolde he gan so faste ride That no wight of his countenance espied.'"

(Professor Dowden, in the 'Transactions of the Wordsworth Society', No. III.)--Ed.]

[Footnote D: In Chaucer "werreyed" = warred on = fought against.--Ed.]

[Footnote E:

"'Toward my death with wind I steer and sail.'

This is Urry's version, but Chaucer's text is,

'Toward my death, with wind _in stern_ I sail,'

Troilus' bark careering towards death, with all sails set, before a fierce stern-wind."

(Professor Dowden, in the 'Transactions of the Wordsworth Society', No. III.)--Ed.]

[Footnote F: In Chaucer "aboute" = around.--Ed.]

* * * * *

1802

The Lyrical Ballads and Sonnets which follow were written in 1802; but during that year Wordsworth continued mainly to work at 'The Excursion', as the following extracts from his sister's Journal indicate:

"Feb. 1, 1802.--William worked hard at 'The Pedlar,' and tired himself.

2nd Feb.--Wm. worked at 'The Pedlar.' I read aloud the 11th book of 'Paradise Lost'.

Thursday, 4th.--William thought a little about 'The Pedlar.'

5th.--Wm. sate up late at 'The Pedlar.'

7th.--W. was working at his poem. Wm. read 'The Pedlar,' thinking it was done. But lo! ... it was uninteresting, and must be altered."

Similar records occur each day in the Journal from the 10th to the 14th Feb. 1802.--Ed.

* * * * *

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER

Composed March 11th and 12th, 1802.--Published 1807

[Written in Town-end, Grasmere. I met this woman near the Wishing-gate, on the high road that then led from Grasmere to Ambleside. Her appearance was exactly as here described, and such was her account, nearly to the letter.--I.F.]

One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed.

One morning (raw it was and wet-- A foggy day in winter time) A Woman on [1] the road I met, Not old, though something past her prime: Majestic in her person, tall and straight; 5 And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.

The ancient spirit is not dead; Old times, thought I, are breathing there; Proud was I that my country bred Such strength, a dignity so fair: 10 She begged an alms, like one in poor estate; I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.

When from these lofty thoughts I woke, "What is it," said I, "that you bear, Beneath the covert of your Cloak, 15 Protected from this cold damp air?" [2] She answered, soon as she the question heard, "A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird."

And, thus continuing, she said, "I had a Son, who many a day 20 Sailed on the seas, but he is dead; [3] In Denmark he was cast away: And I have travelled weary miles to see If aught which he had owned might still remain for me. [4]

"The bird and cage they both were his: 25 'Twas my Son's bird; and neat and trim He kept it: many voyages The singing-bird had gone [5] with him; When last he sailed, he left the bird behind; From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind. [6] 30

"He to a fellow-lodger's care Had left it, to be watched and fed, And pipe its song in safety;--there [7] I found it when my Son was dead; And now, God help me for my little wit! 35 I bear [8] it with me, Sir;--he took so much delight in it."

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1815.

... in ... 1807.]

[Variant 2:

1836.

... I woke, With the first word I had to spare I said to her, "Beneath your Cloak What's that which on your arm you bear?" 1807.

"What treasure," said I,"do you bear, Beneath the covert of your Cloak Protected from the cold damp air?" 1820.]

[Variant 3:

1807.

"I had a Son,--the waves might roar, He feared them not, a Sailor gay! But he will cross the waves no more: 1820.

... cross the deep ... 1827.

The text of 1832 returns to that of 1807. [a]]

[Variant 4:

1827.

And I have been as far as Hull, to see What clothes he might have left, or other property. 1807.

And I have travelled far as Hull, to see 1815.

And I have travelled many miles to see If aught which he had owned might still remain for me. 1820.]

[Variant 5:

1845.

This Singing-bird hath gone ... 1807.

... had gone ... 1820.]

[Variant 6:

1827.

As it might be, perhaps, from bodings of his mind. 1807.]

[Variant 7:

1827.

Till he came back again; and there 1807.]

[Variant 8:

1827.

I trail ... 1807.]

* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Sub-Footnote a: This return, in 1832, to the original text of the poem was due to Barren Field's criticism, the justice of which Wordsworth admitted.--Ed.]

In the Wordsworth household this poem went by the name of "The Singing Bird" as well as 'The Sailor's Mother'.

"Thursday (March 11th).--A fine morning. William worked at the poem of 'The Singing Bird.' ..."

"Friday (March 12th).--William finished his poem of 'The Singing Bird.'"

(Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal.)--Ed.

* * * * *

ALICE FELL; OR, POVERTY [A]

Composed March 12th and 13th, 1802.--Published 1807

[Written to gratify Mr. Graham of Glasgow, brother of the author of 'The Sabbath'. He was a zealous coadjutor of Mr. Clarkson, and a man of ardent humanity. The incident had happened to himself, and he urged me to put it into verse, for humanity's sake. The humbleness, meanness if you like, of the subject, together with the homely mode of treating it, brought upon me a world of ridicule by the small critics, so that in policy I excluded it from many editions of my poems, till it was restored at the request of some of my friends, in particular my son-in-law, Edward Quillinan.--I.F.]

It was only excluded from the editions of 1820, 1827, and 1832. In the edition of 1807 it was placed amongst a group of "Poems composed during a Tour, chiefly on foot." In 1815, in 1836, and afterwards, it was included in the group "referring to the Period of Childhood."

In Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal, the following reference to this poem occurs:

"Feb. 16, 1802.--Mr. Graham said he wished William had been with him the other day. He was riding in a post-chaise, and he heard a strange cry that he could not understand. The sound continued, and he called to the chaise-driver to stop. It was a little girl that was crying as if her heart would burst. She had got up behind the chaise, and her cloak had been caught by the wheel, and was jammed in, and it hung there. She was crying after it, poor thing. Mr. Graham took her into the chaise, and her cloak was released from the wheel, but the child's misery did not cease, for her cloak was torn to rags. It had been a miserable cloak before; but she had no other, and it was the greatest sorrow that could befall her. Her name was Alice Fell. She had no parents, and belonged to the next town. At the next town Mr. G. left money to buy her a new cloak."

"Friday (March 12).--In the evening after tea William wrote 'Alice Fell'."

"Saturday Morning (13th March).--William finished 'Alice Fell'...."

Ed.

The post-boy drove with fierce career, For threatening clouds the moon had drowned; When, as we hurried on, my ear Was smitten with a startling sound. [1]

As if the wind blew many ways, 5 I heard the sound,--and more and more; It seemed to follow with the chaise, And still I heard it as before.

At length I to the boy called out; He stopped his horses at the word, 10 But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout, Nor aught else like it, could be heard.

The boy then smacked his whip, and fast The horses scampered through the rain; But, hearing soon upon the blast 15 The cry, I bade him halt again. [2]

Forthwith alighting on the ground, "Whence comes," said I, "this piteous moan?" [3] And there a little Girl I found, Sitting behind the chaise, alone. 20

"My cloak!" no other word she spake, But loud and bitterly she wept, As if her innocent heart would break; [4] And down from off her seat [5] she leapt.

"What ails you, child?"--she sobbed "Look here!" 25 I saw it in the wheel entangled, A weather-beaten rag as e'er From any garden scare-crow dangled.

There, twisted between nave and spoke, It hung, nor could at once be freed; 30 But our joint pains unloosed the cloak, [6] A miserable rag indeed! [7]

"And whither are you going, child, To-night along these lonesome ways?" "To Durham," answered she, half wild--35 "Then come with me into the chaise."

Insensible to all relief Sat the poor girl, and forth did send Sob after sob, as if her grief [8] Could never, never have an end. 40

"My child, in Durham do you dwell?" She checked herself in her distress, And said, "My name is Alice Fell; I'm fatherless and motherless.

"And I to Durham, Sir, belong." 45 Again, [9] as if the thought would choke Her very heart, her grief grew strong; And all was for her tattered cloak!

The chaise drove on; our journey's end Was nigh; and, sitting by my side, 50 As if she had lost [10] her only friend She wept, nor would be pacified.

Up to the tavern-door we post; Of Alice and her grief I told; And I gave money to the host, 55 To buy a new cloak for the old.

"And let it be of duffil grey, As warm a cloak as man can sell!" Proud creature was she the next day, The little orphan, Alice Fell! 60

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

When suddenly I seem'd to hear A moan, a lamentable sound. 1807.]

[Variant 2:

1845.

And soon I heard upon the blast The voice, and bade .... 1807.]

[Variant 3:

1845.

Said I, alighting on the ground, "What can it be, this piteous moan?" 1807.

Forthwith alighted on the ground To learn what voice the piteous moan Had made, a little girl I found, C.]

[Variant 4:

1836.

"My Cloak!" the word was last and first, And loud and bitterly she wept, As if her very heart would burst; 1807.

"My cloak, my cloak" she cried, and spake No other word, but loudly wept, C.]

[Variant 5:

1815.

... off the Chaise ... 1807.]

[Variant 6:

1845.

'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke; Her help she lent, and with good heed Together we released the Cloak; 1807.

... between ... 1840.]

[Variant 7:

1836.

A wretched, wretched rag indeed! 1807.]

[Variant 8:

1845.

She sate like one past all relief; Sob after sob she forth did send In wretchedness, as if her grief 1807.]

[Variant 9:

1836.

And then, ... 1807.]

[Variant 10:

1836.

... she'd lost ... 1807.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: There was no sub-title in the edition of 1807.--Ed.]

Charles Lamb wrote to Wordsworth in 1815, referring to the revisions of this and other poems:

"I am glad that you have not sacrificed a verse to those scoundrels. I would not have had you offer up the poorest rag that lingered upon the stript shoulders of little Alice Fell, to have atoned all their malice; I would not have given 'em a red cloak to save their souls."

See 'Letters of Charles Lamb' (Ainger), vol. i. p. 283.--Ed.

* * * * *

BEGGARS

Composed March 13th and 14th, 1802.--Published 1807

[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Met, and described to me by my sister, near the quarry at the head of Rydal Lake, [A] a place still a chosen resort of vagrants travelling with their families.--I.F.]

The following are Dorothy Wordsworth's references to this poem in her Grasmere Journal. They justify the remark of the late Bishop of Lincoln,

"his poems are sometimes little more than poetical versions of her descriptions of the objects which she had seen, _and he treated them as seen by himself_."

(See 'Memoirs of Wordsworth', vol. i. pp. 180-1.)

"Saturday (March 13, 1802).--William wrote the poem of the Beggar Woman, taken from a woman whom I had seen in May (now nearly two years ago), when John and he were at Gallow Hill. I sat with him at intervals all the morning, and took down his stanzas. After tea I read W. the account I had written of the little boy belonging to the tall woman: and an unlucky thing it was, for he could not escape from those very words, and so he could not write the poem. He left it unfinished, and went tired to bed. In our walk from Rydal he had got warmed with the subject, and had half cast the poem."

"Sunday Morning (March 14).--William had slept badly. He got up at 9 o'clock, but before he rose he had finished the Beggar Boy."

The following is the "account" written in her Journal on Tuesday, May 23, 1800:

"A very tall woman, tall much beyond the measure of tall women, called at the door. She had on a very long brown cloak, and a very white cap, without bonnet. Her face was brown, but it had plainly once been fair. She led a little barefooted child about two years old by the hand, and said her husband, who was a tinker, was gone before with the other children. I gave her a piece of bread. Afterwards, on my road to Ambleside, beside the bridge at Rydal, I saw her husband sitting at the roadside, his two asses standing beside him, and the two young children at play upon the grass. The man did not beg. I passed on, and about a quarter of a mile farther I saw two boys before me, one about ten, the other about eight years old, at play, chasing a butterfly. They were wild figures, not very ragged, but without shoes and stockings. The hat of the elder was wreathed round with yellow flowers; the younger, whose hat was only a rimless crown, had stuck it round with laurel leaves. They continued at play till I drew very near, and then they addressed me with the begging cant and the whining voice of sorrow. I said, 'I served your mother this morning' (the boys were so like the woman who had called at our door that I could not be mistaken). 'O,' says the elder, 'you could not serve my mother, for she's dead, and my father's in at the next town; he's a potter.' I persisted in my assertion, and that I would give them nothing. Says the elder, 'Come, let's away,' and away they flew like lightning. They had, however, sauntered so long in their road that they did not reach Ambleside before me, and I saw them go up to Mathew Harrison's house with their wallet upon the elder's shoulder, and creeping with a beggar's complaining foot. On my return through Ambleside I met, in the street, the mother driving her asses, in the two panniers of one of which were the two little children, whom she was chiding and threatening with a wand with which she used to drive on her asses, while the little things hung in wantonness over the pannier's edge. The woman had told me in the morning that she was of Scotland, which her accent fully proved, and that she had lived (I think at Wigtown); that they could not keep a house, and so they travelled."

This was one of the "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed.

She had a tall man's height or more; Her face from summer's noontide heat No bonnet shaded, but she wore A mantle, to her very feet Descending with a graceful flow, 5 And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen snow. [1]

Her skin was of Egyptian brown: Haughty, as if her eye had seen Its own light to a distance thrown, She towered, fit person for a Queen [2] 10 To lead [3] those ancient Amazonian files; Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian isles.

Advancing, forth she stretched her hand And begged an alms with doleful plea That ceased not; on our English land 15 Such woes, I knew, could never be; [4] And yet a boon I gave her, for the creature Was beautiful to see--a weed of glorious feature. [B]

I left her, and pursued my way; And soon before me did espy 20 A pair of little Boys at play, Chasing a crimson butterfly; The taller followed with his hat in hand, Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land. [5]

The other wore a rimless crown 25 With leaves of laurel stuck about; And, while both [6] followed up and down, Each whooping with a merry shout, In their fraternal features I could trace Unquestionable lines of that wild Suppliant's face. [7] 30

Yet _they_, so blithe of heart, seemed fit [8] For finest tasks of earth or air: Wings let them have, and they might flit Precursors to [9] Aurora's car, Scattering fresh flowers; though happier far, I ween, 35 To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock and level green.

They dart across my path--but lo, [10] Each ready with a plaintive whine! Said I, "not half an hour ago Your Mother has had alms of mine." 40 "That cannot be," one answered--"she is dead:"-- I looked reproof--they saw--but neither hung his head. [11]

"She has been dead, Sir, many a day."-- "Hush, boys! you're telling me a lie; [12] It was your Mother, as I say!" 45 And, in the twinkling of an eye, "Come! come!" cried one, and without more ado, Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew! [13] [C]

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

She had a tall Man's height, or more; No bonnet screen'd her from the heat; A long drab-colour'd Cloak she wore, A Mantle reaching to her feet: What other dress she had I could not know; Only she wore a Cap that was as white as snow. 1807.

Before me as the Wanderer stood, No bonnet screened her from the heat; Nor claimed she service from the hood Of a blue mantle, to her feet Depending with a graceful flow; Only she wore a cap pure as unsullied snow. 1827.

Before my eyes a Wanderer stood; Her face from summer's noon-day heat Nor bonnet shaded, nor the hood Of that blue cloak which to her feet Depended with a graceful flow; Only she wore a cap as white as new-fallen snow. 1832.

No bonnet shaded, nor the hood Of the blue cloak ... 1836.

She had a tall man's height or more; And while, 'mid April's noontide heat, A long blue cloak the vagrant wore, A mantle reaching to her feet, No bonnet screened her lofty brow, Only she wore a cap as white as new-fallen snow. C.

She had a tall man's height or more; A garment for her stature meet, And for a vagrant life, she wore A mantle reaching to her feet. Nor hood, nor bonnet screened her lofty brow, C.]

[Variant 2:

1827.

In all my walks, through field or town, Such Figure had I never seen: Her face was of Egyptian brown: Fit person was she for a Queen, 1807.

Such figure had I never seen In all my walks through field or town, Fit person seemed she for a Queen, C.]

[Variant 3:

1836.

To head ... 1807.]

[Variant 4:

1845.

Before me begging did she stand, Pouring out sorrows like a sea; Grief after grief:--on English Land Such woes I knew could never be; 1807.

Her suit no faltering scruples checked; Forth did she pour, in current free, Tales that could challenge no respect But from a blind credulity; 1827.

She begged an alms; no scruple checked The current of her ready plea, Words that could challenge ... 1832.

Before me begging did she stand And boldly urged a doleful plea, Grief after grief, on English land Such woes I knew could never be. C.]

[Variant 5:

1807.

With yellow flowers around, as with a golden band. C.]

[Variant 6:

1827.

And they both ... 1807.]

[Variant 7:

1820.

Two Brothers seem'd they, eight and ten years old; And like that Woman's face as gold is like to gold. 1807.]

[Variant 8: This stanza was added in the edition of 1827.]

[Variant 9:

1836.

Precursors of ... 1827.]

[Variant 10:

1827.

They bolted on me thus, and lo! 1807.]

[Variant 11:

1827.

"Nay but I gave her pence, and she will buy you bread." 1807.]

[Variant 12:

1845.

"Sweet Boys, you're telling me a lie; 1807.

... Heaven hears that rash reply; 1827.

The text of 1807 was resumed in 1836.]

[Variant 13:

1827.

... they both together flew. 1807.

... the thoughtless vagrants flew. C.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The spot is easily identified, as the quarry still exists.--Ed.]

[Footnote B: In the MS. of this poem (1807) the words, "a weed of glorious feature," are placed within inverted commas. The quotation is from Spenser's 'Muiopotmos' ('The Fate of the Butterflie'), stanza 27; and is important, as it affects the meaning of the phrase. It is curious that Wordsworth dropped the commas in his subsequent editions.--Ed.]

[Footnote C: In Wordsworth's letter to Barron Field, of 24th October 1828 (see the volumes containing his correspondence), a detailed account is given of the reasons which had led him to alter the text of this poem.--Ed.]

* * * * *

SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING,

COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER

Composed 1817.--Published 1827

In the edition of 1840 the year assigned to this Sequel is 1817. It does not occur in the edition of 1820, but was first published in 1827. It was one of the "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed.

Where are they now, those wanton Boys? For whose free range the dædal earth Was filled with animated toys, And implements of frolic mirth; With tools for ready wit to guide; 5 And ornaments of seemlier pride, More fresh, more bright, than princes wear; For what one moment flung aside, Another could repair; What good or evil have they seen 10 Since I their pastime witnessed here, Their daring wiles, their sportive cheer? I ask--but all is dark between! [1]

They met me in a genial hour, When universal nature breathed 15 As with the breath of one sweet flower,-- A time to overrule the power Of discontent, and check the birth Of thoughts with better thoughts at strife, The most familiar bane of life 20 Since parting Innocence bequeathed Mortality to Earth! Soft clouds, the whitest of the year, Sailed through the sky--the brooks ran clear; The lambs from rock to rock were bounding; 25 With songs the budded groves resounding; And to my heart are still endeared The thoughts with which it then was cheered; [2] The faith which saw that gladsome pair Walk through the fire with unsinged hair. 30 Or, if such faith [3] must needs deceive-- Then, Spirits of beauty and of grace, [A] Associates in that eager chase; Ye, who within the blameless mind Your favourite seat of empire find--35 Kind Spirits! may we not believe That they, so happy and so fair Through your sweet influence, and the care Of pitying Heaven, at least were free From touch of _deadly_ injury? 40 Destined, whate'er their earthly doom, For mercy and immortal bloom?

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

Spirits of beauty and of grace! Associates in that eager chase; Ye, by a course to nature true, The sterner judgment can subdue; And waken a relenting smile When she encounters fraud or guile; And sometimes ye can charm away The inward mischief, or allay, Ye, who within the blameless mind Your favourite seat of empire find!

The above is a separate stanza in the editions of 1827 and 1832. Only the first two and the last two lines of this stanza were retained in the edition of 1836, and were then transferred to the place they occupy in the final text.--Ed.]

[Variant 2:

1836.

And to my heart is still endeared The faith with which ... 1827.]

[Variant 3:

1836.

... such thoughts ... 1827.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: This and the three following lines were placed here in the edition of 1836. See note to the previous page.--Ed.]

* * * * *

TO A BUTTERFLY (#1)

Composed March 14, 1802.--Published 1807

[Written in the Orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. My sister and I were parted immediately after the death of our mother, who died in 1778, both being very young.--I. F.]

One of the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."--Ed.

Stay near me--do not take thy flight! A little longer stay in sight! Much converse do I find in thee, Historian of my infancy! Float near me; do not yet depart! 5 Dead times revive in thee: Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art! A solemn image to my heart, My father's family!

Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days, 10 The time, when, in our childish plays, My sister Emmeline [A] and I Together chased the butterfly! A very hunter did I rush Upon the prey:--with leaps and springs 15 I followed on from brake to bush; But she, God love her! feared to brush The dust from off its wings.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: In the MS. for the edition of 1807 the transcriber (not W. W.) wrote "Dorothy." This, Wordsworth erased, putting in "Emmeline."--Ed.]

The text of this poem was never changed. It refers to days of childhood spent at Cockermouth before 1778. "My sister Emmeline" is Dorothy Wordsworth. In her Grasmere Journal, of Sunday, March 14, 1802, the following occurs:

"While we were at breakfast he" (William) "wrote the poem 'To a Butterfly'. He ate not a morsel, but sate with his shirt neck unbuttoned, and his waistcoat open when he did it. The thought first came upon him as we were talking about the pleasure we both always felt at the sight of a butterfly. I told him that I used to chase them a little, but that I was afraid of brushing the dust off their wings, and did not catch them. He told me how he used to kill all the white ones when he went to school, because they were Frenchmen. Mr. Simpson came in just as he was finishing the poem. After he was gone, I wrote it down, and the other poems, and I read them all over to him.... William began to try to alter 'The Butterfly', and tired himself."

Compare the later poem 'To a Butterfly' (#2) (April 20), p. 297.--Ed.

* * * * *

THE EMIGRANT MOTHER

Composed March 16th and 17th, 1802.--Published 1807

[Suggested by what I have noticed in more than one French fugitive during the time of the French Revolution. If I am not mistaken the lines were composed at Sockburn when I was on a visit to Mary and her brothers.--I. F.]

In the editions of 1807 and 1815, this poem had no distinctive title; but in the Wordsworth circle, it was known from the year 1802 as 'The Emigrant Mother', and at least one copy was transcribed with this title in 1802. It was first published under that name in 1820. It was revised and altered in 1820, 1827, 1832, 1836, and more especially in 1845.

In Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal the following entries occur:

"Tuesday (March 16).--William went up into the orchard, and wrote a part of 'The Emigrant Mother'."

"Wednesday.--William went up into the orchard, and finished the poem.... I went and sate with W., and walked backwards and forwards in the orchard till dinner-time. He read me his poem."

This poem was included among those "founded on the Affections."--Ed.

Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned In which a Lady driven from France did dwell; The big and lesser griefs with which she mourned, In friendship she to me would often tell.

This Lady, [1] dwelling upon British [2] ground, 5 Where she was childless, daily would [3] repair To a poor neighbouring cottage; as I found, For sake of a young Child whose home was there.

Once having seen her clasp with fond embrace This Child, I chanted to myself a lay, 10 Endeavouring, in our English tongue, to trace Such things as she unto the Babe might say: [4] And thus, from what I heard and knew, or guessed, [5] My song the workings of her heart expressed.

I "Dear Babe, thou daughter of another, 15 One moment let me be thy mother! An infant's face and looks are thine And sure a mother's heart is mine: Thy own dear mother's far away, At labour in the harvest field: 20 Thy little sister is at play;-- What warmth, what comfort would it yield To my poor heart, if thou wouldst be One little hour a child to me!

II "Across the waters I am come, 25 And I have left a babe at home: A long, long way of land and sea! Come to me--I'm no enemy: I am the same who at thy side Sate yesterday, and made a nest 30 For thee, sweet Baby!--thou hast tried, Thou know'st the pillow of my breast; Good, good art thou:--alas! to me Far more than I can be to thee.

III "Here, little Darling, dost thou lie; 35 An infant thou, a mother I! Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears; Mine art thou--spite of these my tears. Alas! before I left the spot, My baby and its dwelling-place; 40 The nurse said to me, 'Tears should not Be shed upon an infant's face, It was unlucky'--no, no, no; No truth is in them who say so!

IV "My own dear Little-one will sigh, 45 Sweet Babe! and they will let him die. 'He pines,' they'll say, 'it is his doom, And you may see his hour is come.' Oh! had he but thy cheerful smiles, Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay, 50 Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles, And countenance like a summer's day, They would have hopes of him;--and then I should behold his face again!

V "'Tis gone--like dreams that we forget; 55 There was a smile or two--yet--yet [6] I can remember them, I see The smiles, worth all the world to me. Dear Baby! I must lay thee down; Thou troublest me with strange alarms; 60 Smiles hast thou, bright [7] ones of thy own; I cannot keep thee in my arms; For they confound me;--where--where is That last, that sweetest smile of his? [8]

VI "Oh! how I love thee!--we will stay 65 Together here this one half day. My sister's child, who bears my name, From France to sheltering England came; [9] She with her mother crossed the sea; The babe and mother near me dwell: 70 Yet does my yearning heart to thee Turn rather, though I love her well: [10] Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here! Never was any child more dear!

VII "--I cannot help it; ill intent 75 I've none, my pretty Innocent! I weep--I know they do thee wrong, These tears--and my poor idle tongue. Oh, what a kiss was that! my cheek How cold it is! but thou art good; So 80 Thine eyes are on me--they would speak, I think, to help me if they could. [11] Blessings upon that soft, warm face, [12] My heart again is in its place!

VIII

"While thou art mine, my little Love, 85 This cannot be a sorrowful grove; Contentment, hope, and mother's glee, [13] I seem to find them all in thee: [14] Here's grass to play with, here are flowers; I'll call thee by my darling's name; 90 Thou hast, I think, a look of ours, Thy features seem to me the same; His little sister thou shalt be; And, when once more my home I see, I'll tell him many tales of Thee." 95

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1807.

This Mother ... MS.]

[Variant 2:

1845.

... English ... 1807.]

[Variant 3:

1827.

... did ... 1807.]

[Variant 4:

1845.

Once did I see her clasp the Child about, And take it to herself; and I, next day, Wish'd in my native tongue to fashion out Such things as she unto this Child might say: 1807.

Once did I see her take with fond embrace This Infant to herself; and I, next day, Endeavoured in my native tongue to trace Such things as she unto the Child might say: 1820.

Once, having seen her take with fond embrace This Infant to herself, I framed a lay, Endeavouring, in my native tongue, to trace 1827.]

[Variant 5:

1845.

And thus, from what I knew, had heard, and guess'd, 1807.]

[Variant 6:

1820.

'Tis gone--forgotten--let me do My best--there was a smile or two, 1807.]

[Variant 7:

1827.

... sweet ... 1807.]

[Variant 8:

1836.

For they confound me: as it is, I have forgot those smiles of his. 1807.

For they bewilder me--even now _His_ smiles are lost,--I know not how! 1820.

By those bewildering glances crost In which the light of his is lost. [a] 1827.]

[Variant 9:

1827.

From France across the Ocean came; 1807.]

[Variant 10:

1845.

My Darling, she is not to me What thou art! though I love her well: 1807.

But to my heart she cannot be 1836.]

[Variant 11:

1807.

And I grow happy while I speak, Kiss, kiss me, Baby, thou art good. MS.]

[Variant 12:

1820.

... that quiet face, 1807.]

[Variant 13:

1807.

A Joy, a Comforter thou art; Sunshine and pleasure to my heart; And love and hope and mother's glee, MS.]

[Variant 14:

1807.

My yearnings are allayed by thee, My heaviness is turned to glee. MS.]

* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Sub-Footnote a: In a letter to Barron Field (24th Oct. 1828), Wordsworth says that his substitution of the text of 1827 for that of 1807, was due to the objections of Coleridge.--Ed.]

* * * * *

TO THE CUCKOO

Composed 1802.--Published 1807

[Composed in the Orchard at Town-end, 1804.--I.F.]

One of the "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed.

O blithe New-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice? [A]

While I am lying on the grass 5 Thy twofold shout I hear, From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off, and near. [1]

Though babbling only to the Vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, 10 Thou bringest unto me a tale [2] Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, [3] 15 A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. 20

To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet; 25 Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again.

O blessed Bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be 30 An unsubstantial, faery place; That is fit home for Thee!

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1845.

While I am lying on the grass, I hear thy restless shout: From hill to hill it seems to pass, About, and all about! 1807.

Thy loud note smites my ear!-- From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off and near! 1815.

Thy loud note smites my ear! It seems to fill the whole air's space, At once far off and near! 1820.

Thy twofold shout I hear, That seems to fill the whole air's space, As loud far off as near. [a] 1827.]

[Variant 2:

1827.

To me, no Babbler with a tale Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou tellest, Cuckoo! in the vale 1807.

I hear thee babbling to the Vale Of sunshine and of flowers; And unto me thou bring'st a tale 1815.

But unto me .... 1820.]

[Variant 3:

1836.

No Bird; but an invisible Thing, 1807.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A:

"_Vox et praterea nihil_. See Lipsius 'of the Nightingale.'"

Barron Field.--Ed.

* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Sub-Footnote a: Barron Field remonstrated with Wordsworth about this reading, and he agreed to restore that of 1820; saying, at the same time, that he had "made the change to record a fact observed by himself."--Ed.]

In the chronological lists of his poems, published in 1815 and 1820, Wordsworth left a blank opposite this one, in the column containing the year of composition. From 1836 to 1849, the date assigned by him was 1804. But in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal the following occurs under date Tuesday, 22nd March 1802:

"A mild morning. William worked at the Cuckoo poem.... At the closing in of day, went to sit in the orchard. William came to me, and walked backwards and forwards. W. repeated the poem to me. I left him there; and in 20 minutes he came in, rather tired with attempting to write."

"Friday (March 25).--A beautiful morning. William worked at 'The Cuckoo'."

It is therefore evident that it belongs to the year 1802; although it may have been altered and readjusted in 1804. The connection of the seventh stanza of this poem with the first of that which follows it, "My heart leaps up," etc., and of both with the 'Ode, Intimations of Immortality' (vol. viii.), is obvious.--Ed.

* * * * *

"MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I BEHOLD"

Composed March 26, 1802.--Published 1807

[Written at Town-end, Grasmere.--I.F.]

One of the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood." In 1807 it was No. 4 of the series called "Moods of my own Mind."--Ed.

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, 5 Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man; [A] And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare Milton's phrase in 'Paradise Regained' (book iv. l. 220):

'The childhood shews the man, As morning shews the day.'

Dryden's 'All for Love', act IV. scene I:

'Men are but children of a larger growth.'

And Pope's 'Essay on Man', Ep. iv. l. 175:

'The boy and man an individual makes.'

Also Chatterton's 'Fragment' (Aldine edition, vol. 1. p. 132):

'Nature in the infant marked the man.'

Ed.]

"March 26, 1802.--While I was getting into bed he" (W.) "wrote 'The Rainbow.'"

"May 14th.--... William very nervous. After he was in bed, haunted with altering 'The Rainbow.'"

(Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal.) This poem was known familiarly in the household as "The Rainbow," although not printed under that title. The text was never changed.

In 'The Friend', vol. i. p. 58 (ed. 1818), Coleridge writes:

"Men laugh at the falsehoods imposed on them during their childhood, because they are not good and wise enough to contemplate the past in the present, and so to produce that continuity in their self-consciousness, which Nature has made the law of their animal life. Men are ungrateful to others, only when they have ceased to look back on their former selves with joy and tenderness. They exist in fragments."

He then quotes the above poem, and adds:

"I am informed that these lines have been cited as a specimen of despicable puerility. So much the worse for the citer; not willingly in _his_ presence would I behold the sun setting behind our mountains.... But let the dead bury their dead! The poet sang for the living.... I was always pleased with the motto placed under the figure of the rosemary in old herbals:

'Sus, apage! Haud tibi spiro.'"

Compare the passage in 'The Excursion' (book ix. l. 36) beginning:

'... Ah! why in age Do we revert so fondly, etc.'

also that in 'The Prelude' (book v. l. 507) beginning:

'Our childhood sits.'

* * * * *

WRITTEN IN MARCH, WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF BROTHERS WATER

Composed April 16, 1802.--Published 1807

[Extempore. This little poem was a favourite with Joanna Baillie.--I.F.]

One of the "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed.

The Cock is crowing, The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter, The green field sleeps in the sun; 5 The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest; The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising; There are forty feeding like one! 10

Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill; The Ploughboy is whooping--anon--anon: [A] 15 There's joy in the mountains; There's life in the fountains; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone! 20

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: This line was an afterthought.--Ed.]

The text of this poem was never altered. It was not "written in March" (as the title states), but on the 16th of April (Good Friday) 1802. The bridge referred to crosses Goldrill Beck, a little below Hartsop in Patterdale. The following, from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, records the walk from Ullswater, over Kirkstone Pass, to Ambleside:

"Friday, 16th April (Good Friday).--... When we came to the foot of Brothers Water, I left William sitting on the bridge, and went along the path on the right side of the lake through the wood. I was delighted with what I saw: the water under the boughs of the bare old trees, the simplicity of the mountains, and the exquisite beauty of the path. There was one grey cottage. I repeated 'The Glowworm' as I walked along. I hung over the gate, and thought I could have stayed for ever. When I returned, I found William writing a poem descriptive of the sights and sounds we saw and heard. There was the gentle flowing of the stream, the glittering lively lake, green fields, without a living creature to be seen on them; behind us, a flat pasture with forty-two cattle feeding; to our left, the road leading to the hamlet. No smoke there, the sun shone on the bare roofs. The people were at work, ploughing, harrowing, and sowing; lasses working; a dog barking now and then; cocks crowing, birds twittering; the snow in patches at the top of the highest hills; yellow palms, purple and green twigs on the birches, ashes with their glittering stems quite bare. The hawthorn a bright green, with black stems under the oak. The moss of the oaks glossy.... As we went up the vale of Brothers Water, more and more cattle feeding, a hundred of them. William finished his poem before we got to the foot of Kirkstone. There were hundreds of cattle in the vale.... The walk up Kirkstone was very interesting. The becks among the rocks were all alive. William shewed me the little mossy streamlet which he had before loved, when he saw its bright green track in the snow. The view above Ambleside very beautiful. There we sate, and looked down on the green vale. We watched the crows at a little distance from us become white as silver, as they flew in the sunshine; and, when they went still farther, they looked like shapes of water passing over the green fields."

Ed.

* * * * *

THE REDBREAST CHASING THE BUTTERFLY [A]

Composed April 18, 1802.--Published 1807

[Observed, as described, in the then beautiful orchard, Town-end, Grasmere.--I.F.]

Included among the "Poems of the Fancy."

In some editions this poem is assigned to the year 1806; but, in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal the following occurs, under date "Sunday, 18th" (April 1802):

"A mild grey morning with rising vapours. We sate in the orchard. William wrote the poem on the Robin and the Butterfly.... W. met me at Rydal with the conclusion of the poem to the Robin. I read it to him in bed. We left out some lines."

Ed.

Art thou the bird whom Man loves best, The pious bird [B] with the scarlet breast, Our little English Robin; The bird that comes about our doors When Autumn-winds are sobbing? 5 Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors? Their Thomas in Finland, And Russia far inland? The bird, that [1] by some name or other All men who know thee call their brother, 10 The darling of children and men? Could Father Adam [C] open his eyes And see this sight beneath the skies, He'd wish to close them again. --If the Butterfly knew but his friend, 15 Hither his flight he would bend; And find his way to me, Under the branches of the tree: In and out, he darts about; Can this be the bird, to man so good, 20 That, after their bewildering, [2] Covered [3] with leaves the little children, So painfully in the wood?

What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue A beautiful creature, 25 That is gentle by nature? Beneath the summer sky From flower to flower let him fly; 'Tis all that he wishes to do. The cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness, 30 He is the friend of our summer gladness: What hinders, then, that ye should be Playmates in the sunny weather, And fly about in the air together! His beautiful wings in crimson are drest, 35 A crimson as bright as thine own: [4] Would'st thou be [5] happy in thy nest, O pious Bird! whom man loves best, Love him, or leave him alone!

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1849.

... whom ... 1807.

... who ... 1827.]

[Variant 2:

1815.

In and out, he darts about; His little heart is throbbing: Can this be the Bird, to man so good, Our consecrated Robin! That, after ... 1807.

... Robin! Robin! His little heart is throbbing; Can this ... MS.]

[Variant 3:

1832.

Did cover ... 1807.]

[Variant 4:

1815.

... Like thine own breast His beautiful wings in crimson are drest, As if he were bone of thy bone. MS.

Like the hues of thy breast His beautiful wings in crimson are drest, A brother he seems of thine own: 1807.

... in the air together! His beautiful bosom is drest, In crimson as bright as thine own: 1832.

The edition of 1836 resumes the text of 1815.]

[Variant 5:

1836.

If thou would'st be ... 1807.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The title, in the editions 1807 to 1820, was 'The Redbreast and the Butterfly'. In the editions 1827 to 1843 it was 'The Redbreast and Butterfly'. The final title was given in 1845.--Ed.]

[Footnote B: Compare Cowley:

'And Robin Redbreasts whom men praise, For pious birds.'

Ed.]

[Footnote C: See 'Paradise Lost', book XI., where Adam points out to Eve the ominous sign of the Eagle chasing "two Birds of gayest plume," and the gentle Hart and Hind pursued by their enemy.--W. W. 1815.

The passage in book XI. of 'Paradise Lost' includes lines 185-90.--Ed.]

* * * * *

TO A BUTTERFLY (#2)

Composed April 20, 1802.--Published 1807

[Written at the same time and place. The Orchard, Grasmere Town-end, 1801.--I.F.]

Included among the "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed.

I've watch'd you now a full [1] half-hour, Self-poised upon that yellow flower; And, little Butterfly! indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless!--not frozen seas 5 More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!

This plot of orchard-ground is ours; 10 My trees they are, my Sister's flowers; Here rest your wings when they are weary; Here lodge as in a sanctuary! [2] Come often to us, fear no wrong; Sit near us on the bough! 15 We'll talk of sunshine and of song, And summer days, when we were young; Sweet childish days, that were as long As twenty days are now.

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1807.

... short ... 1836.

The text of 1845 reverts to the reading of 1807.]

[Variant 2:

1815.

Stop here whenever you are weary, And rest as in a sanctuary! 1807.

And feed ... MS.]

Wordsworth's date, as given to Miss Fenwick, is incorrect. In her Journal, April 20, 1802, Dorothy Wordsworth writes:

"William wrote a conclusion to the poem of 'The Butterfly', 'I've watch'd you now a full half-hour.'"

This, and the structure of the two poems, makes it probable that the latter was originally meant to be a sort of conclusion to the former (p. 283); but they were always printed as separate poems.

Many of the "flowers" in the orchard at Dove Cottage were planted by Dorothy Wordsworth, and some of the "trees" by William. The "summer days" of childhood are referred to in the previous poem, 'To a Butterfly', written on the 14th of March 1802.--Ed.

* * * * *

FORESIGHT

Composed April 28, 1802.--Published 1807

[Also composed in the Orchard, Town-end, Grasmere.--I.F.]

Included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."--Ed.

That is work of waste and ruin--[1] Do as Charles and I are doing! Strawberry-blossoms, one and all, We must spare them--here are many: Look at it--the flower is small, 5 Small and low, though fair as any: Do not touch it! summers two I am older, Anne, than you. Pull the primrose, sister Anne! Pull as many as you can. 10 --Here are daisies, take your fill; Pansies, and the cuckoo-flower: Of the lofty daffodil Make your bed, or [2] make your bower; Fill your lap, and fill your bosom; 15 Only spare the strawberry-blossom!

Primroses, the Spring may love them-- Summer knows but little of them: Violets, a barren kind, Withered on the ground must lie; 20 Daisies leave no fruit behind When the pretty flowerets die; Pluck them, and another year As many will be blowing here. [3]

God has given a kindlier power [4] 25 To the favoured strawberry-flower. Hither soon as spring is fled You and Charles and I will walk; [5] Lurking berries, ripe and red, Then will hang on every stalk, 30 Each within its leafy bower; And for that promise spare the flower!

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1815.

That is work which I am rueing--1807.]

[Variant 2:

1836.

... and ... 1807.]

[Variant 3:

1815.

Violets, do what they will, Wither'd on the ground must lie; Daisies will be daisies still; Daisies they must live and die: Fill your lap, and fill your bosom, Only spare the Strawberry-blossom! 1807.]

[Variant 4: This last stanza was added in the edition of 1815.]

[Variant 5:

1836.

When the months of spring are fled Hither let us bend our walk; 1815.]

The full title of this poem, in the editions of 1807 to 1832, was 'Foresight, or the Charge of a Child to his younger Companion', but it was originally known in the household as "Children gathering Flowers." The shortened title was adopted in 1836. The following is from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal:

"Wednesday, 28th April (1802).--Copied the 'Prioress's Tale'. William was in the orchard. I went to him; he worked away at his poem, though he was ill, and tired. I happened to say that when I was a child I would not have pulled a strawberry blossom; I left him, and wrote out the 'Manciple's Tale'. At dinner time he came in with the poem of 'Children gathering Flowers,' but it was not quite finished, and it kept him long from his dinner. It is now done. He is working at 'The Tinker.'"

At an earlier date in the same year,--Jan. 31st, 1802,--the following occurs:

"I found a strawberry blossom in a rock. The little slender flower had more courage than the green leaves, for _they_ were but half expanded and half grown, but the blossom was spread full out. I uprooted it rashly, and I felt as if I had been committing an outrage; so I planted it again. It will have but a stormy life of it, but let it live if it can."

With this poem compare a parallel passage in Marvel's 'The Picture of T. C. in a Prospect of Flowers':

'But oh, young beauty of the woods, Whom nature courts with fruits and flowers, Gather the flowers, but spare the buds; Lest Flora, angry at thy crime To kill her infants in their prime, Should quickly make the example yours; And, ere we see, Nip in the blossom all our hopes in thee.'

Ed.

* * * * *

TO THE SMALL CELANDINE [A]

Composed April 30, 1802.--Published 1807

[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. It is remarkable that this flower, coming out so early in the spring as it does, and so bright and beautiful, and in such profusion, should not have been noticed earlier in English verse. What adds much to the interest that attends it is its habit of shutting itself up and opening out according to the degree of light and temperature of the air.--I.F.]

One of the "Poems of the Fancy." In the original MS. this poem is called 'To the lesser Celandine', but in the proof "small" was substituted for "lesser."

In Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal the following occurs, under date April 30, 1802:

"We came into the orchard directly after breakfast, and sat there. The lake was calm, the sky cloudy. William began to write the poem of 'The Celandine'.... I walked backwards and forwards with William. He repeated his poem to me, then he got to work again, and would not give over."

Ed.

Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises; Long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory; Long as there are violets, 5 They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine.

Eyes of some men travel far For the finding of a star; 10 Up and down the heavens they go, Men that keep a mighty rout! I'm as great as they, I trow, Since the day I found thee out, Little Flower!--I'll make a stir, 15 Like a sage [1] astronomer.

Modest, yet withal an Elf Bold, and lavish of thyself; Since we needs must first have met I have seen thee, high and low, 20 Thirty years or more, and yet 'Twas a face I did not know; Thou hast now, go where I may, Fifty greetings in a day.

Ere a leaf is on a bush, 25 In the time before the thrush Has a thought about her [2] nest, Thou wilt come with half a call, Spreading out thy glossy breast Like a careless Prodigal; 30 Telling tales about the sun, When we've little warmth, or none.

Poets, vain men in their mood! Travel with the multitude: Never heed them; I aver 35 That they all are wanton wooers; But the thrifty cottager, Who stirs little out of doors, Joys to spy thee near her home; Spring is coming, Thou art come! 40

[B]

Comfort have thou of thy merit, Kindly, unassuming Spirit! Careless of thy neighbourhood, Thou dost show thy pleasant face On the moor, and in the wood, 45 In the lane;--there's not a place, Howsoever mean it be, But 'tis good enough for thee.

Ill befal the yellow flowers, Children of the flaring hours! 50 Buttercups, that will be seen, Whether we will see or no; Others, too, of lofty mien; They have done as worldlings do, Taken praise that should be thine, 55 Little, humble Celandine!

Prophet of delight and mirth, Ill-requited [3] upon earth; Herald of a mighty band, Of a joyous train ensuing, 60 Serving at my heart's command, Tasks that are no tasks renewing, [4] I will sing, as doth behove, Hymns in praise of what I love!

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1836.

... great ... 1807.]

[Variant 2:

1832.

... it's ... 1807.]

[Variant 3:

1836.

Scorn'd and slighted ... 1807.]

[Variant 4:

1836.

Singing at my heart's command, In the lanes my thoughts pursuing, 1807.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Common Pilewort.--W. W. 1807.]

[Footnote B: The following stanza was inserted in the editions of 1836-1843:

'Drawn by what peculiar spell, By what charm for sight or smell, Do those wingèd dim-eyed creatures, Labourers sent from waxen cells, Settle on thy brilliant features, In neglect of buds and bells Opening daily at thy side, By the season multiplied?'

In 1845 it was transferred to the following poem, where it will be found, with a change of text.--Ed.]

* * * * *

TO THE SAME FLOWER

Composed May 1, 1802.--Published 1807

One of the "Poems of the Fancy."--Ed.

Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet: February last, my heart First at sight of thee was glad; All unheard of as thou art, 5 Thou must needs, I think, have had, Celandine! and long ago, Praise of which I nothing know.

I have not a doubt but he, Whosoe'er the man might be, 10 Who the first with pointed rays (Workman worthy to be sainted) Set the sign-board in a blaze, When the rising [1] sun he painted, Took the fancy from a glance 15 At thy glittering countenance.

Soon as gentle breezes bring News of winter's vanishing, And the children build their bowers, Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mould 20 All about with full-blown flowers, Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold! With the proudest thou art there, Mantling in the tiny square.

Often have I sighed to measure 25 By myself a lonely pleasure, Sighed to think, I read a book Only read, perhaps, by me; Yet I long could overlook Thy bright coronet and Thee, 30 And thy arch and wily ways, And thy store of other praise.

Blithe of heart, from week to week Thou dost play at hide-and-seek; While the patient primrose sits 35 Like a beggar in the cold, Thou, a flower of wiser wits, Slip'st into thy sheltering [2] hold; Liveliest of the vernal train [3] When ye all are out again. 40

Drawn by what peculiar spell, By what charm of sight or smell, Does the dim-eyed curious Bee, Labouring for her waxen cells, Fondly settle upon Thee 45 Prized above all buds and bells Opening daily at thy side, By the season multiplied? [4]

Thou art not beyond the moon, But a thing "beneath our shoon:" [A] 50 Let the bold Discoverer thrid In his bark the polar sea; Rear who will a pyramid; [5] Praise it is enough for me, If there be but three or four 55 Who will love my little Flower.

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1836.

... risen ... 1807.]

[Variant 2:

1832.

... shelter'd ... 1807.]

[Variant 3:

1845.

Bright as any of the train 1807.]

[Variant 4: This stanza was added in 1845. (See note [Footnote B, To the Small Celandine], p. 302.)]

[Variant 5:

1845.

Let, as old Magellen did, Others roam about the sea; Build who will a pyramid; [a] 1807.

Let, with bold advent'rous skill, Others thrid the polar sea; Rear a pyramid who will; 1820.

Let the bold Adventurer thrid In his bark the polar sea; Rear who will a pyramid; 1827.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: This may be an imperfect reminiscence of 'Comus', ll. 634-5.--Ed.]

* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Sub-Footnote a: Barron Field asked Wordsworth to restore these lines of 1807, and Wordsworth promised to do so, but never did it.--Ed.]

The following is an extract from Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal. Saturday, May 1.

"A heavenly morning. We went into the garden, and sowed the scarlet beans about the house. It was a clear sky. I sowed the flowers, William helped me. We then went and sat in the orchard till dinner time. It was very hot. William wrote 'The Celandine' (second part). We planned a shed, for the sun was too much for us."

Ed.

* * * * *

STANZAS WRITTEN IN MY POCKET COPY OF THOMSON'S "CASTLE OF INDOLENCE"

Begun 9th May, finished 11th May, 1802.--Published 1815

[Composed in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere, Coleridge living with us much at this time: his son Hartley has said, that his father's character and habits are here preserved in a livelier way than in anything that has been written about him. I.F.]

One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed.

Within our happy Castle there dwelt One Whom without blame I may not overlook; For never sun on living creature shone Who more devout enjoyment with us took: Here on his hours he hung as on a book, 5 On his own time here would he float away, As doth a fly upon a summer brook; But go to-morrow, or belike to-day, Seek for him,--he is fled; and whither none can say.

Thus often would he leave our peaceful home, 10 And find elsewhere his business or delight; Out of our Valley's limits did he roam: Full many a time, upon a stormy night, [A] His voice came to us from the neighbouring height: Oft could [1] we see him driving full in view 15 At midday when the sun was shining bright; What ill was on him, what he had to do, A mighty wonder bred among our quiet crew.

Ah! piteous sight it was to see this Man When he came back to us, a withered flower,--20 Or like a sinful creature, pale and wan. Down would he sit; and without strength or power Look at the common grass from hour to hour: And oftentimes, how long I fear to say, Where apple-trees in blossom made a bower, 25 Retired in that sunshiny shade he lay; [B] And, like a naked Indian, slept himself away.

Great wonder to our gentle tribe it was Whenever from our Valley he withdrew; For happier soul no living creature has 30 Than he had, being here the long day through. Some thought he was a lover, and did woo: Some thought far worse of him, and judged him wrong; But verse was what he had been wedded to; And his own mind did like a tempest strong 35 Come to him thus, and drove the weary Wight along.[C]

With him there often walked in friendly guise, Or lay upon the moss by brook or tree, A noticeable Man with large grey eyes, And a pale face that seemed undoubtedly 40 As if a blooming face it ought to be; Heavy his low-hung lip did oft appear, Deprest by weight of musing Phantasy; Profound his forehead was, though not severe; Yet some did think that he had little business here: 45

Sweet heaven forefend! his was a lawful right; Noisy he was, and gamesome as a boy; His limbs would toss about him with delight Like branches when strong winds the trees annoy. Nor lacked his calmer hours device or toy 50 To banish listlessness and irksome care; He would have taught you how you might employ Yourself; and many did to him repair,-- And certes not in vain; he had inventions rare.

Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried: 55 Long blades of grass, plucked round him as he lay, Made, to his ear attentively applied, A pipe on which the wind would deftly play; Glasses he had, that little things display, The beetle panoplied in gems and gold, [2] 60 A mailed angel on a battle-day; The mysteries that cups of flowers enfold, [3] And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.

He would entice that other Man to hear His music, and to view his imagery: 65 And, sooth, these two were each to the other dear: No livelier love in such a place could be: [4] There did they dwell-from earthly labour free, As happy spirits as were ever seen; If but a bird, to keep them company, 70 Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween, As pleased as if the same had been a Maiden-queen.

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1836.

... did ... 1815.]

[Variant 2:

1827.

The beetle with his radiance manifold, 1815.]

[Variant 3:

1827.

And cups of flowers, and herbage green and gold; 1815.]

[Variant 4:

1836.

And, sooth, these two did love each other dear, As far as love in such a place could be; 1815.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare

'And oft he traced the uplands to survey, When o'er the sky advanced the kindling dawn, The crimson cloud.'

Beattie's 'Minstrel', book I, st. 20.

'And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb When all in mist the world below was lost.'