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Title: The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth — Volume 2 (of 8)

Author: William Wordsworth

Editor: William Angus Knight

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POETICAL
WORKS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH — VOLUME 2 (OF 8) ***

Wordsworth's

Poetical Works

volume 2

edited by

William Knight

1896

Table of Contents

1798
1799
1800
Poems on the Naming of Places
1801
1802
1803

Wordsworth's Poetical Works, Volume 2: 1798

Edited by William Knight

1896

Table of Contents

Peter Bell
Lines, composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey, on revisiting the
Banks of the Wye during a tour, July 13, 1798
There was a Boy
The Two Thieves; or, the Last Stage of Avarice
Written with a Slate Pencil upon a Stone, the largest of a Heap lying
near a Deserted Quarry, upon one of the Islands at Rydal

Peter Bell: a TaleA
Composed 1798B—Published 1819.

The Poem

What's in a Name?C

Brutus will start a Spirit as soon as Cæsar!D

To Robert Southey, Esq., P.L., Etc., Etc.

My Dear Friend—The Tale of Peter Bell, which I now introduce to
your notice, and to that of the Public, has, in its Manuscript state,
nearly survived its minority:—for it first saw the light in the summer
of 1798. During this long interval, pains have been taken at different
times to make the production less unworthy of a favourable reception;
or, rather, to fit it for filling permanently a station, however humble, in
the Literature of our Country. This has, indeed, been the aim of all my
endeavours in Poetry, which, you know, have been sufficiently
laborious to prove that I deem the Art not lightly to be approached; and
that the attainment of excellence in it, may laudably be made the
principal object of intellectual pursuit by any man, who, with
reasonable consideration of circumstances, has faith in his own
impulses.

The Poem of Peter Bell, as the Prologue will show, was composed
under a belief that the Imagination not only does not require for its
exercise the intervention of supernatural agency, but that, though such
agency be excluded, the faculty may be called forth as imperiously and
for kindred results of pleasure, by incidents, within the compass of

poetic probability, in the humblest departments of daily life. Since that
Prologue was written, you have exhibited most splendid effects of
judicious daring, in the opposite and usual course. Let this
acknowledgment make my peace with the lovers of the supernatural;
and I am persuaded it will be admitted, that to you, as a Master in that
province of the art, the following Tale, whether from contrast or
congruity, is not an unappropriate offering. Accept it, then, as a public
testimony of affectionate admiration from one with whose name yours
has been often coupled (to use your own words) for evil and for good;
and believe me to be, with earnest wishes that life and health may be
granted you to complete the many important works in which you are
engaged, and with high respect, Most faithfully yours,

William Wordsworth.

Rydal Mount, April 7, 1819.

[Written at Alfoxden. Founded upon an anecdote which I read in a
newspaper, of an ass being found hanging his head over a canal in a
wretched posture. Upon examination a dead body was found in the water,
and proved to be the body of its master. The countenance, gait, and figure of
Peter were taken from a wild rover with whom I walked from Builth, on the
river Wye, downwards, nearly as far as the town of Hay. He told me strange
stories. It has always been a pleasure to me through life, to catch at every
opportunity that has occurred in my rambles of becoming acquainted with
this class of people. The number of Peter's wives was taken from the
trespasses, in this way, of a lawless creature, who lived in the county of
Durham, and used to be attended by many women, sometimes not less than
half a dozen, as disorderly as himself, and a story went in the country that
he had been heard to say, while they were quarrelling, "Why can't ye be
quiet, there's none so many of you?" Benoni, or the child of sorrow, I knew
when I was a schoolboy. His mother had been deserted by a gentleman in
the neighbourhood, she herself being a gentlewoman by birth. The

circumstances of her story were told me by my dear old dame, Ann Tyson,
who was her confidante. The lady died broken-hearted. In the woods of
Alfoxden I used to take great delight in noticing the habits, tricks, and
physiognomy of asses; and I have no doubt that I was thus put upon writing
the poem out of liking for the creature that is often so dreadfully abused.
The crescent moon, which makes such a figure in the prologue, assumed
this character one evening while I was watching its beauty in front of
Alfoxden House. I intended this poem for the volume before spoken of, but
it was not published for more than twenty years afterwards. The worship of
the Methodists, or Ranters, is often heard during the stillness of the summer
evening, in the country, with affecting accompaniments of rural beauty. In
both the psalmody and voice of the preacher there is, not unfrequently,
much solemnity likely to impress the feelings of the rudest characters under
favourable circumstances.—I. F.]

Classed by Wordsworth among his "Poems of the Imagination."—ED.

The Poem

Prologue
Part the First
Part Second
Part Third

Prologue

text variant footnoteline
number
There's something in a flying horse,
There's something in a huge balloon; 1
But through the clouds I'll never float
Until I have a little Boat,
Shaped like the crescent-moon. 2 5

And now I have a little Boat,
In shape a very crescent-moon:
Fast through the clouds my boat can sail;
But if perchance your faith should fail,
Look up—and you shall see me soon! 10

The woods, my Friends, are round you
roaring,
Rocking and roaring like a sea; 3
The noise of danger's in your ears,
And ye have all a thousand fears 15
Both for my little Boat and me!
4
Meanwhile untroubled I admire
The pointed horns of my canoe;
And, did not pity touch my breast,
To see how ye are all distrest, 20
Till my ribs ached, I'd laugh at you!

Away we go, my Boat and I—
Frail man ne'er sate in such another;
Whether among the winds we strive, 5
Or deep into the clouds we dive, 25
Each is contented with the other.

Away we go—and what care we
For treasons, tumults, and for wars?
We are as calm in our delight

As is the crescent-moon so bright 30
Among the scattered stars.
6
Up goes my Boat among the stars
Through many a breathless field of light,
Through many a long blue field of ether,
Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her: 35
Up goes my little Boat so bright!

The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull—
We pry among them all; have shot
High o'er the red-haired race of Mars,
Covered from top to toe with scars; 40
Such company I like it not!

The towns in Saturn are decayed, 7
And melancholy Spectres throng them;—
The Pleiads, that appear to kiss
Each other in the vast abyss, 8 45
With joy I sail among them,

Swift Mercury resounds with mirth,
Great Jove is full of stately bowers;
But these, and all that they contain,
What are they to that tiny grain, 9 50
That little Earth of ours?

Then back to Earth, the dear green Earth:
—
Whole ages if I here should roam,
The world for my remarks and me 55
Would not a whit the better be;
I've left my heart at home. 10

See! there she is, the matchless Earth!
There spreads the famed Pacific Ocean!
Old Andes thrusts yon craggy spear 60

Through the grey clouds; the Alps are here,
Like waters in commotion!

Yon tawny slip is Libya's sands
That silver thread the river Dnieper;
And look, where clothed in brightest green 65
Is a sweet Isle, of isles the Queen;
Ye fairies, from all evil keep her!

And see the town where I was born!
Around those happy fields we span
In boyish gambols;—I was lost 70
Where I have been, but on this coast
I feel I am a man.

Never did fifty things at once
Appear so lovely, never, never;—
How tunefully the forests ring! 75
To hear the earth's soft murmuring
Thus could I hang for ever!
11
"Shame on you!" cried my little Boat,
"Was ever such a homesick Loon,
Within a living Boat to sit, 80
And make no better use of it; 12
A Boat twin-sister of the crescent-moon!

"Ne'er in the breast of full-grown Poet
Fluttered so faint a heart before;—
Was it the music of the spheres 85
That overpowered your mortal ears?
—Such din shall trouble them no more.

"These nether precincts do not lack
Charms of their own;—then come with
me; 90
I want a comrade, and for you

There's nothing that I would not do;
Nought is there that you shall not see.

"Haste! and above Siberian snows
We'll sport amid the boreal morning; 95
Will mingle with her lustres gliding
Among the stars, the stars now hiding,
And now the stars adorning.
13
"I know the secrets of a land
Where human foot did never stray; 100
Fair is that land as evening skies,
And cool, though in the depth it lies
Of burning Africa.

"Or we'll into the realm of Faery,
Among the lovely shades of things; 105
The shadowy forms of mountains bare,
And streams, and bowers, and ladies fair,
The shades of palaces and kings!

"Or, if you thirst with hardy zeal
Less quiet regions to explore, 110
Prompt voyage shall to you reveal
How earth and heaven are taught to feel
The might of magic lore!"

"My little vagrant Form of light,
My gay and beautiful Canoe, 115
Well have you played your friendly part;
As kindly take what from my heart
Experience forces—then adieu!

"Temptation lurks among your words; 14
But, while these pleasures you're pursuing 120
Without impediment or let,
No wonder if you quite forget

What on the earth is doing.

"There was a time when all mankind
Did listen with a faith sincere 125
To tuneful tongues in mystery versed;
Then Poets fearlessly rehearsed
The wonders of a wild career.

"Go—(but the world's a sleepy world, 15
And 'tis, I fear, an age too late) 130
Take with you some ambitious Youth!
For, restless Wanderer! I, in truth,
Am all unfit to be your mate.

"Long have I loved what I behold,
The night that calms, the day that cheers; 135
The common growth of mother-earth
Suffices me—her tears, her mirth,
Her humblest mirth and tears.

"The dragon's wing, the magic ring,
I shall not covet for my dower, 140
If I along that lowly way
With sympathetic heart may stray,
And with a soul of power.

"These given, what more need I desire
To stir, to soothe, or elevate? 145
What nobler marvels than the mind
May in life's daily prospect find,
May find or there create?

"A potent wand doth Sorrow wield;
What spell so strong as guilty Fear! 150
Repentance is a tender Sprite;
If aught on earth have heavenly might,
'Tis lodged within her silent tear.

"But grant my wishes,—let us now
Descend from this ethereal height; 155
Then take thy way, adventurous Skiff,
More daring far than Hippogriff,
And be thy own delight! E

"To the stone-table in my garden,
Loved haunt of many a summer hour, 160
The Squire is come: his daughter Bess
Beside him in the cool recess
Sits blooming like a flower.

"With these are many more convened;
They know not I have been so far;— 165
I see them there, in number nine,
Beneath the spreading Weymouth-pine!
I see them—there they are!

"There sits the Vicar and his Dame;
And there my good friend, Stephen Otter; 170
And, ere the light of evening fail,
To them I must relate the Tale
Of Peter Bell the Potter." 16

Off flew the Boat—away she flees,
Spurning her freight with indignation! 17 175
"And I, as well as I was able,
On two poor legs, toward my stone-table
Limped on with sore vexation.

"O, here he is!" cried little Bess—
She saw me at the garden-door; 180
"We've waited anxiously and long,"
They cried, and all around me throng,
Full nine of them or more!

"Reproach me not—your fears be still— 18
Be thankful we again have met;— 185
Resume, my Friends! within the shade
Your seats, and quickly shall be paid
The well-remembered debt."

I spake with faltering voice, like one
Not wholly rescued from the pale 19 190
Of a wild dream, or worse illusion;
But, straight, to cover my confusion,
Began the promised Tale.

Part the First

text variant footnoteline
number
All by the moonlight river side
Groaned the poor Beast—alas! in vain;
The staff was raised to loftier height,
And the blows fell with heavier weight
As Peter struck—and struck again. 20 195
21
"Hold!" cried the Squire, "against the rules
Of common sense you're surely sinning;
This leap is for us all too bold; 22
Who Peter was, let that be told,
And start from the beginning." 200

—"A Potter, Sir, he was by trade," F
Said I, becoming quite collected;
"And wheresoever he appeared,
Full twenty times was Peter feared

For once that Peter was respected. 205

"He two-and-thirty years or more,
Had been a wild and woodland rover;
Had heard the Atlantic surges roar
On farthest Cornwall's rocky shore,
And trod the cliffs of Dover. 210

"And he had seen Caernarvon's towers,
And well he knew the spire of Sarum;
And he had been where Lincoln bell
Flings o'er the fen that ponderous knell—
A far-renowned alarum. 23 215

"At Doncaster, at York, and Leeds,
And merry Carlisle had he been;
And all along the Lowlands fair,
All through the bonny shire of Ayr;
And far as Aberdeen. 220

"And he had been at Inverness;
And Peter, by the mountain-rills,
Had danced his round with Highland
lasses;
And he had lain beside his asses 225
On lofty Cheviot Hills:

"And he had trudged through Yorkshire
dales,
Among the rocks and winding scars;
Where deep and low the hamlets lie 230
Beneath their little patch of sky
And little lot of stars:

"And all along the indented coast,
Bespattered with the salt-sea foam;
Where'er a knot of houses lay 235

On headland, or in hollow bay;—
Sure never man like him did roam!

"As well might Peter, in the Fleet,
Have been fast bound, a begging debtor;—
He travelled here, he travelled there;— 240
But not the value of a hair
Was heart or head the better.

"He roved among the vales and streams,
In the green wood and hollow dell;
They were his dwellings night and day,— 245
But nature ne'er could find the way
Into the heart of Peter Bell.

"In vain, through every changeful year,
Did Nature lead him as before;
A primrose by a river's brim 250
A yellow primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more.

"Small change it made in Peter's heart
To see his gentle panniered train
With more than vernal pleasure feeding, 255
Where'er the tender grass was leading
Its earliest green along the lane.

"In vain, through water, earth, and air,
The soul of happy sound was spread,
When Peter on some April morn, 260
Beneath the broom or budding thorn,
Made the warm earth his lazy bed.

"At noon, when, by the forest's edge
He lay beneath the branches high,
The soft blue sky did never melt 265
Into his heart; he never felt

The witchery of the soft blue sky!

"On a fair prospect some have looked
And felt, as I have heard them say,
As if the moving time had been 270
A thing as steadfast as the scene
On which they gazed themselves away.
24
"Within the breast of Peter Bell
These silent raptures found no place;
He was a Carl as wild and rude 275
As ever hue-and-cry pursued,
As ever ran a felon's race.

"Of all that lead a lawless life,
Of all that love their lawless lives,
In city or in village small, 280
He was the wildest far of all;—
He had a dozen wedded wives.

"Nay, start not!—wedded wives—and
twelve!
But how one wife could e'er come near 285
him,
In simple truth I cannot tell;
For, be it said of Peter Bell, 25
To see him was to fear him.

"Though Nature could not touch his heart 290
By lovely forms, and silent weather,
And tender sounds, yet you might see
At once, that Peter Bell and she
Had often been together.

"A savage wildness round him hung 295
As of a dweller out of doors;
In his whole figure and his mien

A savage character was seen
Of mountains and of dreary moors.

"To all the unshaped half-human thoughts 300
Which solitary Nature feeds
'Mid summer storms or winter's ice,
Had Peter joined whatever vice
The cruel city breeds.

"His face was keen as is the wind 305
That cuts along the hawthorn-fence;
Of courage you saw little there,
But, in its stead, a medley air
Of cunning and of impudence.

"He had a dark and sidelong walk, 310
And long and slouching was his gait;
Beneath his looks so bare and bold,
You might perceive, his spirit cold
Was playing with some inward bait.

"His forehead wrinkled was and furred; 315
A work, one half of which was done
By thinking of his 'whens,' and 'hows';
And half, by knitting of his brows
Beneath the glaring sun.

"There was a hardness in his cheek, 320
There was a hardness in his eye,
As if the man had fixed his face,
In many a solitary place,
Against the wind and open sky!"

————

One night, (and now my little Bess! 325
We've reached at last the promised Tale;)

One beautiful November night,
When the full moon was shining bright
Upon the rapid river Swale,

Along the river's winding banks 330
Peter was travelling all alone;
Whether to buy or sell, or led
By pleasure running in his head,
To me was never known.

He trudged along through copse and brake, 335
He trudged along o'er hill and dale;
Nor for the moon cared he a tittle,
And for the stars he cared as little,
And for the murmuring river Swale.

But, chancing to espy a path 340
That promised to cut short the way;
As many a wiser man hath done,
He left a trusty guide for one 26
That might his steps betray.

To a thick wood he soon is brought 345
Where cheerily his course he weaves,
And whistling loud may yet be heard,
Though often buried, like a bird
Darkling, among the boughs and leaves.

But quickly Peter's mood is changed, 350
And on he drives with cheeks that burn
In downright fury and in wrath;—
There's little sign the treacherous path
Will to the road return!
27
The path grows dim, and dimmer still; 355
Now up, now down, the Rover wends, 28
With all the sail that he can carry,

Till brought to a deserted quarry—
And there the pathway ends. 29

He paused—for shadows of strange shape, 360
Massy and black, before him lay;
But through the dark, and through the cold,
And through the yawning fissures old,
Did Peter boldly press his way
30
Right through the quarry;—and behold 365
A scene of soft and lovely hue!
Where blue and grey, and tender green,
Together make as sweet a scene
As ever human eye did view.

Beneath the clear blue sky he saw 370
A little field of meadow ground;
But field or meadow name it not;
Call it of earth a small green plot,
With rocks encompassed round.

The Swale flowed under the grey rocks, 375
But he flowed quiet and unseen;— 31
You need a strong and stormy gale
To bring the noises of the Swale
To that green spot, so calm and green!

And is there no one dwelling here, 380
No hermit with his beads and glass?
And does no little cottage look 32
Upon this soft and fertile nook?
Does no one live near this green grass? 33

Across the deep and quiet spot 385
Is Peter driving through the grass— 34
And now has reached the skirting trees;
When, turning round his head, he sees 35

A solitary Ass.

"A prize!" cries Peter—but he first 390
Must spy about him far and near:
There's not a single house in sight,
No woodman's hut, no cottage light—
Peter, you need not fear!

There's nothing to be seen but woods, 395
And rocks that spread a hoary gleam,
And this one Beast, that from the bed
Of the green meadow hangs his head
Over the silent stream. 36
37
His head is with a halter bound; 400
The halter seizing, Peter leapt 38
Upon the Creature's back, and plied
With ready heels his shaggy side;
But still the Ass his station kept.

Then Peter gave a sudden jerk, 405
A jerk that from a dungeon-floor
Would have pulled up an iron ring;
But still the heavy-headed Thing
Stood just as he had stood before!

Quoth Peter, leaping from his seat, 410
"There is some plot against me laid";
Once more the little meadow-ground
And all the hoary cliffs around
He cautiously surveyed.

All, all is silent—rocks and woods, 415
All still and silent—far and near!
Only the Ass, with motion dull,
Upon the pivot of his skull
Turns round his long left ear.

Thought Peter, What can mean all this? 420
Some ugly witchcraft must be here!
—Once more the Ass, with motion dull,
Upon the pivot of his skull
Turned round his long left ear.
39
Suspicion ripened into dread; 425
Yet with deliberate action slow,
His staff high-raising, in the pride
Of skill, upon the sounding hide, 40
He dealt a sturdy blow.

The poor Ass staggered with the shock; 430
And then, as if to take his ease,
In quiet uncomplaining mood, 41
Upon the spot where he had stood,
Dropped gently down upon his knees; 42

As gently on his side he fell; 43 435
And by the river's brink did lie;
And, while he lay like one that mourned,
The patient Beast on Peter turned
His shining hazel eye.

'Twas but one mild, reproachful look, 44 440
A look more tender than severe;
And straight in sorrow, not in dread,
He turned the eye-ball in his head 45
Towards the smooth river deep and clear.

Upon the Beast the sapling rings; 445
His lank sides heaved, his limbs they
stirred;
He gave a groan, and then another,
Of that which went before the brother,
And then he gave a third.

46 450
All by the moonlight river side
He gave three miserable groans;
And not till now hath Peter seen
How gaunt the Creature is,—how lean
And sharp his staring bones!
455
With legs stretched out and stiff he lay:—
No word of kind commiseration
Fell at the sight from Peter's tongue;
With hard contempt his heart was wrung,
With hatred and vexation.
460
The meagre beast lay still as death;
And Peter's lips with fury quiver;
Quoth he, "You little mulish dog, 47
I'll fling your carcass like a log
Head-foremost down the river!"
48 465
An impious oath confirmed the threat—
Whereat from the earth on which he lay
To all the echoes, south and north,
And east and west, the Ass sent forth 49
A long and clamorous bray!
470
This outcry, on the heart of Peter,
Seems like a note of joy to strike,—
Joy at the heart of Peter knocks;
But in the echo of the rocks
Was something Peter did not like.
475
Whether to cheer his coward breast,
Or that he could not break the chain,
In this serene and solemn hour,
Twined round him by demoniac power,
To the blind work he turned again.
50 480

Among the rocks and winding crags;
Among the mountains far away;
Once more the Ass did lengthen out
More ruefully a deep-drawn shout,
The hard dry see-saw of his horrible bray!
485
What is there now in Peter's heart!
Or whence the might of this strange
sound?
The moon uneasy looked and dimmer,
The broad blue heavens appeared to
glimmer, 490
And the rocks staggered all around—

From Peter's hand the sapling dropped!
Threat has he none to execute;
"If any one should come and see
That I am here, they'll think," quoth he, 51 495
"I'm helping this poor dying brute."

He scans the Ass from limb to limb,
And ventures now to uplift his eyes;
More steady looks the moon, and clear,
More like themselves the rocks appear 52 500
And touch more quiet skies.

His scorn returns—his hate revives;
He stoops the Ass's neck to seize 53
With malice—that again takes flight;
For in the pool a startling sight 505
Meets him, among the inverted trees.

Is it the moon's distorted face?
The ghost-like image of a cloud?
Is it a gallows there portrayed? 54
Is Peter of himself afraid? 510
Is it a coffin,—or a shroud?

A grisly idol hewn in stone?
Or imp from witch's lap let fall?
Perhaps a ring of shining fairies?
Such as pursue their feared vagaries 515
In sylvan bower, or haunted hall? 55

Is it a fiend that to a stake 56
Of fire his desperate self is tethering?
Or stubborn spirit doomed to yell 57
In solitary ward or cell, 520
Ten thousand miles from all his brethren?

Never did pulse so quickly throb,
And never heart so loudly panted;
He looks, he cannot choose but look;
Like some one reading in a book— 525
A book that is enchanted.

Ah, well-a-day for Peter Bell!
He will be turned to iron soon,
Meet Statue for the court of Fear!
His hat is up—and every hair 58 530
Bristles, and whitens in the moon!

He looks, he ponders, looks again;
He sees a motion—hears a groan;
His eyes will burst—his heart will break—
He gives a loud and frightful shriek,
And back he falls, as if his life were
flown!

Part Second

text variant footnote line
number
We left our Hero in a trance,
Beneath the alders, near the river;
The Ass is by the river-side,
And, where the feeble breezes glide,
Upon the stream the moonbeams quiver. 535

A happy respite! but at length
He feels the glimmering of the moon;
Wakes with glazed eye, and feebly sighing
—
To sink, perhaps, where he is lying, 59 540
Into a second swoon!

He lifts his head, he sees his staff;
He touches—'tis to him a treasure!
Faint recollection seems to tell
That he is yet where mortals dwell— 545
A thought received with languid pleasure!

His head upon his elbow propped,
Becoming less and less perplexed,
Sky-ward he looks—to rock and wood— 60
And then—upon the glassy flood 550
His wandering eye is fixed.

Thought he, that is the face of one
In his last sleep securely bound!
So toward the stream his head he bent,
And downward thrust his staff, intent 61 555
The river's depth to sound.

Now—like a tempest-shattered bark,
That overwhelmed and prostrate lies,
And in a moment to the verge

Is lifted of a foaming surge— 560
Full suddenly the Ass doth rise!

His staring bones all shake with joy,
And close by Peter's side he stands:
While Peter o'er the river bends,
The little Ass his neck extends, 565
And fondly licks his hands.

Such life is in the Ass's eyes,
Such life is in his limbs and ears;
That Peter Bell, if he had been
The veriest coward ever seen, 570
Must now have thrown aside his fears.

The Ass looks on—and to his work
Is Peter quietly resigned;
He touches here—he touches there—
And now among the dead man's hair 575
His sapling Peter has entwined.

He pulls—and looks—and pulls again;
And he whom the poor Ass had lost,
The man who had been four days dead,
Head-foremost from the river's bed G 580
Uprises like a ghost!

And Peter draws him to dry land;
And through the brain of Peter pass
Some poignant twitches, fast and faster;
"No doubt," quoth he, "he is the Master 585
Of this poor miserable Ass!"

The meagre shadow that looks on— 62
What would he now? what is he doing?
His sudden fit of joy is flown,—
He on his knees hath laid him down, 590

As if he were his grief renewing;

But no—that Peter on his back 63
Must mount, he shows well as he can:
Thought Peter then, come weal or woe
I'll do what he would have me do, 595
In pity to this poor drowned man.
64
With that resolve he boldly mounts
Upon the pleased and thankful Ass;
And then, without a moment's stay, 65
That earnest Creature turned away, 600
Leaving the body on the grass.

Intent upon his faithful watch,
The Beast four days and nights had past;
A sweeter meadow ne'er was seen,
And there the Ass four days had been, 605
Nor ever once did break his fast:

Yet firm his step, and stout his heart;
The mead is crossed—the quarry's mouth
Is reached; but there the trusty guide
Into a thicket turns aside, 66 610
And deftly ambles towards the south.

When hark a burst of doleful sound!
And Peter honestly might say,
The like came never to his ears,
Though he has been, full thirty years, 615
A rover—night and day!

'Tis not a plover of the moors,
'Tis not a bittern of the fen;
Nor can it be a barking fox,
Nor night-bird chambered in the rocks, 620
Nor wild-cat in a woody glen!

The Ass is startled—and stops short
Right in the middle of the thicket;
And Peter, wont to whistle loud
Whether alone or in a crowd, 625
Is silent as a silent cricket.

What ails you now, my little Bess?
Well may you tremble and look grave!
This cry—that rings along the wood,
This cry—that floats adown the flood, 630
Comes from the entrance of a cave:

I see a blooming Wood-boy there,
And if I had the power to say
How sorrowful the wanderer is,
Your heart would be as sad as his 635
Till you had kissed his tears away!
67
Grasping a hawthorn branch in hand,
All bright with berries ripe and red,
Into the cavern's mouth he peeps;
Thence back into the moonlight creeps; 68 640
Whom seeks he—whom?—the silent dead:

His father!—Him doth he require— 69
Him hath he sought with fruitless pains,
Among the rocks, behind the trees;
Now creeping on his hands and knees, 645
Now running o'er the open plains.

And hither is he come at last,
When he through such a day has gone,
By this dark cave to be distrest
Like a poor bird—her plundered nest 650
Hovering around with dolorous moan!

Of that intense and piercing cry 70
The listening Ass conjectures well;
Wild as it is, he there can read
Some intermingled notes that plead 655
With touches irresistible.

But Peter—when he saw the Ass
Not only stop but turn, and change
The cherished tenor of his pace 71
That lamentable cry to chase— 660
It wrought in him conviction strange;

A faith that, for the dead man's sake
And this poor slave who loved him well,
Vengeance upon his head will fall,
Some visitation worse than all 665
Which ever till this night befel.
72
Meanwhile the Ass to reach his home,
Is striving stoutly as he may;
But, while he climbs the woody hill,
The cry grows weak—and weaker still; 670
And now at last it dies away.

So with his freight the Creature turns
Into a gloomy grove of beech, 73
Along the shade with footsteps true
Descending slowly, till the two 675
The open moonlight reach.
74
And there, along the narrow dell,
A fair smooth pathway you discern,
A length of green and open road—
As if it from a fountain flowed— 680
Winding away between the fern.

The rocks that tower on either side

Build up a wild fantastic scene;
Temples like those among the Hindoos,
And mosques, and spires, and abbey- 685
windows,
And castles all with ivy green!

And, while the Ass pursues his way,
Along this solitary dell,
As pensively his steps advance, 690
The mosques and spires change
countenance,
And look at Peter Bell!

That unintelligible cry
Hath left him high in preparation,— 695
Convinced that he, or soon or late, 75
This very night will meet his fate—
And so he sits in expectation!

The strenuous Animal hath clomb
With the green path; and now he wends 76 700
Where, shining like the smoothest sea,
In undisturbed immensity
A level plain extends.
77
But whence this faintly-rustling sound
By which the journeying pair are chased? 705
—A withered leaf is close behind,
Light plaything for the sportive wind
Upon that solitary waste. 78

When Peter spied the moving thing,
It only doubled his distress; 710
"Where there is not a bush or tree,
The very leaves they follow me—
So huge hath been my wickedness!"

To a close lane they now are come,
Where, as before, the enduring Ass 715
Moves on without a moment's stop,
Nor once turns round his head to crop
A bramble-leaf or blade of grass.

Between the hedges as they go,
The white dust sleeps upon the lane; 720
And Peter, ever and anon
Back-looking, sees, upon a stone,
Or in the dust, a crimson stain.
79
A stain—as of a drop of blood
By moonlight made more faint and wan; 725
Ha! why these sinkings of despair?
He knows not how the blood comes there
— 80
And Peter is a wicked man.

At length he spies a bleeding wound, 730
Where he had struck the Ass's head;
He sees the blood, knows what it is,—
A glimpse of sudden joy was his,
But then it quickly fled;

Of him whom sudden death had seized 81 735
He thought,—of thee, O faithful Ass!
And once again those ghastly pains,
Shoot to and fro through heart and reins,
And through his brain like lightning pass.

Part Third

text variant footnote line
number
I've heard of one, a gentle Soul,
Though given to sadness and to gloom,
And for the fact will vouch,—one night
It chanced that by a taper's light
This man was reading in his room; 740

Bending, as you or I might bend
At night o'er any pious book, 82
When sudden blackness overspread
The snow-white page on which he read,
And made the good man round him look. 745

The chamber walls were dark all round,—
And to his book he turned again;
—The light had left the lonely taper, 83
And formed itself upon the paper
Into large letters—bright and plain! 750

The godly book was in his hand—
And, on the page, more black than coal,
Appeared, set forth in strange array,
A word—which to his dying day
Perplexed the good man's gentle soul. 755

The ghostly word, thus plainly seen, 84
Did never from his lips depart;
But he hath said, poor gentle wight!
It brought full many a sin to light
Out of the bottom of his heart. 760

Dread Spirits! to confound the meek 85
Why wander from your course so far,
Disordering colour, form, and stature!
—Let good men feel the soul of nature,

And see things as they are. 765

Yet, potent Spirits! well I know,
How ye, that play with soul and sense,
Are not unused to trouble friends
Of goodness, for most gracious ends— 86
And this I speak in reverence! 770

But might I give advice to you,
Whom in my fear I love so well;
From men of pensive virtue go,
Dread Beings! and your empire show
On hearts like that of Peter Bell. 775

Your presence often have I felt 87
In darkness and the stormy night;
And, with like force, if need there be, 88
Ye can put forth your agency
When earth is calm, and heaven is bright. 780

Then, coming from the wayward world,
That powerful world in which ye dwell,
Come, Spirits of the Mind! and try,
To-night, beneath the moonlight sky,
What may be done with Peter Bell! 785

—O, would that some more skilful voice
My further labour might prevent!
Kind Listeners, that around me sit,
I feel that I am all unfit
For such high argument. 790

I've played, I've danced, with my narration; 89
I loitered long ere I began:
Ye waited then on my good pleasure;
Pour out indulgence still, in measure
As liberal as ye can! 795

Our Travellers, ye remember well,
Are thridding a sequestered lane;
And Peter many tricks is trying,
And many anodynes applying,
To ease his conscience of its pain. 800

By this his heart is lighter far;
And, finding that he can account
So snugly for that crimson stain, 90
His evil spirit up again
Does like an empty bucket mount. 805

And Peter is a deep logician
Who hath no lack of wit mercurial;
"Blood drops—leaves rustle—yet," quoth
he,
"This poor man never, but for me, 810
Could have had Christian burial.

"And, say the best you can, 'tis plain, 91
That here has been some wicked dealing;
No doubt the devil in me wrought;
I'm not the man who could have thought 815
An Ass like this was worth the stealing!"

So from his pocket Peter takes
His shining horn tobacco-box;
And, in a light and careless way,
As men who with their purpose play, 820
Upon the lid he knocks.

Let them whose voice can stop the clouds,
Whose cunning eye can see the wind,
Tell to a curious world the cause
Why, making here a sudden pause, 825
The Ass turned round his head, and

grinned.

Appalling process! I have marked
The like on heath, in lonely wood;
And, verily, have seldom met 830
A spectacle more hideous—yet
It suited Peter's present mood.

And, grinning in his turn, his teeth 92
He in jocose defiance showed—
When, to upset his spiteful mirth, 835
A murmur, pent within the earth,
In the dead earth beneath the road,

Rolled audibly! it swept along,
A muffled noise—a rumbling sound!—
'Twas by a troop of miners made, 840
Plying with gunpowder their trade,
Some twenty fathoms underground.

Small cause of dire effect! for, surely,
If ever mortal, King or Cotter,
Believed that earth was charged to quake 845
And yawn for his unworthy sake,
'Twas Peter Bell the Potter.

But, as an oak in breathless air
Will stand though to the centre hewn;
Or as the weakest things, if frost 850
Have stiffened them, maintain their post;
So he, beneath the gazing moon!—
93
The Beast bestriding thus, he reached
A spot where, in a sheltering cove,
A little chapel stands alone, 855
With greenest ivy overgrown,
And tufted with an ivy grove;

Dying insensibly away 94
From human thoughts and purposes,
It seemed—wall, window, roof and tower 860
—
To bow to some transforming power,
And blend with the surrounding trees.

As ruinous a place it was, 95
Thought Peter, in the shire of Fife 865
That served my turn, when following still
From land to land a reckless will
I married my sixth wife!

The unheeding Ass moves slowly on, 96
And now is passing by an inn 870
Brim-full of a carousing crew,
That make, with curses not a few,
An uproar and a drunken din.

I cannot well express the thoughts 97
Which Peter in those noises found;— 875
A stifling power compressed his frame,
While-as a swimming darkness came
Over that dull and dreary sound.

For well did Peter know the sound;
The language of those drunken joys 880
To him, a jovial soul, I ween,
But a few hours ago, had been 98
A gladsome and a welcome noise.

Now, turned adrift into the past,
He finds no solace in his course; 885
Like planet-stricken men of yore,
He trembles, smitten to the core
By strong compunction and remorse.

But, more than all, his heart is stung
To think of one, almost a child; 890
A sweet and playful Highland girl,
As light and beauteous as a squirrel, 99
As beauteous and as wild!

Her dwelling was a lonely house,
A cottage in a heathy dell; 895
And she put on her gown of green,
And left her mother at sixteen,
And followed Peter Bell.

But many good and pious thoughts
Had she; and, in the kirk to pray, 900
Two long Scotch miles, through rain or
snow,
To kirk she had been used to go,
Twice every Sabbath-day.

And, when she followed Peter Bell, 905
It was to lead an honest life;
For he, with tongue not used to falter,
Had pledged his troth before the altar
To love her as his wedded wife. 100

A mother's hope is hers;—but soon 910
She drooped and pined like one forlorn;
From Scripture she a name did borrow;
Benoni, or the child of sorrow,
She called her babe unborn.

For she had learned how Peter lived, 915
And took it in most grievous part;
She to the very bone was worn,
And, ere that little child was born,
Died of a broken heart.

And now the Spirits of the Mind 101 920
Are busy with poor Peter Bell;
Upon the rights of visual sense
Usurping, with a prevalence
More terrible than magic spell.

Close by a brake of flowering furze 925
(Above it shivering aspens play)
He sees an unsubstantial creature,
His very self in form and feature,
Not four yards from the broad highway:

And stretched beneath the furze he sees 930
The Highland girl—it is no other;
And hears her crying as she cried,
The very moment that she died,
"My mother! oh my mother!"

The sweat pours down from Peter's face, 935
So grievous is his heart's contrition;
With agony his eye-balls ache
While he beholds by the furze-brake
This miserable vision!
102
Calm is the well-deserving brute, 940
His peace hath no offence betrayed;
But now, while down that slope he wends,
A voice to Peter's ear ascends,
Resounding from the woody glade: 103
104
The voice, though clamorous as a horn 945
Re-echoed by a naked rock,
Comes from that tabernacle—List!
Within, a fervent Methodist
Is preaching to no heedless flock!

"Repent! repent!" he cries aloud, 950
"While yet ye may find mercy;—strive
To love the Lord with all your might;
Turn to him, seek him day and night,
And save your souls alive!

"Repent! repent! though ye have gone, 955
Through paths of wickedness and woe,
After the Babylonian harlot;
And, though your sins be red as scarlet,
They shall be white as snow!"

Even as he passed the door, these words 960
Did plainly come to Peter's ears;
And they such joyful tidings were,
The joy was more than he could bear!—
He melted into tears.

Sweet tears of hope and tenderness! 965
And fast they fell, a plenteous shower!
His nerves, his sinews seemed to melt;
Through all his iron frame was felt
A gentle, a relaxing, power!

Each fibre of his frame was weak; 970
Weak all the animal within;
But, in its helplessness, grew mild 105 H
And gentle as an infant child,
An infant that has known no sin. I
106
'Tis said, meek Beast! that, through 975
Heaven's grace,
He not unmoved did notice now 107
The cross upon thy shoulder scored,
For lasting impress, by the Lord
To whom all human-kind shall bow; J
980

Memorial of his touch—that day
When Jesus humbly deigned to ride,
Entering the proud Jerusalem,
By an immeasurable stream 108
Of shouting people deified!
985
Meanwhile the persevering Ass,
Turned towards a gate that hung in view
Across a shady lane; his chest
Against the yielding gate he pressed
And quietly passed through.
990
And up the stony lane he goes;
No ghost more softly ever trod;
Among the stones and pebbles, he
Sets down his hoofs inaudibly,
As if with felt his hoofs were shod.
109 995
Along the lane the trusty Ass
Went twice two hundred yards or more,
And no one could have guessed his aim,—
Till to a lonely house he came,
And stopped beside the door.
1000
Thought Peter, 'tis the poor man's home!
He listens—not a sound is heard
Save from the trickling household rill; 110
But, stepping o'er the cottage-sill,
Forthwith a little Girl appeared.
1005
She to the Meeting-house was bound
In hopes some tidings there to gather:
No glimpse it is, no doubtful gleam;
She saw—and uttered with a scream,
"My father! here's my father!"
1010
The very word was plainly heard,

Heard plainly by the wretched Mother—
Her joy was like a deep affright:
And forth she rushed into the light, 111
And saw it was another!
1015
And, instantly, upon the earth,
Beneath the full moon shining bright, 112
Close to the Ass's feet she fell;
At the same moment Peter Bell
Dismounts in most unhappy plight.
1020
As he beheld the Woman lie
Breathless and motionless, the mind
Of Peter sadly was confused;
But, though to such demands unused,
And helpless almost as the blind,
1025
He raised her up; and, while he held
Her body propped against his knee,
The Woman waked—and when she spied
The poor Ass standing by her side,
She moaned most bitterly.
1030
"Oh! God be praised—my heart's at ease—
For he is dead—I know it well!"
—At this she wept a bitter flood;
And, in the best way that he could,
His tale did Peter tell.
1035
He trembles—he is pale as death;
His voice is weak with perturbation;
He turns aside his head, he pauses;
Poor Peter from a thousand causes,
Is crippled sore in his narration.
1040
At length she learned how he espied
The Ass in that small meadow-ground; 113

And that her Husband now lay dead,
Beside that luckless river's bed
In which he had been drowned.
1045
A piercing look the Widow cast
Upon the Beast that near her stands;
She sees 'tis he, that 'tis the same;
She calls the poor Ass by his name,
And wrings, and wrings her hands.
1050
"O wretched loss—untimely stroke!
If he had died upon his bed!
He knew not one forewarning pain;
He never will come home again—
Is dead, for ever dead!"
1055
Beside the Woman Peter stands;
His heart is opening more and more;
A holy sense pervades his mind;
He feels what he for human-kind
Had never felt before.
1060
At length, by Peter's arm sustained,
The Woman rises from the ground—
"Oh, mercy! something must be done,
My little Rachel, you must run,—
Some willing neighbour must be found.
1065
"Make haste—my little Rachel—do,
The first you meet with—bid him come,
Ask him to lend his horse to-night,
And this good Man, whom Heaven requite,
Will help to bring the body home."
1070
Away goes Rachel weeping loud;—
An Infant, waked by her distress,
Makes in the house a piteous cry;

And Peter hears the Mother sigh,
"Seven are they, and all fatherless!"
1075
And now is Peter taught to feel
That man's heart is a holy thing;
And Nature, through a world of death,
Breathes into him a second breath,
More searching than the breath of spring.
1080
Upon a stone the Woman sits
In agony of silent grief—
From his own thoughts did Peter start;
He longs to press her to his heart,
From love that cannot find relief. 114
115 1085
But roused, as if through every limb
Had past a sudden shock of dread,
The Mother o'er the threshold flies,
And up the cottage stairs she hies,
And on the pillow lays her burning head.
116 1090
And Peter turns his steps aside
Into a shade of darksome trees,
Where he sits down, he knows not how,
With his hands pressed against his brow,
His elbows on his tremulous knees.
1095
There, self-involved, does Peter sit
Until no sign of life he makes, 117
As if his mind were sinking deep
Through years that have been long asleep!
The trance is passed away—he wakes;
1100
He lifts his head—and sees the Ass
Yet standing in the clear moonshine;
"When shall I be as good as thou?
Oh! would, poor beast, that I had now

A heart but half as good as thine!" 118
1105
But He—who deviously hath sought
His Father through the lonesome woods,
Hath sought, proclaiming to the ear
Of night his grief and sorrowful fear—
He comes, escaped from fields and floods; 119
— 1110

With weary pace is drawing nigh; 120
He sees the Ass—and nothing living
Had ever such a fit of joy
As hath this little orphan Boy,
For he has no misgiving! 1115

Forth to the gentle Ass he springs,
And up about his neck he climbs;
In loving words he talks to him,
He kisses, kisses face and limb,—
He kisses him a thousand times! 1120

This Peter sees, while in the shade
He stood beside the cottage-door;
And Peter Bell, the ruffian wild,
Sobs loud, he sobs even like a child,
"Oh! God, I can endure no more!" 1125

—Here ends my Tale: for in a trice
Arrived a neighbour with his horse;
Peter went forth with him straightway;
And, with due care, ere break of day,
Together they brought back the Corse. 1130

And many years did this poor Ass,
Whom once it was my luck to see
Cropping the shrubs of Leming-Lane, 121
Help by his labour to maintain

The Widow and her family.
K 1135
And Peter Bell, who, till that night,
Had been the wildest of his clan,
Forsook his crimes, renounced his folly,
And, after ten months' melancholy,
Became a good and honest man.

Contents

Variant 1:
1827
1819
And something

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Variant 2:
1849
1819
Whose shape is like

1845
For shape just like

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Variant 3:
1845
1819
The noise of danger fills

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Variant 4:
1827
1819
Meanwhile I from the helm admire

C.
... I soberly admire

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Variant 5:
1827
1819
Or deep into the heavens

1820
Or into massy clouds

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Variant 6:
1820
1819
... between ...

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Variant 7:
1827

... are ill-built, 1819
But proud let him be who has seen them;

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Variant 8:
1827
1819
... between ...

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Variant 9:
1827
1819
That darling speck ...

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Variant 10:
1836
1819
And there it is, ...

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Variant 11:
1827
1819
... heartless ...

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Variant 12:
In the editions of 1819 and 1820 only.

Out—out—and, like a brooding hen,
Beside your sooty hearth-stone cower;
Go, creep along the dirt, and pick
Your way with your good walking-stick,
Just three good miles an hour!

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Variant 13:
1827
1819
... the land ...

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Variant 14:
1845
1819
My radiant Pinnace, you forget

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Variant 15:
1827
1819
For I myself, in very truth,

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Variant 16:
1845

Off flew my sparkling Boat in scorn, 1819
Yea in a trance of indignation!

1820
Spurning her freight with indignation!

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Variant 17:
1845

... to my stone-table 1819
Limp'd on with some vexation.

1827
... tow'rd my stone-table

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Variant 18:
1827

1819
... promptly ...

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Variant 19:
1827

Breath fail'd me as I spake—but soon
With lips, no doubt, and visage pale,
And sore too from a slight contusion,
Did I, to cover my confusion, 1819
Begin the promised Tale.

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Variant 20:
1820

All by the moonlight river side
It gave three miserable groans;
"'Tis come then to a pretty pass,"
Said Peter to the groaning Ass, 1819
"But I will bang your bones!"

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Variant 21:
In the two editions of 1819 only.

"Good Sir!"—the Vicar's voice exclaim'd,
"You rush at once into the middle;"
And little Bess, with accent sweeter,

Cried, "O dear Sir! but who is Peter?"
Said Stephen,—"'Tis a downright riddle!"

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Variant 22:
1836

The Squire said, "Sure as paradise
Was lost to man by Adam's sinning, 1819
This leap is for us all too bold;

Like winds that lash the waves, or smite
The woods, the autumnal foliage thinning— 1820
"Hold!" said the Squire, "I pray you, hold!

1827
The woods, autumnal foliage thinning—

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Variant 23:
1845

... its ponderous knell, 1819
Its far-renowned alarum!

... his ponderous knell, 1836
A far-renowned alarum!

... that ponderous knell— 1840
His far-renowned alarum!

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Variant 24:
1820

With Peter Bell, I need not tell 1819
That this had never been the case;—

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Variant 25:
1819
1820
... placid ...

The text of 1827 returns to that of 1819.
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Variant 26:
1836
1819
... cheerfully ...

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Variant 27:
1827

1819
Till he is brought to an old quarry,

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Variant 28:
In the two editions of 1819 only.

"What! would'st thou daunt me grisly den?
Back must I, having come so far?
Stretch as thou wilt thy gloomy jaws,
I'll on, nor would I give two straws
For lantern or for star!"

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Variant 29:
1820

And so, where on the huge rough stones
The black and massy shadows lay, 1819
And through the dark, ...

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Variant 30:
1827
1819
... made ...

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Variant 31:
In the two editions of 1819 only.

Now you'll suppose that Peter Bell
Felt small temptation here to tarry,
And so it was,—but I must add,
His heart was not a little glad
When he was out of the old quarry.

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Variant 32:
1827
1819
Across that ...

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Variant 33:
1836
1819
And now he is among the trees;

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Variant 34:

"No doubt I'm founder'd in these woods—
For once," quoth he, "I will be wise,
With better speed I'll back again—
And, lest the journey should prove vain,
Will take yon Ass, my lawful prize!"

Off Peter hied,—"A comely beast!
Though not so plump as he might be;
My honest friend, with such a platter,
You should have been a little fatter, 1819
But come, Sir, come with me!"

(The first of these stanzas was omitted in 1827 and afterwards; the second
was withdrawn in 1820.)
return

Variant 35:
1836

But first doth Peter deem it fit 1819
To spy about him far and near;

"A prize," cried Peter, stepping back 1827
To spy ...

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Variant 36:
1827
1819
... Ass's back, ...

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Variant 37:
1836

1819
With ready heel the creature's side;

1827
With ready heel his shaggy side;

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Variant 38:
In the editions of 1819 to 1832 only.

"What's this!" cried Peter, brandishing
A new-peel'd sapling white as cream;
The Ass knew well what Peter said,
But, as before, hung down his head 1819
Over the silent stream.

A new-peeled sapling;—though, I deem,
The Ass knew well what Peter said, 1920
He, as before, ...

... —though I deem,
This threat was understood full well,
Firm, as before, the Sentinel 1827
Stood by the silent stream.

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Variant 39:
1827

"I'll cure you of these desperate tricks"—
And, with deliberate action slow,

His staff high-raising, in the pride
Of skill, upon the Ass's hide C. and 1819.

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Variant 40:
1836

What followed?—yielding to the shock 1819
The Ass, as if ...

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Variant 41:
1836
1819
And then upon ...

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Variant 42:
1840
1819
... as ...

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Variant 43:
1819

The Beast on his tormentor turned 1827
A shining hazel eye.

1832
His shining ...

The edition of 1836 returns to the text of 1819.
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Variant 44:
1836
1819
Towards the river ...

return

Variant 45:
1832
1819
Heav'd his lank sides, ...

return

Variant 46:
1836. In the two editions of 1819 this stanza formed two stanzas,
thus:

All by the moonlight river side
He gave three miserable groans,
"'Tis come then to a pretty pass,"
Said Peter to the groaning ass,
"But I will bang your bones!"

And Peter halts to gather breath,
And now full clearly was it shown
(What he before in part had seen)
How gaunt was the poor Ass and lean, 1819
Yea wasted to a skeleton!

In the editions of 1820-1832, only the second of these stanzas is
retained, with the following change of text in 1827:

And, while he halts, was clearly shown
(What he before in part had seen) 1827
How gaunt the Creature was, and lean,

In the final text of 1836 the two stanzas of 1819 are compressed into one (ll.
446-50).
return

Variant 47:
1836

1819
But, while upon the ground he lay,

1827
That instant, while outstretched he lay,

return

Variant 48:
1836
1819
A loud and piteous bray!

return

Variant 49:
1820
1819
Joy on ...

return

Variant 50:
1836

... an endless shout, 1819
The long dry see-saw ...

return

Variant 51:
1836

And Peter now uplifts his eyes;
Steady the moon doth look and clear,
And like themselves the rocks appear, 1819
And tranquil are the skies,

1820
And quiet are the skies.

return

Variant 52:
1836

Whereat, in resolute mood, once more
He stoops the Ass's neck to seize—
Foul purpose, quickly put to flight!
For in the pool a startling sight 1819
Meets him, beneath the shadowy trees.

return

Variant 53:
1819
1832
... the gallows ...

The text of 1836 returns to that of 1819.
return

Variant 54:
1836

Or a gay ring of shining fairies, 1819
Such as pursue their brisk vagaries

return

Variant 55:
In the two editions of 1819 only.

Is it a party in a parlour?
Cramm'd just as they on earth were cramm'd—
Some sipping punch, some sipping tea,
But, as you by their faces see,
All silent and all damn'd!a

return

Variant 56:
1827

A throbbing pulse the Gazer hath— 1819
Puzzled he was, and now is daunted;

return

Variant 57:
1836
1819
Like one intent upon a book—

return

Variant 58:
1836
1819
And drops, a senseless weight,

return

Variant 59:
1827

A happy respite!—but he wakes;—
And feels the glimmering of the moon—
And to stretch forth his hands is trying;—
Sure, when he knows where he is lying, 1819
He'll sink into a second swoon.

return

Variant 60:
1827
1819
... placid ...

return

Variant 61:
1827

So, faltering not in this intent,
He makes his staff an instrument 1819
The river's depth to sound—

So toward the stream his head he bent,
And downward thrust his staff, intent 1820
To reach the Man who there lay drowned.—

return

Variant 62:
1836

The meagre Shadow all this while— 1819
What aim is his? ...

return

Variant 63:
1836

That Peter on his back should mount
He shows a wish, well as he can,
"I'll go, I'll go, whate'er betide—
He to his home my way will guide, 1819
The cottage of the drowned man."

But no—his purpose and his wish
The Suppliant shews, well as he can;
Thought Peter whatsoe'er betide
I'll go, and he my way will guide 1820
To the cottage of the drowned man.

return

Variant 64:

1836
1819
This utter'd, Peter mounts forthwith

1820
This hoping,

1827
Encouraged by this hope, he mounts

1832
This hoping, Peter boldly mounts

return

Variant 65:
1827
1819
The

return

Variant 66:
1836
1819
And takes his way ...

return

Variant 67:
1840

1819
Holding ...

return

Variant 68:
1840 and C.
1819
What seeks the boy?—the silent dead!

1836
Seeking for whom?— ...

return

Variant 69:
1836
1819
Whom he hath sought ...

return

Variant 70:
1820
1819
... doth rightly spell;

return

Variant 71:
1836

1819
... noise ...

return

Variant 72:
1820
1819
... to gain his end

return

Variant 73:
1845
1819
... footstep ...

return

Variant 74:
1836
1819
... along a ...

return

Variant 75:
In the editions of 1819 and 1820 the following stanza occurs:

The verdant pathway, in and out,
Winds upwards like a straggling chain;
And, when two toilsome miles are past,

Up through the rocks it leads at last
Into a high and open plain.

return

Variant 76:
1827
1819
The ...

return

Variant 77:
1836

How blank!—but whence this rustling sound
Which, all too long, the pair hath chased! 1819
—A dancing leaf is close behind,

1820
But whence that faintly-rustling sound

But whence this faintly rustling sound C.
By which the pair have long been chased?

return

Variant 78:
1836

When Peter spies the withered leaf, 1819
It yields no cure to his distress—

return

Variant 79:
1836
1819
Ha! why this comfortless despair?

return

Variant 80:
1819
1827
... the Creature's head;

The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.
return

Variant 81:
1836

... those darting pains,
As meteors shoot through heaven's wide plains, 1819
Pass through his bosom—and repass!

return

Variant 82:
1827

Reading, as you or I might read 1819
At night in any pious book,

return

Variant 83:
1826
1819
... the good man's taper,

return

Variant 84:
1836
1819
The ghostly word, which thus was fram'd,

1827
... full plainly seen,

return

Variant 85:
1836
1819
... to torment the good

return

Variant 86:
1836

I know you, potent Spirits! well,
How with the feeling and the sense
Playing, ye govern foes or friends. 1819
Yok'd to your will, for fearful ends—

return

Variant 87:
1836
1819
... I have often ...

return

Variant 88:
1836
1819
And well I know ...

return

Variant 89:
1836
1819
... and danc'd ...

return

Variant 90:
1836

1819
... clearly ...

return

Variant 91:
1836
1819
... hath ...

return

Variant 92:
1836
1819
... to confound ...

return

Variant 93:
1836

But now the pair have reach'd a spot 1819
Where, shelter'd by a rocky cove,

1820
Meanwhile the pair

return

Variant 94:
1836

1819
The building seems, wall, roof, and tower,

return

Variant 95:
1836

Deep sighing as he pass'd along,
Quoth Peter, "In the shire of Fife,
'Mid such a ruin, following still 1819
From land to land a lawless will,

return

Variant 96:
1827
1819
Making, ...

return

Variant 97:
1836
1819
As if confusing darkness came

1832
And a confusing

While clouds of swimming darkness came C.
Over his eyesight with the sound.

return

Variant 98:
Italics were first used in the edition of 1820.
return

Variant 99:
1836
1819
A lonely house her dwelling was,

return

Variant 100:
1819
1820
... her name ...

The edition of 1827 returns to the text of 1819.
return

Variant 101:
1820

Distraction reigns in soul and sense,
And reason drops in impotence 1820
From her deserted pinnacle!

return

Variant 102:
1820
1819
... ears ...

return

Variant 103:
1836

Though clamorous as a hunter's horn
Re-echoed from a naked rock, 1819
'Tis from that tabernacle—List!

1832
The voice, though clamorous as a horn
Re-echoed by a naked rock,
Is from ....

return

Variant 104:
1819
C.
... pious ...

return

Variant 105:
1836
1819
'Tis said, that through prevailing grace

return

Variant 106:
1836

... shoulders scored 1819
Meek beast! in memory of the Lord

C.
Faithful memorial of the Lord

return

Variant 107:
1836
1819
In memory of that solemn day

return

Variant 108:
1836

Towards a gate in open view 1819
Turns up a narrow lane; ...

return

Variant 109:
1836

Had gone two hundred yards, not more;
When to a lonely house he came;
He turn'd aside towards the same 1819
And stopp'd before the door.

return

Variant 110:
1836
1819
In hope ...

return

Variant 111:
1827
1819
Close at ...

return

Variant 112:
1832

1819
What could he do?—The Woman lay

return

Variant 113:
1836
1819
... the sufferer ...

return

Variant 114:
1819
1820
... stair ...

The edition of 1827 returns to the text of 1819.
return

Variant 115:
1836
1819
And to the pillow gives ...

return

Variant 116:
1827
1819
And resting on ...

return

Variant 117:
1827
1819
He turns ...

return

Variant 118:
1836
1819
... his inward grief and fear—

C.
... his sorrow and his fear—

return

Variant 119:
1827
1819
... had ...

return

Variant 120:
1836
1819
Towards ...

return

Variant 121:
1832
1819
... repressed ...

return

Footnote A: The title in the two editions of 1819 was Peter Bell: A Tale in
Verse. —Ed.
return to footnote mark

Footnote B: In Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal the following
occurs, under date April 20, 1798:

"The moon crescent. Peter Bell begun."

Ed.
return

Footnote C: Romeo and Juliet, act II. scene ii. l. 44. This motto first
appeared on the half-title of Peter Bell, second edition, 1819, under the
advertisement of Benjamin the Waggoner, its first line being "What's a
Name?" When The Waggoner appeared, a few days afterwards, the motto
stood on its title-page. In the collective edition of the Poems (1820), it
disappeared; but reappeared, in its final position, in the edition of 1827.—
Ed.
return

Footnote D: Julius Cæsar, act I. scene ii. l. 147.—Ed.
return

Footnote E: Compare The Prelude, book iv. l. 47:

'the sunny seat
Round the stone table under the dark pine.'

Ed.
return

Footnote F: In the dialect of the North, a hawker of earthen-ware is thus
designated.—W. W. 1819 (second edition).
return

Footnote G: Compare The Prelude, book v. l. 448:

'At last, the dead man, 'mid that beauteous scene
Of trees and hills and water, bolt upright
Rose, with his ghastly face, a spectre shape
Of terror.'

Ed.
return

Footnote H: This and the next stanza were omitted from the edition of
1827, but restored in 1832.—Ed.
return

Footnote I: The notion is very general, that the Cross on the back and
shoulders of this Animal has the origin here alluded to.—W. W. 1819.
return

Footnote J: I cannot suffer this line to pass, without noticing that it was
suggested by Mr. Haydon's noble Picture of Christ's Entry into Jerusalem.—
W. W. 1820.

Into the same picture Haydon "introduced Wordsworth bowing in reverence
and awe." See the essay on "The Portraits of Wordsworth" in a later volume,
and the portrait itself, which will be reproduced in the volume containing
the Life of the poet.—Ed.
return

Footnote K: The first and second editions of Peter Bell (1819) contained,
as frontispiece, an engraving by J. C. Bromley, after a picture by Sir George
Beaumont. In 1807, Wordsworth wrote to Sir George:

"I am quite delighted to hear of your picture for Peter Bell .... But
remember that no poem of mine will ever be popular, and I am afraid
that the sale of Peter would not carry the expense of engraving .... The
people would love the poem of Peter Bell, but the public (a very
different thing) will never love it."

Some days before Wordsworth's Peter Bell was issued in 1819, another
'Peter Bell' was published by Messrs. Taylor and Hessey. It was a parody
written by J. Hamilton Reynolds, and issued as 'Peter Bell, a Lyrical Ballad',
with the sentence on its title page, "I do affirm that I am the real Simon
Pure." The preface, which follows, is too paltry to quote; and the stanzas
which make up the poem contain allusions to the more trivial of the early
Lyrical Ballads (Betty Foy, Harry Gill, etc.). Wordsworth's Peter Bell was
published about a week later; and Shelley afterwards published his Peter
Bell the Third. Charles Lamb wrote to Wordsworth, in May 1819:

"Dear Wordsworth—I received a copy of 'Peter Bell' a week ago, and I
hope the author will not be offended if I say I do not much relish it.
The humour, if it is meant for humour, is forced; and then the price!—
sixpence would have been dear for it. Mind, I do not mean your 'Peter

Bell', but a Peter Bell, which preceded it about a week, and is in every
bookseller's shop window in London, the type and paper nothing
differing from the true one, the preface signed W. W., and the
supplementary preface quoting, as the author's words, an extract from
the supplementary preface to the 'Lyrical Ballads.' Is there no law
against these rascals? I would have this Lambert Simnel whipt at the
cart's tail."

(The Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by A. Ainger, vol. ii. p. 20.)

Barron Field wrote on the title-page of his copy of the edition of Peter Bell,
1819,

"And his carcase was cast in the way, and the ass stood by it."

1 Kings xiii. 24.—Ed.
return

Sub-Footnote a: This stanza, which was deleted from every edition of Peter
Bell after the two of 1819, was prefixed by Shelley to his poem of Peter
Bell the Third, and many of his contemporaries thought that it was an
invention of Shelley's. See the note which follows this poem, p. 50. Crabb
Robinson wrote in his Diary, June 6, 1812:

"Mrs. Basil Montagu told me she had no doubt she had suggested this
image to Wordsworth by relating to him an anecdote. A person,
walking in a friend's garden, looking in at a window, saw a company of
ladies at a table near the window, with countenances fixed. In an
instant he was aware of their condition, and broke the window. He
saved them from incipient suffocation."

Wordsworth subsequently said that he had omitted the stanza only in
deference to the "unco guid." Crabb Robinson remonstrated with him
against its exclusion.—Ed.

return

1798 Contents
Main Contents

LinesA, composed a few miles above Tintern
Abbey, on revisiting the Banks of the Wye during
a tour, July 13, 1798B
Composed July 1798.—Published 1798

The Poem

[July 1798. No poem of mine was composed under circumstances more
pleasant for me to remember than this. I began it upon leaving Tintern, after
crossing the Wye, and concluded it just as I was entering Bristol in the
evening, after a ramble of four or five days, with my sister. Not a line of it
was altered, and not any part of it written down till I reached Bristol. It was
published almost immediately after in the little volume of which so much
has been said in these Notes, the Lyrical Ballads, as first published at
Bristol by Cottle.—I. F.]

Included among the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.

The Poem

text variant footnote line
number
Five years have past; five summers, with
the length C
Of five long winters! and again I hear

These waters, rolling from their mountain- 1 D
springs 5
With a soft inland murmur.—Once again 2
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and
connect 10
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these 3
orchard-tufts, 15
Which at this season, with their unripe
fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose E
themselves
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see 20
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little
lines
Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral
farms, 4
Green to the very door; and wreaths of 25
smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!
With some uncertain notice, as might seem
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire 5 30
The Hermit sits alone.
These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence, have not been to 6
me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: 35
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
And passing even into my purer mind, 40

With tranquil restoration:—feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremembered, acts 45
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight 50
Of all this unintelligible world,
Is lightened:—that serene and blessed
mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on,—
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame 55
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul: 7
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, 60
We see into the life of things.
If this
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft—
In darkness and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir 65
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart—
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the
woods, 70
How often has my spirit turned to thee!
And now, with gleams of half-
extinguished thought,
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 75
The picture of the mind revives again:
While here I stand, not only with the sense

Of present pleasure, but with pleasing
thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food 80
For future years. And so I dare to hope,
Though changed, no doubt, from what I
was when first
I came among these hills; when like a roe 8
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 85
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led: more like a man F
Flying from something that he dreads, than
one
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature 90
then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
And their glad animal movements all gone
by) 9
To me was all in all.—I cannot paint 95
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy
wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to 100
me
An appetite; a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, nor any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is 105
past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this G
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts
Have followed; for such loss, I would 110
believe,
Abundant recompence. For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing

oftentimes 115
The still, sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample
power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy 120
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused, H
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man: 125
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all
thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I
still 130
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty
world
Of eye, and ear,—both what they half 135
create,
And what perceive; well pleased to
recognise
In nature and the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the 140
nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and
soul
Of all my moral being.
Nor perchance, 145
If I were not thus taught, should I the more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
For thou art with me here upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I 150
catch

The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights B
Of thy wild eyes, Oh! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once, 155
My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I
make,
Knowing that Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead 160
From joy to joy: for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil
tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish
men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain-winds be free
To blow against thee: and, in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh!
then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing
thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance
—
If I should be where I no more can hear

Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes
these gleams
Of past existence—wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love—oh! with far deeper
zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty
cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to
me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy
sake!

Contents

Variant 1:
1845
1798
... sweet ...

return

Variant 2:

1827
1798
Which ...

return

Variant 3:
1845

... with their unripe fruits,
Among the woods and copses lose themselves,
Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb 1798
The wild green landscape ...

Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 1802
Among the woods and copses, nor disturb

return

Variant 4:
1827

... Though absent long, 1798
These forms of beauty have not been to me,

return

Variant 5:
1798
MS.
... inmost mind

return

Variant 6:
1820
1798
As may have had no trivial influence

return

Variant 7:
1798
1798 (some copies)
... wood,

return

Variant 8:
1836
1798
... or ...

return

Variant 9:
1800
1798
Not ...

return

Footnote A: I have not ventured to call this Poem an Ode; but it was
written with a hope that in the transitions, and the impassioned music of the
versification would be found the principal requisites of that species of
composition.—W. W. 1800.
return to footnote mark

Footnote B: The title in 1798 was Lines, written a few miles, etc. In 1815 it
assumed its final form.—Ed.
return

Footnote C: Compare the Fenwick note to the poem Guilt and Sorrow
(vol. i. p.78) This visit, five years before, was on his way from "Sarum
plain," on foot and alone—after parting with his friend William Calvert—to
visit another friend, Robert Jones, in Wales.—Ed.
return

Footnote D: The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above
Tintern.— W. W. 1798.
return

Footnote E: In the edition of 1798, an additional line is here introduced,
but it is deleted in the errata. It is

'And the low copses—coming from the trees.'

Ed.
return

Footnote F: Compare The Prelude, book xi. l. 108:

'Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,
But to be young was very Heaven.'

Ed.
return

Footnote G: This line has a close resemblance to an admirable line of
Young, the exact expression of which I cannot recollect.—W. W. 1798.

It is the line:

'And half-create the wondrous world they see.'

Night Thoughts, (Night vi. l. 427).—Ed.
return

Footnote H: Compare, in The Recluse, canto "Home at Grasmere," l. 91:

Her voice was like a hidden Bird that sang,
The thought of her was like a flash of light,
Or an unseen companionship.

Ed.
return

1798 Contents
Main Contents

There was a Boy
Composed 1798.—Published 1800

The Poem

[Written in Germany, 1799. This is an extract from the Poem on my own
poetical education. This practice of making an instrument of their own
fingers is known to most boys, though some are more skilful at it than
others. William Raincock of Rayrigg, a fine spirited lad, took the lead of all
my schoolfellows in this art.—I. F.]

This "extract" will be found in the fifth book of The Prelude, ll. 364-397. It
was included among the "Poems of the Imagination." In the editions of
1800 to 1832 it had no title, except in the table of contents. In 1836, the
finally adopted title of the poem was given in the text, as well as in the table
of contents.—Ed.

The Poem

text variant footnoteline
number
There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye
cliffs
And islands of Winander!—many a time, 1
At evening, when the earliest stars began
To move along the edges of the hills, 5
Rising or setting, would he stand alone,
Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering
lake;

And there, with fingers interwoven, both
hands 10
Pressed closely palm to palm and to his
mouth
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,
Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,
That they might answer him.—And they 15
would shout 2
Across the watery vale, and shout again, 3
Responsive to his call,—with quivering
peals,
And long halloos, and screams, and echoes 20
loud
Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild
Of jocund din! And, when there came a
pause
Of silence such as baffled his best skill: 25
Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he
hung 4
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise 5
Has carried far into his heart the voice
Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene 6
Would enter unawares into his mind 30
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven 7
received
Into the bosom of the steady lake. 8 A

This boy was taken from his mates,
and died
In childhood, ere he was full twelve years
old.
Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale
Where he was born and bred: the church-
yard hangs
Upon a slope above the village-school;
And, through that church-yard when my

way has led
On summer-evenings, I believe, that there
A long half-hour together I have stood
Mute—looking at the grave in which he
lies!

Contents

Note

Variant 1:
1815
1800
... when the stars had just begun

return

Variant 2:
1836

... a wild scene 1800
Of mirth and jocund din! ...

1805
... concourse wild

return

Variant 3:
1836

... And, when it chanced 1800
That pauses of deep silence mock'd his skill,

... and, when a lengthened pause The Prelude, 1850
Of silence came and baffled his best skill,

return

Variant 4:
This and the following line were added in 1805.
return

Variant 5:
1815
1805
... ere he was ten years old.

return

Variant 6:
1845

Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot, 1800
The vale where he was born: the Church-yard hangs

Fair is the spot, most beautiful the Vale 1827
Where he was born: the grassy Church-yard hangs

The text of 1840 returns to that of 1800.
return

Variant 7:
1836

And there along that bank when I have pass'd 1800
At evening, I believe, that near his grave

1805
... I believe, that oftentimes

1827
And through that Church-yard when my way has led

return

Variant 8:
1815

A full half-hour together I have stood, 1800
Mute—for he died when he was ten years old.

1805
Mute—looking at the grave in which he lies.

return

Footnote A: In The Prelude the version of 1827 is adopted for the most
part.—Ed.
return to footnote mark

Footnote B: See Graduati Cantabrigienses (1850), by Joseph Romily, the
Registrar to the University 1832-1862.—Ed.
return

Wordsworth sent this fragment in MS. to Coleridge, who was then living at
Ratzeburg, and Coleridge wrote in reply on the 10th Dec. 1798:

"The blank lines gave me as much direct pleasure as was possible in
the general bustle of pleasure with which I received and read your
letter. I observed, I remember, that the 'fingers woven,' etc., only
puzzled me; and though I liked the twelve or fourteen first lines very
well, yet I liked the remainder much better. Well, now I have read them
again, they are very beautiful, and leave an affecting impression. That

'uncertain heaven received
Into the bosom of the steady lake,'

I should have recognised anywhere; and had I met these lines, running
wild in the deserts of Arabia, I should have instantly screamed out
'Wordsworth'!"

The MS. copy of this poem sent to Coleridge probably lacked the
explanatory line,

'Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth,'

as another MS., in the possession of the poet's grandson, lacks it; and the
line was possibly added—as the late Mr. Dykes Campbell suggested—"in
deference to S. T. C.'s expression of puzzlement."

Fletcher Raincock—an elder brother of the William Raincock referred to in

the Fenwick note to this poem, as Wordsworth's schoolfellow at Hawkshead
—was with him also at Cambridge. He attended Pembroke College, and
was second wrangler in 1790B. John Fleming of Rayrigg, his half-brother—
the boy with whom Wordsworth used to walk round the lake of Esthwaite,
in the morning before school-time, ("five miles of pleasant wandering")—
was also at St. John's College, Cambridge, at this time, and had been fifth
Wrangler in the preceding year, 1789. He is referred to both in the second
and the fifth books of The Prelude (see notes to that poem). It is perhaps not
unworthy of note that Wrangham, whose French stanzas on "The Birth of
Love" Wordsworth translated into English, was in the same year—1789—
third Wrangler, second Smith's prizeman, and first Chancellor's medallist;
while Robert Greenwood, "the Minstrel of the Troop," who "blew his flute,
alone upon the rock" in Windermere,—also one of the characters referred to
in the second book of The Prelude,—was sixteenth Wrangler in
Wordsworth's year, viz. 1791. William Raincock was at St. John's College,
Cambridge.—Ed.

1798 Contents
Main Contents

The Two Thieves; or, the Last Stage of Avarice
Composed 1798.—Published 1800

The Poem

[This is described from the life, as I was in the habit of observing when a
boy at Hawkshead School. Daniel was more than eighty years older than
myself when he was daily, thus occupied, under my notice. No books have
so early taught me to think of the changes to which human life is subject,
and while looking at him I could not but say to myself—we may, one of us,
I or the happiest of my playmates, live to become still more the object of
pity, than this old man, this half-doating pilferer.—I. F.]

Included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Old Age."—Ed.

The Poem

text variant footnote line
number
O now that the genius of Bewick were A
mine,
And the skill which he learned on the banks
of the Tyne, 1
Then the Muses might deal with me just as
they chose, 5
For I'd take my last leave both of verse and 2
of prose.

What feats would I work with my magical
hand!
Book-learning and books should be 10
banished the land:
And, for hunger and thirst and such
troublesome calls,
Every ale-house should then have a feast on 3
its walls.
15
The traveller would hang his wet clothes on 4
a chair;
Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw
would he care! 5
For the Prodigal Son, Joseph's Dream and
his sheaves, 20
Oh, what would they be to my tale of two
Thieves?

The One, yet unbreeched, is not three
birthdays old,
His Grandsire that age more than thirty
times told; 6 25
There are ninety good seasons of fair and
foul weather
Between them, and both go a-pilfering
together.

With chips is the carpenter strewing his 7 30
floor?
Is a cart-load of turf at an old woman's
door?
Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will
slide!
And his Grandson's as busy at work by his 35
side.

Old Daniel begins; he stops short—and his 8

eye, 9
Through the lost look of dotage, is cunning
and sly: 40
'Tis a look which at this time is hardly his
own,
But tells a plain tale of the days that are 10
flown.

He once had a heart which was moved by
the wires 45
Of manifold pleasures and many desires:
And what if he cherished his purse? 'Twas
no more B
Than treading a path trod by thousands
before.

'Twas a path trod by thousands; but Daniel
is one
Who went something farther than others
have gone,
And now with old Daniel you see how it
fares;
You see to what end he has brought his grey
hairs.

The pair sally forth hand in hand: ere the
sun
Has peered o'er the beeches, their work is
begun:
And yet, into whatever sin they may fall,
This child but half knows it, and that not at
all.

They hunt through the streets with
deliberate tread,
And each, in his turn, becomes leader or
led;

And, wherever they carry their plots and
their wiles,
Every face in the village is dimpled with
smiles.

Neither checked by the rich nor the needy
they roam;
For the grey-headed Sire has a daughter at
home,
Who will gladly repair all the damage that's
done;
And three, were it asked, would be rendered
for one.

Old Man! whom so oft I with pity have
eyed,
I love thee, and love the sweet Boy at thy
side:
Long yet may'st thou live! for a teacher we
see
That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee.

Contents

Variant 1:
1800

Oh! now that the boxwood and graver were mine,
Of the Poet who lives on the banks of the Tyne,

Who has plied his rude tools with more fortunate toil
Than Reynolds e'er brought to his canvas and oil. MS. 1798

return

Variant 2:
1800

Then Books, and Book-learning, I'd ring out your knell, MS. 1798.
The Vicar should scarce know an A from an L.

return

Variant 3:
1820
1800
Little Dan is unbreech'd, he is three birth-days old,

return

Variant 4:
1837
1800
... a-stealing ...

return

Variant 5:
1827
1800
... of peats ...

return

Variant 6:
1820
1800
Dan once ...

return

Variant 7:
1800

'Twas a smooth pleasant pathway, a gentle descent, MS. 1798.
And leisurely down it, and down it, he went.

return

Variant 8:
1802
1800
... street ...

return

Variant 9:
1837
1800
... is both leader and led;

return

Variant 10:
1837
1800
For grey-headed Dan ...

1820
The grey-headed Sire ...

return

Footnote A: Thomas Bewick, the wood engraver, born at Cherryburn, near
Newcastle-on-Tyne, in 1753, died 1828. He revived the art of wood
engraving in England. His illustrations—drawn for the General History of
British Quadrupeds (1790), and for his own History of British Birds (1797
and l804)—were unrivalled in their way.—Ed.
return to footnote mark

Footnote B: Charles Lamb, writing to Wordsworth in 1815, spoke of

"that delicacy towards aberrations from the strict path, which is so fine
in the 'Old Thief and the Boy by his side,' which always brings water
into my eyes."

(See Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i. p. 287.)—Ed.
return

1798 Contents
Main Contents

Written with a Slate Pencil upon a Stone, the
largest of a Heap lying near a Deserted Quarry,
upon one of the IslandsA at Rydal
Composed 1798.—Published 1800

The Poem

Included among the "Inscriptions."—Ed.

The Poem

text variant footnote line
number
Stranger! this hillock of mis-shapen stones
Is not a Ruin spared or made by time, 1
Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the
Cairn
Of some old British Chief: 'tis nothing 5
more 2
Than the rude embryo of a little Dome 3
Or Pleasure-house, once destined to be
built
Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle. 10
But, as it chanced, Sir William having 4
learned
That from the shore a full-grown man
might wade,
And make himself a freeman of this spot 15

At any hour he chose, the prudent Knight 5
Desisted, and the quarry and the mound
Are monuments of his unfinished task.
The block on which these lines are traced,
perhaps, 20
Was once selected as the corner-stone
Of that intended Pile, which would have 6
been
Some quaint odd plaything of elaborate
skill, 25
So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush,
And other little builders who dwell here,
Had wondered at the work. But blame him
not,
For old Sir William was a gentle Knight, 30
Bred in this vale, to which he appertained 7 B
With all his ancestry. Then peace to him,
And for the outrage which he had devised
Entire forgiveness!—But if thou art one
On fire with thy impatience to become
An inmate of these mountains,—if,
disturbed
By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn
Out of the quiet rock the elements
Of thy trim Mansion destined soon to blaze
In snow-white splendour,—think again;
and, taught
By old Sir William and his quarry, leave
Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose;
There let the vernal slow-worm sun
himself,
And let the redbreast hop from stone to
stone.

Contents

Variant 1:
1837
1800
Is not a ruin of the ancient time,

MS.
... antique ...

return

Variant 2:
1802
1800
... which was to have been built

return

Variant 3:
1800

Of some old British warrior: so, to speak
The honest truth, 'tis neither more nor less
Than the rude germ of what was to have been MS.
A pleasure-house, and built upon this isle.

return

Variant 4:
1837
1800
... the Knight forthwith

return

Variant 5:
1837
1800
Of the ...

return

Variant 6:
1800
MS. 1798.
Bred here, and to this valley appertained

return

Variant 7:
1800
1802
... glory, ...

The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.
return

Footnote A: In a MS. copy this is given as "the lesser Island."—Ed.
return to footnote mark

Footnote B: Compare Wordsworth's

"objections to white, as a colour, in large spots or masses in
landscape,"

in his Guide through the district of the Lakes (section third).—Ed.
return

1798 Contents
Main Contents

end of Volume II: 1798 →1799
Main Contents

Wordsworth's Poetical Works, Volume 2: 1799

Edited by William Knight

1896

Table of Contents

1799
Influence of Natural Objects in calling forth and strengthening the
Imagination in Boyhood and Early Youth
The Simplon Pass
Nutting
Written in Germany, on one of the Coldest Days of the Century
A Poet's Epitaph
"Strange fits of passion have I known"
"She dwelt among the untrodden ways"
"I travelled among unknown men"
"Three years she grew in sun and shower"
"A slumber did my spirit seal"
Address to the Scholars of the Village School of ——
Matthew
The Two April Mornings
The Fountain
To a Sexton
The Danish Boy
Lucy Gray; or, Solitude
Ruth

1799

The poems belonging to the year 1799 were chiefly, if not wholly,
composed at Goslar, in Germany; and all, with three exceptions, appeared
in the second edition of Lyrical Ballads (1800). The exceptions were the
following:

The lyric beginning, "I travelled among unknown men," which was
first published in the "Poems" of 1807;
and two fragments from The Prelude, viz. The Influence of Natural
Objects (which appeared in The Friend in 1809), and The Simplon
Pass (first published in the 8vo edition of the Poems in 1845).

Wordsworth reached Goslar on the 6th of October 1798, and left it on the
10th of February 1799. It is impossible to determine the precise order in
which the nineteen or twenty poems associated with that city were
composed. But it is certain that the fragment on the immortal boy of
Windermere —whom its cliffs and islands knew so well—was written in
1798, and not in 1799 (as Wordsworth himself states); because Coleridge
sent a letter to his friend, thanking him for a MS. copy of these lines, and
commenting on them, of which the date is "Ratzeburg, Dec. 10, 1798." For
obvious reasons, however, I place the fragments originally meant to be parts
of The Recluse together; and, since Wordsworth gave the date 1799 to the
others, it would be gratuitous to suppose that he erred in reference to them
all, because we know that his memory failed him in reference to one of the
series. Therefore, although he spent more than twice as many days in 1798
as in 1799 at Goslar, I set down this group of poems as belonging to 1799,
rather than to the previous year. It will be seen that, after placing all the
poems of this Goslar period in the year to which they belong, it is possible
also to group them according to their subject matter, without violating
chronological order. I therefore put the fragments, afterwards incorporated
in The Prelude, together. These are naturally followed by Nutting—a poem
intended for The Prelude, but afterwards excluded, as inappropriate. The
five poems referring to "Lucy" are placed in sequence, and the same is done

with the four "Matthew" poems. A small group of four poems follows
appropriately, viz. To a Sexton, The Danish Boy, Lucy Gray, and Ruth;
while the Fenwick note almost necessitates our placing the Poet's Epitaph
immediately after the Lines Written in Germany; and, with Wordsworth's
life at Goslar, we naturally associate five things—the cold winter, The
Prelude, the "Lucy" and the "Matthew" poems, and the Poet's Epitaph.—
Ed.

1799 Contents
Main Contents

Influence of Natural Objects in calling forth and
strengthening the Imagination in Boyhood and
Early Youth
From an Unpublished Poem

[This extract is reprinted from The FriendA.]

Composed 1799.—Published 1809

It was included by Wordsworth among the "Poems referring to the Period of
Childhood."—Ed.

The Poem

text variant footnote line
number
Wisdom and Spirit of the universe!
Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought!
And giv'st to forms and images a breath 1
And everlasting motion! not in vain,
By day or star-light, thus from my first 5
dawn
Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me
The passions that build up our human soul; 2

Not with the mean and vulgar works of
Man: 10
But with high objects, with enduring
things,
With life and nature: purifying thus
The elements of feeling and of thought,
And sanctifying by such discipline
Both pain and fear,—until we recognise 15
A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.
3
Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to
me
With stinted kindness. In November days, 20
When vapours rolling down the valleys 4
made
A lonely scene more lonesome; among 5
woods
At noon; and 'mid the calm of summer 25
nights,
When, by the margin of the trembling lake, 6
Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I
went 7
In solitude, such intercourse was mine: 30
Mine was it in the fields both day and
night,
And by the waters, all the summer long. 8
And in the frosty season, when the sun
Was set, and, visible for many a mile, 35
The cottage-windows through the twilight
blazed, 9
I heeded not the summons: happy time
It was indeed for all of us; for me
It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud 10 40
The village-clock tolled six—I wheeled
about, 11
Proud and exulting like an untired horse
That cares not for his home.—All shod

with steel 45
We hissed along the polished ice, in games
Confederate, imitative of the chase
And woodland pleasures,—the resounding
horn,
The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted
hare. 12 50
So through the darkness and the cold we
flew, 13
And not a voice was idle: with the din
Smitten, the precipices rang aloud;
The leafless trees and every icy crag 55
Tinkled like iron; while far-distant hills
Into the tumult sent an alien sound
Of melancholy, not unnoticed while the
stars,
Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the 60
west
The orange sky of evening died away.
14
Not seldom from the uproar I retired
Into a silent bay, or sportively
Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous
throng,
To cut across the reflex of a star;
Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed
Upon the glassy plain: and oftentimes,
When we had given our bodies to the wind,
And all the shadowy banks on either side
Came sweeping through the darkness,
spinning still
The rapid line of motion, then at once
Have I, reclining back upon my heels,
Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs
Wheeled by me—even as if the earth had
rolled
With visible motion her diurnal round!

Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and
watched
Till all was tranquil as a summer sea.

Contents

Variant 1:
1809
The Prelude, 1850.
That givest ...

return

Variant 2:
1815
1809
Nor ...

return

Variant 3:
1809
The Prelude, 1850.
... valley ...

return

Variant 4:
1836
1809
... I homeward went

return

Variant 5:
1845
1809
'Twas mine among the fields ...

return

Variant 6:
1809
The Prelude, 1850.
... blazed through twilight gloom,

return

Variant 7:
1815
1809
... to me

return

Variant 8:

1827
1809
... car'd not for its home— ...

1815
... cares not ...

return

Variant 9:
1840
1809
... loud bellowing ...

return

Variant 10:
1836
1809
Meanwhile ...

return

Variant 11:
1845
1809
... while the distant hills

return

Variant 12:
1827

1809
To cut across the image ...

1820
To cross the bright reflection ...

return

Variant 13:
1820
1809 (This line occupied the
That gleam'd upon the ice; and place
oftentimes of lines 51-52 of the final
text.)

That fled, and, flying still before me, The Prelude, 1850.
gleamed
Upon the glassy plain; and oftentimes,

return

Variant 14:
1809
The Prelude, 1850.
... as a dreamless sleep.

return

Footnote A: The title of the fragment, as it appeared in The Friend, No. 19,
(Dec. 28, 1809,) was Growth of Genius from the Influences of Natural

Objects on the Imagination, in Boyhood and Early Youth. It first appeared
in Wordsworth's Poems in the edition of 1815. It was afterwards included in
the first book of The Prelude, l. 401.

The lake referred to with its "silent bays" and "shadowy banks" is that of
Esthwaite; the village clock is that of Hawkshead (see the footnotes to The
Prelude). The only physical accomplishment in which Wordsworth thought
he excelled was skating, an accomplishment in which his brother poet and
acquaintance, Klopstock, also excelled.—Ed.
return to footnote mark

1799 Contents
Main Contents

The Simplon PassA
Composed 1799.—Published 1845

Included among the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.

The Poem

text variant footnote line
number
—Brook and road
Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass, 1
And with them did we journey several
hours 2
At a slow step. The immeasurable height 5
Of woods decaying, never to be decayed,
The stationary blasts of waterfalls,
And in the narrow rent, at every turn,
Winds thwarting winds bewildered and
forlorn, 10
The torrents shooting from the clear blue
sky,
The rocks that muttered close upon our
ears,
Black drizzling crags that spake by the 15
wayside
As if a voice were in them, the sick sight

And giddy prospect of the raving stream,
The unfettered clouds and region of the
heavens, 20
Tumult and peace, the darkness and the
light—
Were all like workings of one mind, the
features
Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree,
Characters of the great Apocalypse,
The types and symbols of Eternity,
Of first, and last, and midst, and without
end.

Contents

Variant 1:
1845
The Prelude, 1850
... gloomy strait,

return

Variant 2:
1845
The Prelude, 1850
... pace ...

return

Footnote A: This is an extract from the sixth book of The Prelude, l. 621.
It refers to Wordsworth's first experience of Switzerland, when he crossed
the Alps by the Simplon route, in 1790, in company with his friend Robert
Jones.—Ed.
return to footnote mark

1799 Contents
Main Contents

Nutting
Composed 1799.—Published 1800

The Poem

[Written in Germany; intended as part of a poem on my own life, but struck
out as not being wanted there. Like most of my schoolfellows I was an
impassioned Nutter. For this pleasure, the Vale of Esthwaite, abounding in
coppice wood, furnished a very wide range. These verses arose out of the
remembrance of feelings I had often had when a boy, and particularly in the
extensive woods that still stretch from the side of Esthwaite Lake towards
Graythwaite, the seat of the ancient family of Sandys.—I. F.]

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

The Poem

text variant footnoteline
number
—It seems a day
(I speak of one from many singled out)
One of those heavenly days that cannot die; 1
When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, 2
I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth 3 A 5
With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, 4
A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my 5

steps 6
Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure
quaint, 10
Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off 7
weeds
Which for that service had been husbanded,
By exhortation of my frugal Dame—
Motley accoutrement, of power to smile 15
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—and, 8
in truth,
More ragged than need was! O'er pathless
rocks,
Through beds of matted fern, and tangled 9 20
thickets,
Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook
Unvisited, where not a broken bough
Drooped with its withered leaves,
ungracious sign 25
Of devastation; but the hazels rose
Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung,
A virgin scene!—A little while I stood,
Breathing with such suppression of the
heart 30
As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint
Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed
The banquet;—or beneath the trees I sate
Among the flowers, and with the flowers I
played; 35
A temper known to those, who, after long 10
And weary expectation, have been blest
With sudden happiness beyond all hope.
Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose
leaves 40
The violets of five seasons re-appear
And fade, unseen by any human eye;
Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on
For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam,

And—with my cheek on one of those green 45
stones
That, fleeced with moss, under the shady
trees,
Lay round me, scattered like a flock of
sheep— 11 50
I heard the murmur and the murmuring
sound,
In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to 12
pay
Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure, 55
The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,
Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,
And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,
And dragged to earth both branch and
bough, with crash
And merciless ravage: and the shady nook
Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower,
Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up
Their quiet being: and, unless I now
Confound my present feelings with the
past;
Ere from the mutilated bower I turned
Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,
I felt a sense of pain when I beheld
The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky.
—
Then, dearest Maiden, move along these
shades
In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand
Touch—for there is a spirit in the woods.

Contents

Note

Variant 1:
1836
1800
... which ...

return

Variant 2:
This line was added in the edition of 1827.
return

Variant 3:
1827
1800
When forth I sallied from our cottage-door,

return

Variant 4:
1832
1800
And with a wallet o'er my shoulder slung,

1815
With a huge wallet o'er my shoulder slung,

return

Variant 5:
1815
1800
... I turn'd ...

return

Variant 6:
1836
1800
Towards the distant woods, ...

1832
Toward ...

return

Variant 7:
1815

... of Beggar's weeds
Put on for the occasion, by advice 1800
And exhortation ...

return

Variant 8:

1836

... Among the woods,
And o'er the pathless rocks, I forc'd my way 1800
Until, at length, I came ...

return

Variant 9:
1845
1800
... milk-white clusters ...

return

Variant 10:
1845
1800
... beneath ...

return

Variant 11:
1836
1800
Even then, when from the bower I turn'd away,

return

Variant 12:
1836

1800
... and the intruding sky.—

return

Footnote A: The house at which I was boarded during the time I was at
School.—W. W. 1800.
return to footnote mark

Note: The woods round Esthwaite Lake have undergone considerable
change since Wordsworth's school-days at Hawkshead; but hazel coppice is
still abundant to the south and west of the Lake.—Ed.

1799 Contents
Main Contents

Written in Germany, on one of the Coldest Days
of the Century
Composed 1799.—Published 1800

The Poem

I must apprize the Reader that the stoves in North Germany generally have
the impression of a galloping Horse upon them, this being part of the
Brunswick Arms.—W. W. 1800.

[A bitter winter it was when these verses were composed by the side of my
sister, in our lodgings at a draper's house, in the romantic imperial town of
Goslar, on the edge of the Hartz Forest. In this town the German emperors
of the Franconian Line were accustomed to keep their court, and it retains
vestiges of ancient splendour. So severe was the cold of this winter, that
when we passed out of the parlour warmed by the stove, our cheeks were
struck by the air as by cold iron. I slept in a room over a passage that was
not ceiled. The people of the house used to say rather unfeelingly, that they
expected I should be frozen to death some night; but with the protection of
a pelisse lined with fur, and a dog's skin bonnet, such as was worn by the
peasants, I walked daily on the ramparts, or on a sort of public ground or
garden, in which was a pond. Here I had no companion but a kingfisher, a
beautiful creature that used to glance by me. I consequently became much
attached to it. During these walks I composed the poem that follows, A
Poet's Epitaph.—I. F.]

return to note after The Poet's Epitaph.

One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection." Wordsworth originally
gave to this poem the title "The Fly," but erased it before publication.—Ed.

The Poem

text variant footnoteline
number
A plague on your languages, German and 1
Norse!
Let me have the song of the kettle;
And the tongs and the poker, instead of that
horse 2 5
That gallops away with such fury and force 3
On this dreary dull plate of black metal. 4

See that Fly,—a disconsolate creature! 5
perhaps
A child of the field or the grove; 10
And, sorrow for him! the dull treacherous
heat
Has seduced the poor fool from his winter
retreat,
And he creeps to the edge of my stove. 6
15
Alas! how he fumbles about the domains
Which this comfortless oven environ!
He cannot find out in what track he must
crawl,
Now back to the tiles, then in search of the 7
wall, 20
And now on the brink of the iron.
8
Stock-still there he stands like a traveller
bemazed:
The best of his skill he has tried;

His feelers, methinks, I can see him put 25
forth
To the east and the west, to the south and 9
the north
But he finds neither guide-post nor guide.

His spindles sink under him, foot, leg, and 30
thigh!
His eyesight and hearing are lost;
Between life and death his blood freezes
and thaws; 10
And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky
gauze 35
Are glued to his sides by the frost.

No brother, no mate has he near him—while
I
Can draw warmth from the cheek of my
Love;
As blest and as glad, in this desolate gloom,
As if green summer grass were the floor of
my room,
And woodbines were hanging above.

Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless
Thing!
Thy life I would gladly sustain
Till summer come up from the south, and
with crowds
Of thy brethren a march thou should'st
sound through the clouds.
And back to the forests again!

Contents

Variant 1:
1820
1800
A fig for ...

return

Variant 2:
1800
1827
On his ...

The text of 1837 returns to that of 1800.
return

Variant 3:

Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff,
But her pulses beat slower and slower,
The weather in Forty was cutting and rough,
And then, as Heaven knows, the glass stood low enough,
And now it is four degrees lower.

This stanza occurs only in the editions of 1800 to 1815.
return

Variant 4:

1820
1800
Here's a Fly, ...

return

Variant 5:
1827
1800
... this ...

return

Variant 6:
1837
1800
... and not back to the wall,

return

Variant 7:
1827
1800
... and the South ...

return

Variant 8:
1845
1800
See! his spindles ...

1827
How his spindles ...

return

Variant 9:
1827
1800
... no Friend ...

MS.
No brother has he, no companion, while I

return

Variant 10:
1837
1800
... comes ...

return

1799 Contents
Main Contents

A Poet's Epitaph
Composed 1799.—Published 1800

One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."—Ed.

The Poem

text variant footnoteline
number
Art thou a Statist in the van 1
Of public conflicts trained and bred? 2
—First learn to love one living man;
Then may'st thou think upon the dead.

A Lawyer art thou?—draw not nigh! 5
Go, carry to some fitter place
The keenness of that practised eye,
The hardness of that sallow face. 3

Art thou a Man of purple cheer?
A rosy Man, right plump to see? 10
Approach; yet, Doctor, not too near, A
This grave no cushion is for thee.

Or art thou one of gallant pride, 4
A Soldier and no man of chaff?

Welcome!—but lay thy sword aside, 15
And lean upon a peasant's staff.

Physician art thou?—one, all eyes,
Philosopher!—a fingering slave,
One that would peep and botanize
Upon his mother's grave? 20

Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece,
O turn aside,—and take, I pray,
That he below may rest in peace,
Thy ever-dwindling soul, away! 5

A Moralist perchance appears; 25
Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod:
And he has neither eyes nor ears;
Himself his world, and his own God;

One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can
cling 6 30
Nor form, nor feeling, great or small; 7
A reasoning, self-sufficing thing,
An intellectual All-in-all!

Shut close the door; press down the latch;
Sleep in thy intellectual crust; 35
Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch
Near this unprofitable dust.

But who is He, with modest looks, B
And clad in homely russet brown?
He murmurs near the running brooks 40
A music sweeter than their own.

He is retired as noontide dew,
Or fountain in a noon-day grove;
And you must love him, ere to you

He will seem worthy of your love.
45
The outward shows of sky and earth,
Of hill and valley, he has viewed;
And impulses of deeper birth
Have come to him in solitude.

In common things that round us lie 50
Some random truths he can impart,—
The harvest of a quiet eye
That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

But he is weak; both Man and Boy,
Hath been an idler in the land; 55
Contented if he might enjoy
The things which others understand.

—Come hither in thy hour of strength;
Come, weak as is a breaking wave!
Here stretch thy body at full length; 60
Or build thy house upon this grave.

Contents

Note

Variant 1:
1837

1800
... Statesman, ...

return

Variant 2:
1837
1800
Of public business ...

return

Variant 3:
1820

... to some other place
The hardness of thy coward eye, 1800
The falsehood of thy sallow face.

return

Variant 4:
1820
1800
Art thou a man of gallant pride,

return

Variant 5:
1837

1800
Thy pin-point of a soul away!

1815
That abject thing, thy soul, away!

return

Variant 6:
1837
1800
... nor ...

return

Variant 7:
1800
1802
... self-sufficient ...

The edition of 1815 returns to the text of 1800.
return

Footnote A: D. D., not M. D. The physician is referred to in the fifth
stanza.—Ed.
return to footnote mark

Footnote B: Compare Thomson's description of the Bard, in his Castle of
Indolence (canto ii., stanza xxxiii.):

'He came, the bard, a little Druid wight,
Of withered aspect; but his eye was keen,
With sweetness mixed. In russet brown bedight,
He crept along, etc.'

Ed.
return

Note: See the Fenwick note to the poem, Written in Germany, on one of
the coldest Days of the Century (p. 73).

"The Poet's Epitaph is disfigured to my taste by the common satire
upon parsons and lawyers in the beginning, and the coarse epithet of
"pin-point," in the sixth stanza. All the rest is eminently good, and your
own."

(Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth, January 1801.)—Ed.

1799 Contents
Main Contents

"Strange fits of passion have I known"
Composed 1799.—Published 1800

[Written in Germany, 1799.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems founded on the Affections." In MS. Wordsworth gave, as
the title, "A Reverie," but erased it.—Ed.

The Poem

text variant footnoteline
number
Strange fits of passion have I known: 1
And I will dare to tell,
But in the Lover's ear alone,
What once to me befel.

When she I loved looked every day 5
Fresh as a rose in June, 2
I to her cottage bent my way,
Beneath an evening moon. 3

Upon the moon I fixed my eye,
All over the wide lea; 10
With quickening pace my horse drew nigh 4
Those paths so dear to me.

And now we reached the orchard-plot;
And, as we climbed the hill,

Variant 1:
1832
1800
... I have known,

return

Variant 2:
1836

When she I lov'd, was strong and gay 1800
And like a rose in June,

return

Variant 3:
1836
1800
... the ...

return

Variant 4:
1836
1800
My horse trudg'd on, and we drew nigh

return

Variant 5:

1836
1800
Towards the roof of Lucy's cot
The moon descended stilla.

return

Variant 6:
1815
1800
... the planet dropp'd.

return

Sub-Footnote a: Compare the lines in Arthur Hugh Clough's poem, The
Stream of Life:

'And houses stand on either hand
And thou descendest still.'

Ed.
return to footnote mark

1799 Contents
Main Contents

"She dwelt among the untrodden ways"
Composed 1799.—Published 1800

One of the "Poems founded on the Affections." In the edition of 1800 it is
entitled Song.—Ed.

The Poem

text variant footnoteline number
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love: 1

A violet by a mossy stone 5
Half hidden from the eye!
—Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know 2
When Lucy ceased to be; 10
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!

Contents

Variant 1:
1800
1802
A very few ...

The text of the edition of 1805 returns to that of 1800.
return

Variant 2:
The word "lived" was italicised in the edition of 1800 only.
return

1799 Contents
Main Contents

"I travelled among unknown men"
Composed 1799.-Published 1807

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

The Poem

text variant footnoteline
number
I travelled among unknown men,
In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream! 5
Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seem
To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire; 1 10
And she I cherished turned her wheel
Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings showed, thy nights
concealed

The bowers where Lucy played;
And thine too is the last green field 2 A 15
That Lucy's eyes surveyed.

Contents

Variant 1:
MS.
The gladness of desire;

return

Variant 2:
1836

And thine is, too, the last green field 1807
Which ...

1815
That ...

return

Footnote A: Compare Sara Coleridge's comment on this poem in the

Biographia Literaria (1847), vol. ii. chap. ix. p. 173. Also Mrs. Oliphant's
remarks in her Literary History of the Nineteenth Century, vol. i. pp. 306-9.
—Ed.
return to footnote mark

1799 Contents
Main Contents

"Three years she grew in sun and shower"
Composed 1799.—Published 1800

The Poem

[1799. Composed in the Hartz Forest.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Imagination." It has no title in any edition, but
from 1820 to 1836 the second page occupied by the poem is headed "Lucy."
In the editions of 1836 to 1843 it is called "Lucy" in the list of contents.—
Ed.

The Poem

text variant footnote line
number
Three years she grew in sun and shower,
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown;
This Child I to myself will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make 5
A Lady of my own.

"Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse: and with me 1
The Girl, in rock and plain,

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 10
Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain.

"She shall be sportive as the fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs; 15
And her's shall be the breathing balm,
And her's the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.

"The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her; for her the willow bend; 20
Nor shall she fail to see
Even in the motions of the Storm
Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form 2
By silent sympathy.

"The stars of midnight shall be dear 25
To her; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place
Where rivulets dance their wayward
round, A
And beauty born of murmuring sound 30
Shall pass into her face.

"And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,
Her virgin bosom swell;
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 35
While she and I together live
Here in this happy dell."

Thus Nature spake—The work was done
—
How soon my Lucy's race was run! 40
She died, and left to me

This heath, this calm, and quiet scene;
The memory of what has been, B
And never more will be.

Contents

Variant 1:
1800
MS. 1801, and the edition
Her Teacher I myself will be, She is my of 1802.
darling;— ...

The edition of 1805 returns to the text of 1800.
return

Variant 2: A reading—printed in the edition of 1800, but replaced in its list
of errata by that given in the text—may be quoted here,
A beauty that shall mould her form ... 1800
return

Footnote A: Compare Dryden's Indian Emperor, iv. 3.—Ed.
return to footnote mark

Footnote B: On Oct 9, 1800, S. T. Coleridge, in writing to Sir Humphry
Davy of his own Christabel, said,

"I would rather have written Ruth, and Nature's Lady, than a million
such poems."

This poem was printed in The Morning Post, March 2nd, 1801.—Ed.
return

1799 Contents
Main Contents

"A slumber did my spirit seal"
Composed 1799.—Published 1800

[Written in Germany.—I. F.]

Included among the "Poems of the Imagination."A—Ed.

The Poem

text variant footnoteline number
A slumber did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears:
She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force; 5
She neither hears nor sees;
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees. B

Contents

Footnote A: It was one of the "Lucy" Poems. In his instructions to the
printer in 1807, Wordsworth told him to insert "I travelled among unknown
men" after "A slumber did my spirit seal."—Ed.
return to footnote mark

Footnote B: Compare Suckling's Fragmenta Aurea (The Tragedy of
Brennoralt), p. 170, edition 1658.

Heavens! shall this fresh ornament of the world,
These precious love-lines, pass with other common things,
Amongst the wastes of time? What pity 'twere.

Ed.
return

1799 Contents
Main Contents

Address to the Scholars of the Village School of
——
Composed 1798 or 1799.—Published 1842

[Composed at Goslar, in Germany.—I. F.]

First published in "Poems, chiefly of Early and Late Years," and included,
in 1845, among the "Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces."—Ed.

The Poem

text variant footnoteline
number
I come, ye little noisy Crew,
Not long your pastime to prevent;
I heard the blessing which to you
Our common Friend and Father sent.
I kissed his cheek before he died; 5
And when his breath was fled,
I raised, while kneeling by his side,
His hand:—it dropped like lead.
Your hands, dear Little-ones, do all
That can be done, will never fall 10
Like his till they are dead.
By night or day blow foul or fair,

Ne'er will the best of all your train
Play with the locks of his white hair,
Or stand between his knees again. 15

Here did he sit confined for hours;
But he could see the woods and plains,
Could hear the wind and mark the showers
Come streaming down the streaming
panes. 20
Now stretched beneath his grass-green
mound
He rests a prisoner of the ground.
He loved the breathing air,
He loved the sun, but if it rise 25
Or set, to him where now he lies,
Brings not a moment's care.

Alas! what idle words; but take
The Dirge which for our Master's sake
And yours, love prompted me to make. 30
The rhymes so homely in attire
With learned ears may ill agree,
But chanted by your Orphan Quire
Will make a touching melody.

Dirge

Mourn, Shepherd, near thy old grey stone; 35
Thou Angler, by the silent flood;
And mourn when thou art all alone,
Thou Woodman, in the distant wood!

Thou one blind Sailor, rich in joy
Though blind, thy tunes in sadness hum; 40
And mourn, thou poor half-witted Boy!
Born deaf, and living deaf and dumb.

Thou drooping sick Man, bless the Guide
Who checked or turned thy headstrong
youth,
As he before had sanctified 45
Thy infancy with heavenly truth.

Ye Striplings, light of heart and gay,
Bold settlers on some foreign shore,
Give, when your thoughts are turned this
way, 50
A sigh to him whom we deplore.

For us who here in funeral strain
With one accord our voices raise,
Let sorrow overcharged with pain
Be lost in thankfulness and praise. 55

And when our hearts shall feel a sting
From ill we meet or good we miss,
May touches of his memory bring
Fond healing, like a mother's kiss.

By the Side of the Grave Some Years
After 60

Long time his pulse hath ceased to beat;
But benefits, his gift, we trace—
Expressed in every eye we meet
Round this dear Vale, his native place.

To stately Hall and Cottage rude 65
Flowed from his life what still they hold,
Light pleasures, every day, renewed;
And blessings half a century old.

Oh true of heart, of spirit gay,
Thy faults, where not already gone 70
From memory, prolong their stay
For charity's sweet sake alone.

Such solace find we for our loss;
And what beyond this thought we crave
Comes in the promise from the Cross,
Shining upon thy happy grave.

Note
Contents

Note: To this poem, when first published in the "Poems of Early and Late
Years" (1842), Wordsworth appended the note,

"See, upon the subject of the three foregoing pieces, The Fountain [p.
91], etc. etc. in the fifth volume of the Author's Poems."

He thus connects it with the poems referring to Matthew in such a way that
it may be said to belong to that series; and, while he assigned it to the year
1798, both in the edition of 1845, and in that of 1849-50, it is quite possible
that it was written in 1799. "The village school" was the Grammar School
of Hawkshead, where Wordsworth spent his boyhood; and the schoolmaster
was the Rev. William Taylor, M. A., Emmanuel College, Cambridge, who
was the third of the four masters who taught in it during Wordsworth's
residence there. He was master from 1782 to 1786. Just before his death he
sent for the upper boys of the school (amongst whom was Wordsworth), and
calling them into his room, took leave of them with a solemn blessing. This
farewell doubtless suggested the lines:

the blessing which to you
Our common Friend and Father sent.

Mr. Taylor was buried in Cartmell Churchyard. In The Prelude, Wordsworth
writes of him as "an honoured teacher of my youth;" and there describes,
with some minuteness, a visit to his grave. (See book x. l. 532.) It will be
seen, however, from the Fenwick note to Matthew, that the Hawkshead
Schoolmaster, like the Wanderer in The Excursion, was "made up of several
both of his class and men of other occupations;" but of the four masters who
taught Wordsworth at Hawkshead—Peake, Christian, Taylor, and Bowman
—Taylor was far the ablest, the most interesting, and the most beloved by
the boys, and it was doubtless the memory of this man that gave rise to the
above poem, and the four which follow it. He was but thirty-two years old
when he died, 12th June, 1786. This fact, taken in connection with line 14
of the Address, may illustrate the composite character of Matthew.—Ed.

1799 Contents
Main Contents

Matthew
Composed 1799.—Published 1800

The Poem

In the School of—is a tablet on which are inscribed, in gilt letters, the
names of the several persons who have been Schoolmasters there since the
foundation of the School, with the time at which they entered upon and
quitted their office. Opposite one of those names the Author wrote the
following lines.—W. W. 1800.

[Such a tablet as is here spoken of continued to be preserved in Hawkshead
School, though the inscriptions were not brought down to our time. This,
and other poems connected with Matthew, would not gain by a literal detail
of facts. Like the Wanderer in The Excursion this Schoolmaster was made
up of several, both of his class and men of other occupations. I do not ask
pardon for what there is of untruth in such verses, considered strictly as
matters of fact. It is enough, if, being true and consistent in spirit, they
move and teach in a manner not unworthy of a Poet's calling.—I. F.]A

In the editions of 1800 to 1820 this poem had no title except the note
prefixed to it above, although in the Table of Contents it was called Lines
written on a Tablet in a School. From 1820-32 "Matthew" is the page
heading, though there is no title. In the editions of 1827 and 1832 it was
named, in the Table of Contents, by its first line, "If Nature, for a favourite
child." In 1837 it was entitled Matthew. It was included among the "Poems
of Sentiment and Reflection." The Tablet, with the names of the Masters
inscribed on it, still exists in Hawkshead School.—Ed.

The Poem

text variant footnoteline
number
If Nature, for a favourite child,
In thee hath tempered so her clay,
That every hour thy heart runs wild,
Yet never once doth go astray,

Read o'er these lines; and then review 5
This tablet, that thus humbly rears
In such diversity of hue
Its history of two hundred years.

—When through this little wreck of fame,
Cipher and syllable! thine eye 10
Has travelled down to Matthew's name,
Pause with no common sympathy.

And; if a sleeping tear should wake,
Then be it neither checked nor stayed:
For Matthew a request I make 15
Which for himself he had not made.

Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er,
Is silent as a standing pool;
Far from the chimney's merry roar,
And murmur of the village school. 20

The sighs which Matthew heaved were
sighs
Of one tired out with fun and madness;
The tears which came to Matthew's eyes 1
Were tears of light, the dew of gladness.
25
Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup
Of still and serious thought went round,

It seemed as if he drank it up—
He felt with spirit so profound.

—Thou soul of God's best earthly mould! 30
Thou happy Soul! and can it be
That these two words of glittering gold 2
Are all that must remain of thee?

Contents

Variant 1:
1815
1800
... the oil ...

return

Variant 2:
1800
1805, and MS.
... to thee?

The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.
return

Footnote A: On the 27th March 1843, Wordsworth wrote to Professor
Henry Reed of Philadelphia:

"The character of the schoolmaster, had like the Wanderer in The
Excursion a solid foundation in fact and reality, but like him it was
also in some degree a composition: I will not, and need not, call it an
invention—it was no such thing."

Ed.
return to footnote mark

1799 Contents
Main Contents

The Two April Mornings
Composed 1799.—Published 1800

One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."—Ed.

The Poem

text variant footnoteline
number
We walked along, while bright and red
Uprose the morning sun;
And Matthew stopped, he looked, and
said,
"The will of God be done!"
5
A village schoolmaster was he,
With hair of glittering grey;
As blithe a man as you could see
On a spring holiday.

And on that morning, through the grass, 10
And by the steaming rills,
We travelled merrily, to pass
A day among the hills.

"Our work," said I, "was well begun,

Then, from thy breast what thought, 15
Beneath so beautiful a sun,
So sad a sigh has brought?"

A second time did Matthew stop;
And fixing still his eye
Upon the eastern mountain-top, 20
To me he made reply:

"Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
Brings fresh into my mind
A day like this which I have left
Full thirty years behind.
25
"And just above yon slope of corn
Such colours, and no other,
Were in the sky, that April morn, 1
Of this the very brother.

"With rod and line I sued the sport 2 30
Which that sweet season gave, 3
And, to the church-yard come, stopped
short
Beside my daughter's grave.

"Nine summers had she scarcely seen, 4 35
The pride of all the vale;
And then she sang;—she would have been
A very nightingale.

"Six feet in earth my Emma lay;
And yet I loved her more, 40
For so it seemed, than till that day
I e'er had loved before.

"And, turning from her grave, I met,
Beside the church-yard yew,

A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet
With points of morning dew. 45

"A basket on her head she bare;
Her brow was smooth and white:
To see a child so very fair,
It was a pure delight!
50
"No fountain from its rocky cave
E'er tripped with foot so free; A
She seemed as happy as a wave
That dances on the sea.

"There came from me a sigh of pain 55
Which I could ill confine;
I looked at her, and looked again:
And did not wish her mine!"

Matthew is in his grave, yet now, 5
Methinks, I see him stand, 60
As at that moment, with a bough
Of wilding in his hand.

Contents

Variant 1:
1802

And on that slope of springing corn
The self-same crimson hue
Fell from the sky that April morn, 1800
The same which now I view!

return

Variant 2:
1815

With rod and line my silent sport 1800
I plied by Derwent's wave,

return

Variant 3:
1837
1800
And, coming to the church, ...

return

Variant 4:
1800
1802
... sung;— ...

The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.
return

Variant 5:

1820
1800
... his bough

return

Footnote A: Compare the Winters Tale, act IV. scene iii. ll. 140-2:

'when you do dance, I wish you
A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that, etc.'

Ed.
return to footnote mark

1799 Contents
Main Contents

The Fountain
A Conversation

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."—Ed.

The Poem

text variant footnoteline number
We talked with open heart, and tongue
Affectionate and true,
A pair of friends, though I was young,
And Matthew seventy-two.

We lay beneath a spreading oak, 5
Beside a mossy seat;
And from the turf a fountain broke,
And gurgled at our feet.

"Now, Matthew!" said I, "let us match 1
This water's pleasant tune 10
With some old border-song, or catch
That suits a summer's noon;

"Or of the church-clock and the chimes

Sing here beneath the shade,
That half-mad thing of witty rhymes 15
Which you last April made!"

In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
The spring beneath the tree;
And thus the dear old Man replied,
The grey-haired man of glee: 20

"No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears; 2
How merrily it goes!
'Twill murmur on a thousand years,
And flow as now it flows.

"And here, on this delightful day, 25
I cannot choose but think
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
Beside this fountain's brink.

"My eyes are dim with childish tears,
My heart is idly stirred, 30
For the same sound is in my ears
Which in those days I heard.

"Thus fares it still in our decay:
And yet the wiser mind
Mourns less for what age takes away 35
Than what it leaves behind. A

"The blackbird amid leafy trees,
The lark above the hill, 3
Let loose their carols when they please,
Are quiet when they will. 40

"With Nature never do they wage
A foolish strife; they see
A happy youth, and their old age

Is beautiful and free:

"But we are pressed by heavy laws; 45
And often, glad no more,
We wear a face of joy, because
We have been glad of yore.

"If there be one who need bemoan 4
His kindred laid in earth, 50
The household hearts that were his own;
It is the man of mirth.

"My days, my Friend, are almost gone,
My life has been approved,
And many love me; but by none 55
Am I enough beloved."

"Now both himself and me he wrongs,
The man who thus complains!
I live and sing my idle songs
Upon these happy plains; 60

"And, Matthew, for thy children dead
I'll be a son to thee!"
At this he grasped my hand, and said, 5
"Alas! that cannot be."

We rose up from the fountain-side; 65
And down the smooth descent
Of the green sheep-track did we glide;
And through the wood we went;

And, ere we came to Leonard's rock,
He sang those witty rhymes 70
About the crazy old church-clock,
And the bewildered chimes.

Contents

Variant 1:
1820
1800
Now, Matthew, let us try to match

return

Variant 2:
1837
1800
Down to the vale this water steers,

Down to the vale with eager speed
Behold this streamlet run,
From subterranean bondage freed, C.
And glittering in the sun.

From subterranean darkness freed, C.
A pleasant course to run.

Down to the vale this streamlet hies,
Look, how it seems to run,
C.

As if 't were pleased with summer skies,
And glad to meet the sun.

MS.
And glad to greet the sun.

No guide it needs, no check it fears,
How merrily it goes!
'Twill murmur on a thousand years, C.
And flow as now it flows.

Down towards the vale with eager speed,
Behold this streamlet run
As if 'twere pleased with summer skies C.
And glad to meet the sun.

return

Variant 3:
1837

The blackbird in the summer trees, 1800
The lark upon the hill,

return

Variant 4:
1832
1800 and MS.
... is ....

return

Variant 5:
1815
1800
... his hands, ...

return

Footnote A:

"Pour me plaindre a moy, regarde noti tant ce qu'on moste, que ce qui
me reste de sauvre, et dedans et dehors."

Montaigne, Essais, iii. 12.

Compare also:

"Themistocles quidem, cum ei Simonides, an quis alius artem
memoriæ polliceretur, Oblivionis, inquit, mallem; nam memini etiam
quæ nolo, oblivisci non possum quæ volo."

Cicero, De Finibus, II. 32.—Ed.
return to footnote mark

1799 Contents
Main Contents

To a Sexton
Composed 1799.—Published 1800

[Written in Germany, 1799.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Fancy."—Ed.

The Poem

text variant footnoteline number
Let thy wheel-barrow alone—
Wherefore, Sexton, piling still
In thy bone-house bone on bone?
'Tis already like a hill
In a field of battle made, 5
Where three thousand skulls are laid;
These died in peace each with the other,—
Father, sister, friend, and brother.

Mark the spot to which I point!
From this platform, eight feet square, 10
Take not even a finger-joint:
Andrew's whole fire-side is there.
Here, alone, before thine eyes,
Simon's sickly daughter lies,
From weakness now, and pain defended, 15

Whom he twenty winters tended.

Look but at the gardener's pride—
How he glories, when he sees
Roses, lilies, side by side,
Violets in families! 20
By the heart of Man, his tears,
By his hopes and by his fears,
Thou, too heedless, art the Warden 1
Of a far superior garden.

Thus then, each to other dear, 25
Let them all in quiet lie,
Andrew there, and Susan here,
Neighbours in mortality.
And, should I live through sun and rain
Seven widowed years without my Jane, 30
O Sexton, do not then remove her,
Let one grave hold the Loved and Lover!

Contents

Variant 1:
1845
1800
Thou, old Grey-beard! ...

return

1799 Contents
Main Contents

The Danish Boy
A Fragment

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

The Poem

[Written in Germany, 1799. It was entirely a fancy; but intended as a
prelude to a ballad-poem never written.—I. F.]

In the editions of 1800-1832 this poem was called A Fragment. From 1836
onwards it was named The Danish Boy. A Fragment. It was one of the
"Poems of the Fancy." —Ed.

The Poem

stanza text variant footnoteline
number
I Between two sister moorland rills
There is a spot that seems to lie
Sacred to flowerets of the hills,
And sacred to the sky.
And in this smooth and open dell 5
There is a tempest-stricken tree;
A corner-stone by lightning cut,
The last stone of a lonely hut; 1

And in this dell you see
A thing no storm can e'er destroy, 10
The shadow of a Danish Boy. A
II In clouds above, the lark is heard,
But drops not here to earth for rest; 2
Within this lonesome nook the bird 3
Did never build her nest. 4 15
No beast, no bird hath here his
home; 5
Bees, wafted on the breezy air,
Pass high above those fragrant bells
To other flowers:—to other dells 6 20
Their burthens do they bear;
The Danish Boy walks here alone:
The lovely dell is all his own.
III A Spirit of noon-day is he;
Yet seems a form of flesh and blood; 7
Nor piping shepherd shall he be, 25
Nor herd-boy of the wood. 8
A regal vest of fur he wears,
In colour like a raven's wing;
It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew; 9
But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue 30
As budding pines in spring;
His helmet has a vernal grace,
Fresh as the bloom upon his face.
IV A harp is from his shoulder slung;
Resting the harp upon his knee; 35
To words of a forgotten tongue,
He suits its melody. 10
Of flocks upon the neighbouring hill 11
He is the darling and the joy;
And often, when no cause appears, 40
The mountain-ponies prick their
ears,
—They hear the Danish Boy, 12

While in the dell he sings alone
Beside the tree and corner-stone. 13
V There sits he; in his face you spy 45
No trace of a ferocious air,
Nor ever was a cloudless sky
So steady or so fair.
The lovely Danish Boy is blest
And happy in his flowery cove: 50
From bloody deeds his thoughts are
far;
And yet he warbles songs of war, 14
That seem like songs of love,
For calm and gentle is his mien; 55
Like a dead Boy he is serene.

Contents

Variant 1:
1836
1800
... a cottage hut;

return

Variant 2:
1827
1800
He sings his blithest and his best;

1820
She sings, regardless of her rest,

return

Variant 3:
1827
1800
But in ...

return

Variant 4:
1820
1800
... his ...

return

Variant 5:
1827
1800
The bees borne on ...

return

Variant 6:
1827
1800
Nor ever linger there.

return

Variant 7:
1836
1800
He seems ...

return

Variant 8:
1802

A piping Shepherd he might be, 1800
A Herd-boy of the wood.

return

Variant 9:
1802
1800
... nor ...

return

Variant 10:
1836

He rests the harp upon his knee,
And there in a forgotten tongue 1800
He warbles melody.

return

Variant 11:
1827
1800
Of flocks and herds both far and near

1802
Of flocks upon the neighbouring hills

return

Variant 12:
1845
1800
... sits ...

return

Variant 13:

When near this blasted tree you pass,
Two sods are plainly to be seen
Close at its root, and each with grass
Is cover'd fresh and green.
Like turf upon a new-made grave
These two green sods together lie,
Nor heat, nor cold, nor rain, nor wind
Can these two sods together bind,
Nor sun, nor earth, nor sky,
But side by side the two are laid,
As if just sever'd by the spade.

This stanza occurs only in the edition of 1800.
return

Variant 14:
1815
1800
They seem ...

return

Footnote A: These Stanzas were designed to introduce a Ballad upon the
Story of a Danish Prince who had fled from Battle, and, for the sake of the
valuables about him, was murdered by the Inhabitant of a Cottage in which
he had taken refuge. The House fell under a curse, and the Spirit of the
Youth, it was believed, haunted the Valley where the crime had been
committed.— W. W. 1827.
return to footnote mark

1799 Contents
Main Contents

Lucy Gray; or, Solitude
Composed 1799.—Published 1800

The Poem

[Written at Goslar, in Germany, in 1799. It was founded on a circumstance
told me by my sister, of a little girl, who, not far from Halifax in Yorkshire,
was bewildered in a snow storm. Her footsteps were tracked by her parents
to the middle of a lock of a canal, and no other vestige of her, backward or
forward, could be traced. The body, however, was found in the canal. The
way in which the incident was treated, and the spiritualizing of the
character, might furnish hints for contrasting the imaginative influences,
which I have endeavoured to throw over common life, with Crabbe's
matter-of-fact style of handling subjects of the same kind. This is not
spoken to his disparagement, far from it; but to direct the attention of
thoughtful readers into whose hands these notes may fall, to a comparison
that may enlarge the circle of their sensibilities, and tend to produce in them
a catholic judgment.—I. F.]

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

The Poem

text variant footnote line
number

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: 1
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; 5
She dwelt on a wide moor, 2
—The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green; 10
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 3
Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night—
You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, Child, to light 15
Your mother through the snow."

"That, Father! will I gladly do:
'Tis scarcely afternoon—
The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon!" 20

At this the Father raised his hook,
And snapped a faggot-band; 4
He plied his work;—and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe: 25
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time:
She wandered up and down; 30

And many a hill did Lucy climb
But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight 35
To serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door. 40

They wept—and, turning homeward, 5
cried,
"In heaven we all shall meet;" 6
—When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.
7 45
Then downwards from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone-wall;

And then an open field they crossed: 50
The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost; 8
And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank 9
Those footmarks, one by one, 55
Into the middle of the plank; 10
And further there were none!

—Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 60

Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song A
That whistles in the wind.

Note
Contents

Variant 1:
1800
Only in the second issue of 1800.
Oft had I heard ...

return

Variant 2:
1800 (2nd issue).
1800
She dwelt on a wild Moor

MS.
She lived on a wide Moor

return

Variant 3:
1800
C.
... bright ...

return

Variant 4:
1800
MS.
He snapped ...

return

Variant 5:
1827
1800
And now they homeward turn'd, and cry'd

1815
And, turning homeward, now they cried

return

Variant 6:
1800

The Mother turning homeward cried,
"We never more shall meet," MS.
When in the driven snow she spied

return

Variant 7:
1840
1800
Then downward ...

1827
Half breathless ...

return

Variant 8:
1800

... and never lost MS.
Till ...

return

Variant 9:
1827
1800
The ...

return

Variant 10:
1800
1802
... was ...

The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.
return

Footnote A: Compare Gray's ode, On a Distant Prospect of Eton College,
II. 38-9:

'Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind.'

Ed.
return to footnote mark

Note: This poem was illustrated by Sir George Beaumont, in a picture of
some merit, which was engraved by J. C. Bromley, and published in the
collected editions of 1815 and 1820. Henry Crabb Robinson wrote in his
Diary, September 11, 1816 (referring to Wordsworth):

"He mentioned the origin of some poems. Lucy Gray, that tender and
pathetic narrative of a child lost on a common, was occasioned by the
death of a child who fell into the lock of a canal. His object was to
exhibit poetically entire solitude, and he represents the child as
observing the day-moon, which no town or village girl would ever
notice."

A contributor to Notes and Queries, May 12, 1883, whose signature is F.,
writes:

"The Scene of Lucy Gray.—In one of the editions of Wordsworth's
works the scene of this ballad is said to have been near Halifax, in
Yorkshire. I do not think the poet was acquainted with the locality

beyond a sight of the country in travelling through on some journey. I
know of no spot where all the little incidents mentioned in the poem
would exactly fit in, and a few of the local allusions are evidently by a
stranger. There is no 'minster'; the church at Halifax from time
immemorial has always been known as the 'parish church,' and
sometimes as the 'old church,' but has never been styled 'the minster.'
The 'mountain roe,' which of course may be brought in as poetically
illustrative, has not been seen on these hills for generations, and I
scarcely think even the 'fawn at play' for more than a hundred years.
These misapplications, it is almost unnecessary to say, do not detract
from the beauty of the poetry. Some of the touches are graphically true
to the neighbourhood, as, for instance, 'the wide moor,' the 'many a
hill,' the 'steep hill's edge,' the 'long stone wall,' and the hint of the
general loneliness of the region where Lucy 'no mate, no comrade,
knew.' I think I can point out the exact spot—no longer a 'plank,' but a
broad, safe bridge—where Lucy fell into the water. Taking a common-
sense view, that she would not be sent many miles at two o'clock on a
winter afternoon to the town (Halifax, of course), over so lonely a
mountain moor—bearing in mind also that this moor overlooked the
river, and that the river was deep and strong enough to carry the child
down the current—I know only one place where such an accident
could have occurred. The clue is in this verse:

'At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door.'

The hill I take to be the high ridge of Greetland and Norland Moor, and
the plank she had to cross Sterne Mill Bridge, which there spans the
Calder, broad and rapid enough at any season to drown either a young
girl or a grown-up person. The mountain burns, romantic and wild
though they be, are not dangerous to cross, especially for a child old
enough to go and seek her mother. To sum up the matter, the hill
overlooking the moor, the path to and distance from the town, the
bridge, the current, all indicate one point, and one point only, where
this accident could have happened, and that is the bridge near Sterne

Mill. This bridge is so designated from the Sterne family, a branch of
whom in the last century resided close by. The author of Tristram
Shandy spent his boyhood here; and Lucy Gray, had she safely crossed
the plank, would immediately have passed Wood Hall, where the boy
Laurence had lived, and, pursuing her way to Halifax, would have
gone through the meadows in which stood Heath School, where young
Sterne had been educated. The mill-weir at Sterne Mill Bridge was, I
believe, the scene of Lucy Gray's death."

Sterne Mill Bridge, however, crosses the river Calder, while Wordsworth
tells us that the girl lost her life by falling "into the lock of a canal." The
Calder runs parallel with the canal near Sterne Mill Bridge. See J.R. Tutin's
Wordsworth in Yorkshire.—Ed.

1799 Contents
Main Contents

Ruth
Composed 1799.—Published 1800

The Poem

[Written in Germany, 1799. Suggested by an account I had of a wanderer in
Somersetshire.—I. F.]

Classed among the "Poems founded on the Affections" in the editions of
1815 and 1820. In 1827 it was transferred to the "Poems of the
Imagination."—Ed.

The Poem

text variant footnoteline
number
When Ruth was left half desolate,
Her Father took another Mate;
And Ruth, not seven years old,
A slighted child, at her own will 1
Went wandering over dale and hill, 5
In thoughtless freedom, bold.

And she had made a pipe of straw,
And music from that pipe could draw
Like sounds of winds and floods; 2
Had built a bower upon the green, 10
As if she from her birth had been
An infant of the woods.

Beneath her father's roof, alone 3
She seemed to live; her thoughts her own;
Herself her own delight; 15
Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay;
And, passing thus the live-long day,
She grew to woman's height. 4

There came a Youth from Georgia's shore
— 20
A military casque he wore, A
With splendid feathers drest;
He brought them from the Cherokees;
The feathers nodded in the breeze,
And made a gallant crest.
25
From Indian blood you deem him sprung: 5
But no! he spake the English tongue, 6
And bore a soldier's name;
And, when America was free
From battle and from jeopardy, 30
He 'cross the ocean came.

With hues of genius on his cheek
In finest tones the Youth could speak:
—While he was yet a boy,
The moon, the glory of the sun, 35
And streams that murmur as they run,
Had been his dearest joy.

He was a lovely Youth! I guess
The panther in the wilderness
Was not so fair as he; 40
And, when he chose to sport and play,
No dolphin ever was so gay
Upon the tropic sea.

Among the Indians he had fought,
And with him many tales he brought 45
Of pleasure and of fear;
Such tales as told to any maid
By such a Youth, in the green shade,
Were perilous to hear.

He told of girls—a happy rout! 50
Who quit their fold with dance and shout,
Their pleasant Indian town,
To gather strawberries all day long;
Returning with a choral song
When daylight is gone down.
55
He spake of plants that hourly change
Their blossoms, through a boundless range 7 B
Of intermingling hues;
With budding, fading, faded flowers
They stand the wonder of the bowers C 60
From morn to evening dews, 8
D
He told of the magnolia, spread
High as a cloud, high over head! E
The cypress and her spire; F
—Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam 65
Cover a hundred leagues, and seem G
To set the hills on fire.

The Youth of green savannahs spake,
And many an endless, endless lake,
With all its fairy crowds 70
Of islands, that together lie
As quietly as spots of sky H
Among the evening clouds.
9
"How pleasant," then he said, "it were
A fisher or a hunter there, 75

In sunshine or in shade
To wander with an easy mind; 10
And build a household fire, and find
A home in every glade!
11
"What days and what bright years! Ah me! 80
Our life were life indeed, with thee
So passed in quiet bliss,
And all the while," said he, "to know
That we were in a world of woe,
On such an earth as this!"
85
And then he sometimes interwove 12
Fond thoughts about a father's love:
"For there," said he, "are spun
Around the heart such tender ties,
That our own children to our eyes 90
Are dearer than the sun.

"Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me
My helpmate in the woods to be,
Our shed at night to rear;
Or run, my own adopted bride, 95
A sylvan huntress at my side,
And drive the flying deer!

"Belovèd Ruth!"—No more he said. 13
The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed
A solitary tear: 100
She thought again—and did agree
With him to sail across the sea,
And drive the flying deer.

"And now, as fitting is and right,
We in the church our faith will plight, 105
A husband and a wife."
Even so they did; and I may say

That to sweet Ruth that happy day
Was more than human life.

Through dream and vision did she sink, 110
Delighted all the while to think
That on those lonesome floods,
And green savannahs, she should share
His board with lawful joy, and bear
His name in the wild woods.
115
But, as you have before been told,
This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold,
And, with his dancing crest,
So beautiful, through savage lands
Had roamed about, with vagrant bands 120
Of Indians in the West.

The wind, the tempest roaring high,
The tumult of a tropic sky,
Might well be dangerous food
For him, a Youth to whom was given 125
So much of earth—so much of heaven,
And such impetuous blood.

Whatever in those climes he found
Irregular in sight or sound
Did to his mind impart 130
A kindred impulse, seemed allied
To his own powers, and justified
The workings of his heart.
14
Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought,
The beauteous forms of nature wrought, 15 135
Fair trees and gorgeous flowers;
The breezes their own languor lent;
The stars had feelings, which they sent 16
Into those favored bowers.

Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween 17 140
That sometimes there did intervene
Pure hopes of high intent:
For passions linked to forms so fair 18
And stately, needs must have their share
Of noble sentiment.
19 145
But ill he lived, much evil saw,
With men to whom no better law
Nor better life was known;
Deliberately, and undeceived,
Those wild men's vices he received, 150
And gave them back his own.

His genius and his moral frame
Were thus impaired, and he became
The slave of low desires:
A Man who without self-control 155
Would seek what the degraded soul
Unworthily admires.

And yet he with no feigned delight
Had wooed the Maiden, day and night
Had loved her, night and morn: 160
What could he less than love a Maid
Whose heart with so much nature played
So kind and so forlorn!

Sometimes, most earnestly, he said,
"O Ruth! I have been worse than dead; 165
False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain,
Encompassed me on every side
When I, in confidence and pride, 20
Had crossed the Atlantic main.

"Before me shone a glorious world— 170

Fresh as a banner bright, unfurled 21
To music suddenly:
I looked upon those hills and plains,
And seemed as if let loose from chains,
To live at liberty. 22
175
"No more of this; for now, by thee,
Dear Ruth! more happily set free 23
With nobler zeal I burn;
My soul from darkness is released, 24
Like the whole sky when to the east 180
The morning doth return." 25
26
Full soon that better mind was gone;
No hope, no wish remained, not one,—
They stirred him now no more;
New objects did new pleasure give, 185
And once again he wished to live
As lawless as before.

Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared,
They for the voyage were prepared,
And went to the sea-shore, 190
But, when they thither came, the Youth
Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth
Could never find him more.

God help thee, Ruth!-Such pains she had,
That she in half a year was mad, 195
And in a prison housed;
And there, with many a doleful song
Made of wild words, her cup of wrong 27
She fearfully caroused.

Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, 200
Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,
Nor pastimes of the May;

—They all were with her in her cell; 28
And a clear brook with cheerful knell
Did o'er the pebbles play.
205
When Ruth three seasons thus had lain,
There came a respite to her pain;
She from her prison fled;
But of the Vagrant none took thought;
And where it liked her best she sought 210
Her shelter and her bread.

Among the fields she breathed again:
The master-current of her brain
Ran permanent and free; I
And, coming to the Banks of Tone, 29 215
There did she rest; and dwell alone
Under the greenwood tree.
30
The engines of her pain, the tools
That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools,
And airs that gently stir 220
The vernal leaves—she loved them still;
Nor ever taxed them with the ill
Which had been done to her.

A Barn her winter bed supplies;
But, till the warmth of summer skies 225
And summer days is gone, 31
(And all do in this tale agree)
She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree,
And other home hath none.

An innocent life, yet far astray! 32 230
And Ruth will, long before her day,
Be broken down and old:
Sore aches she needs must have! but less
Of mind, than body's wretchedness, 33

From damp, and rain, and cold.
235
If she is prest by want of food,
She from her dwelling in the wood
Repairs to a road-side;
And there she begs at one steep place
Where up and down with easy pace 240
The horsemen-travellers ride.

That oaten pipe of hers is mute,
Or thrown away; but with a flute
Her loneliness she cheers:
This flute, made of a hemlock stalk, 245
At evening in his homeward walk
The Quantock woodman hears.

I, too, have passed her on the hills
Setting her little water-mills
By spouts and fountains wild— 250
Such small machinery as she turned
Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned,
A young and happy Child!

Farewell! and when thy days are told,
Ill-fated Ruth, in hallowed mould 255
Thy corpse shall buried be,
For thee a funeral bell shall ring,
And all the congregation sing
A Christian psalm for thee.

Note
Contents

Variant 1:
1802

And so, not seven years old, 1800
The slighted Child ...

return

Variant 2:
1836

And from that oaten pipe could draw 1800
All sounds ...

return

Variant 3:
This stanza was added in the edition of 1802.
return

Variant 4:
1827

She pass'd her time; and in this way 1802
Grew up to Woman's height.

return

Variant 5:
1836
1800
Ah no! ...

return

Variant 6:
1805
1800
... bare ...

return

Variant 7:
1836

He spake of plants divine and strange
That ev'ry day their blossoms change, 1800
Ten thousand lovely hues!

1802
... every hour ...

return

Variant 8:
Of march and ambush, siege and
fight,
Then did he tell; and with delight

The heart of Ruth would ache;
Wild histories they were, and dear:
But 'twas a thing of heaven to hear Only in the editions of 1802 and
When of himself he spake! 1805.

The following is the order of the stanzas in the edition of 1802.
The first, fifth, and last had not appeared before.

Sometimes most earnestly he said;
"O Ruth! I have been worse than dead:
False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain
Encompass'd me on every side
When I, in thoughtlessness and pride,
Had cross'd the Atlantic Main.

Whatever in those Climes I found
Irregular in sight or sound
Did to my mind impart
A kindred impulse, seem'd allied
To my own powers, and justified
The workings of my heart.

Nor less to feed unhallow'd thought
The beauteous forms of nature wrought,
Fair trees and lovely flowers;
The breezes their own languor lent;
The stars had feelings which they sent
Into those magic bowers.

Yet, in my worst pursuits, I ween,
That often there did intervene
Pure hopes of high intent;
My passions, amid forms so fair
And stately, wanted not their share
Of noble sentiment.

So was it then, and so is now:

For, Ruth! with thee I know not how
I feel my spirit burn
Even as the east when day comes forth;
And to the west, and south, and north,
The morning doth return.

It is a purer better mind:
O Maiden innocent and kind
What sights I might have seen!
Even now upon my eyes they break!"
—And he again began to speak
Of Lands where he had been.
The last stanza is only in the editions of 1802-1805a.
return

Variant 9:
1836
1800
And then he said "How sweet it were

return

Variant 10:
1845

A gardener in the shade,
Still wandering with an easy mind 1800
To build ...

In sunshine or through shade
To wander with an easy mind; 1836
And build ...

return

Variant 11:
1836
1800
... sweet ...

return

Variant 12:
1832
1800
Dear ...

return

Variant 13:
1820
1800
Sweet Ruth alone at midnight shed

return

Variant 14:
1800
1802 and MS.
... unhallow'd ...

The edition of 1805 returns to the reading of 1800.
return

Variant 15:
1845
1800
... lovely ...

return

Variant 16:
1845
1800
... magic ...

1815
... gorgeous ...

return

Variant 17:
1800
1802
That often ...

The text of 1805 returns to that of 1800.
return

Variant 18:
1800

For passions, amid forms so fair 1802
And stately, wanted not their share

The text of 1805 returns to that of 1800.
return

Variant 19:
1800
1802
Ill did he live ...

The text of 1805 returns to that of 1800.
return

Variant 20:
1805

When I, in thoughtlessness and pride, 1802
Had crossed ...

When first, in confidence and pride, 1820
I crossed ...

C., and the edition of 1840, revert to the reading of 1805.
return

Variant 21:
1840 and C.

"It was a fresh and glorious world,
A banner bright that was unfurled 1805
Before me suddenly:

1836
A banner bright that shone unfurled

return

Variant 22:
Lines 163-168, and 175-180, were added in 1802. Lines 169-174 were
added in 1805. All these were omitted in 1815, but were restored in 1820.
return

Variant 23:
1845

So was it then, and so is now:
For, Ruth! with thee I know not how 1802
I feel my spirit burn

1805
"But wherefore speak of this? for now,
Sweet Ruth! with thee, ...

1836
Dear Ruth! with thee ...

return

Variant 24:
1836

Even as the east when day comes forth; 1802
And to the west, and south, and north,

return

Variant 25:

It is my purer better mind
O maiden innocently kind
What sights I might have seen!
Even now upon my eyes they break!
And then the youth began to speak MS.
Of lands where he had been.

return

Variant 26:
1845
1800
But now the pleasant dream was gone,

1820
Full soon that purer mind ...

return

Variant 27:
1836

And there, exulting in her wrongs,
Among the music of her songs 1800
She fearfully carouz'dib.

And there she sang tumultuous songs,
By recollection of her wrongs, 1820

To fearful passion rouzed.

return

Variant 28:
1836
1800
wild brook....

return

Variant 29:
1802

And to the pleasant Banks of Tone 1800
She took her way, to dwell alone

return

Variant 30:
1802
1800
... grief, ...

return

Variant 31:
1805
1800
(And in this tale we all agree)

return

Variant 32:
1805

The neighbours grieve for her, and say 1802
That she will ...

return

Variant 33:
This stanza first appeared in the edition of 1802.
return

Footnote A: Taken from the portrait of the chief in Bartram's frontispiece.
—Ed.
return to footnote mark

Footnote B:

"The tall aspiring Gordonia lacianthus ... gradually changing colour,
from green to golden yellow, from that to a scarlet, from scarlet to
crimson, and lastly to a brownish purple, ... so that it may be said to
change and renew its garments every morning throughout the year."

See Travels through North and South Carolina, Georgia, East Florida, the
Cherokee Country, etc., by William Bartram (1791), pp. 159, 160.—Ed.
return

Footnote C:

"Its thick foliage of a dark green colour is flowered over with large
milk-white, fragrant blossoms, ... renewed every morning, and that in
such incredible profusion that the tree appears silvered over with them,
and the ground beneath covered with the fallen flowers. It, at the same
time, continually pushes forth new twigs, with young buds on them."

(Bartram's Travels, etc., p. 159.)—Ed.
return

Footnote D: Magnolia grandiflora.—W. W. 1800; and Bartram's Travels, p.
8. —Ed.
return

Footnote E:

"The Cypressus distichia stands in the first order of North American
trees. Its majestic stature, lifting its cumbrous top towards the skies,
and casting a wide shade upon the ground, as a dark intervening
cloud," etc.

(Bartram's Travels, p. 88).—Ed.
return

Footnote F: The splendid appearance of these scarlet flowers, which are
scattered with such profusion over the Hills in the Southern parts of North
America is frequently mentioned by Bartram in his Travels.—W. W. 1800.
return

Footnote G: Mr. Ernest Coleridge tells me he

"has traced, to a note-book of Coleridge's in the British Museum, the
source from which Wordsworth derived his description of Georgian
scenery in Ruth. He does, I know, refer to Bartram, but the whole
passage is a poetical rendering, and a pretty close one, of Bartram's
poetical narrative. I have a portrait—the frontispiece of Bartram's
Travels—of Mico Chlucco, king of the Seminoles, whose feathers nod
in the breeze just as did the military casque of the 'youth from
Georgia's shore.'"

Ed.
return

Footnote H:

"North and south almost endless green plains and meadows,
embellished with islets and projecting promontories of high dark
forests, where the pyramidal Magnolia grandiflora ... conspicuously
towers."

(Bartram's Travels, p. 145).—Ed.
return

Footnote I: The Tone is a River of Somersetshire, at no great distance from
the Quantock Hills. These Hills, which are alluded to a few stanzas below,
are extremely beautiful, and in most places richly covered with Coppice
woods. W. W. 1800.
return

Sub-Footnote a: The edition of 1805 substitutes the stanzas beginning,

'It was a fresh and glorious world'

for stanzas 2, 3, and 4 of the above six in this note, but it inserts these
omitted stanzas later on as Nos. 27, 28, 29.—Ed.
return

Sub-Footnote b: Wordsworth wrote to Barren Field in 1828 that this stanza

"was altered, Lamb having observed that it was not English. I like it
better myself;'

(i.e. the version of 1800)

"but certainly to carouse cups—that is to empty them—is the genuine
English."

Ed.
return

Note: The following extract from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal gives the
date of the stanzas added to Ruth in subsequent editions:

"Sunday, March 8th, 1802.—I stitched up The Pedlar, wrote out Ruth,
read it with the alterations.... William brought two new stanzas of
Ruth."

The transpositions of stanzas, and their omission from certain editions and
their subsequent re-introduction, in altered form, in later ones, make it
extremely difficult to give the textual history of Ruth in footnotes. They are
even more bewildering than the changes introduced into Simon Lee.—Ed.

1799 Contents
Main Contents

1798←end of Volume II: 1799 →1800
Main Contents

Wordsworth's Poetical Works, Volume 2: 1800

Edited by William Knight

1896

Table of Contents

1800
"On Nature's invitation do I come"
"Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak"
Ellen Irwin; or, The Braes of Kirtle
Hart-Leap Well
The Idle Shepherd-Boys; or, Dungeon-Ghyll Force
The Pet-Lamb
The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale

1800
Towards the close of December 1799, Wordsworth came to live at Dove
Cottage, Town-end, Grasmere. The poems written during the following year
(1800), are more particularly associated with that district of the Lakes. Two
of them were fragments of a canto of The Recluse, entitled "Home at
Grasmere," referring to his settlement at Dove Cottage. Others, such as
Michael, and The Brothers—classed by him afterwards among the "Poems
founded on the Affections,"—deal with incidents in the rural life of the
dalesmen of Westmoreland and Cumberland. Most of the "Poems on the
Naming of Places" were written during this year; and the "Places" are all in
the neighbourhood of Grasmere. To these were added several "Pastoral
Poems"—such as The Idle Shepherd Boys; or, Dungeon-Ghyll Force—
sundry "Poems of the Fancy," and one or two "Inscriptions." In all, twenty-
five poems were written in the year 1800; and, with the exception of the
two fragments of The Recluse, they were published during the same year in
the second volume of the second edition of "Lyrical Ballads." It is
impossible to fix the precise date of the composition of the fragments of
The Recluse; but, as they refer to the settlement at Dove Cottage—where
Wordsworth went to reside with his sister, on the 21st of December 1799—
they may fitly introduce the poems belonging to the year 1800. They were
first published in 1851 in the Memoirs of Wordsworth (vol. i. pp. 157 and
155 respectively), by the poet's nephew, the late Bishop of Lincoln. The
entire canto of The Recluse, entitled "Home at Grasmere," will be included
in this edition.

The first two poems which follow, as belonging to the year 1800, are parts
of The Recluse, viz. "On Nature's invitation do I come," (which is ll. 71-97,
and 110-125), and "Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak," (which is ll.
152-167). They are not reprinted from the Memoirs of 1851, because the
text there given was, in several instances, inaccurately reproduced from the
original MS., which has been re-examined. They were printed here, in The
Recluse(1888), and in my Life of Wordsworth (vol. i. 1889).—Ed.

Contents 1800
Main Contents

"On Nature's invitation do I come"
Composed (probably) in 1800.—Published 1851

The Poem

text variant footnote line
number
On Nature's invitation do I come,
By Reason sanctioned. Can the choice
mislead,
That made the calmest, fairest spot of earth,
With all its unappropriated good, 5
My own, and not mine only, for with me
Entrenched—say rather peacefully
embowered—
Under yon orchard, in yon humble cot,
A younger orphan of a home extinct, 10
The only daughter of my parents dwells:
Aye, think on that, my heart, and cease to
stir;
Pause upon that, and let the breathing frame
No longer breathe, but all be satisfied. 15
Oh, if such silence be not thanks to God
For what hath been bestowed, then where,
where then
Shall gratitude find rest? Mine eyes did

ne'er 20
Fix on a lovely object, nor my mind
Take pleasure in the midst of happy
thoughts,
But either she, whom now I have, who now
Divides with me this loved abode, was 25
there,
Or not far off. Where'er my footsteps
turned,
Her voice was like a hidden bird that sang;
The thought of her was like a flash of light 30
Or an unseen companionship, a breath
Or fragrance independent of the wind.
In all my goings, in the new and old
Of all my meditations, and in this
Favourite of all, in this the most of all.... 35
Embrace me then, ye hills, and close me in.
Now in the clear and open day I feel
Your guardianship: I take it to my heart;
'Tis like the solemn shelter of the night.
But I would call thee beautiful; for mild, 40
And soft, and gay, and beautiful thou art,
Dear valley, having in thy face a smile,
Though peaceful, full of gladness. Thou art
pleased,
Pleased with thy crags, and woody steeps,
thy lake,
Its one green island, and its winding shores,
The multitude of little rocky hills,
Thy church, and cottages of mountain-stone
Clustered like stars some few, but single
most,
And lurking dimly in their shy retreats,
Or glancing at each other cheerful looks,
Like separated stars with clouds between.

Note
Contents

Note: This Grasmere cottage is identified, much more than Rydal Mount,
with Wordsworth's "poetic prime." It had once been a public-house, bearing
the sign of the Dove and Olive Bough—and as such is referred to in The
Waggoner—from which circumstance it was for a long time, and is now
usually, called "Dove Cottage." A small two storied house, it is described
somewhat minutely—as it was in Wordsworth's time—by De Quincey, in
his Recollections of the Lakes, and by the late Bishop of Lincoln, in the
Memoirs of his uncle.

"The front of it faces the lake; behind is a small plot of orchard and
garden ground, in which there is a spring and rocks; the enclosure
shelves upwards towards the woody sides of the mountains above it."A

The following is De Quincey's description of it, as he saw it in the summer
of 1807.

"A white cottage, with two yew trees breaking the glare of its white
walls" (these yews still stand on the eastern side of the cottage). "A
little semi-vestibule between two doors prefaced the entrance into what
might be considered the principal room of the cottage. It was an
oblong square, not above eight and a half feet high, sixteen feet long,
and twelve broad; wainscoted from floor to ceiling with dark polished
oak, slightly embellished with carving. One window there was—a
perfect and unpretending cottage window, with little diamond panes,
embowered at almost every season of the year with roses; and, in the
summer and autumn, with a profusion of jasmine, and other fragrant
shrubs.... I was ushered up a little flight of stairs, fourteen in all, to a

little drawing-room, or whatever the reader chooses to call it.
Wordsworth himself has described the fireplace of this room as his

'Half-kitchen and half-parlour fire.'

It was not fully seven feet six inches high, and in other respects pretty
nearly of the same dimensions as the rustic hall below. There was,
however, in a small recess, a library of perhaps three hundred volumes,
which seemed to consecrate the room as the poet's study and
composing room, and such occasionally it was. But far oftener he both
studied, as I found, and composed on the high road."B

Other poems of later years refer, much more fully than the above, to this
cottage, and its orchard ground, where so many of Wordsworth's lyrics were
composed.

The "orchard ground," which was for the most part in grass, sloped
upwards; but a considerable portion of the natural rock was exposed; and on
its face, some rough stone steps were cut by Wordsworth, helped by a near
neighbour of his—John Fisher—so as more conveniently to reach the upper
terrace, where the poet built for himself a small arbour. All this garden and
orchard ground is not much altered since 1800. The short terrace walk is
curved, with a sloping bank of grass above, shaded by apple trees, hazel,
holly, laburnum, laurel, and mountain ash. Below the terrace is the well,
which supplied the cottage in Wordsworth's time; and there large leaved
primroses still grow, doubtless the successors of those planted by his own
and his sister's hands. Above, and amongst the rocks, are the daffodils,
which they also brought to their "garden-ground;" the Christmas roses,
which they planted near the well, were removed to the eastern side of the
garden, where they flourished luxuriantly in 1882; but have now, alas!
disappeared. The box-wood planted by the poet grows close to the cottage.
The arbour is now gone; but, in the place where it stood, a seat is erected.
The hidden brook still sings its under-song, as it used to do, "its quiet soul
on all bestowing," and the green linnet may doubtless be seen now, as it
used to be in 1803. The allusions to the garden ground at Dove Cottage, in
the poems which follow, will be noted as they occur.—Ed.

Contents 1800
Main Contents

Footnote A: See the Memoirs of Wordsworth, vol. i. p. 156.—Ed.
return to footnote mark

Footnote B: See Recollections of the Lakes, etc., pp. 130-137, Works, vol.
ii., edition of 1862.—Ed.
return

"Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak"A
Composed (probably) in 1800.—Published 1851

The Poem

text variant footnoteline
number
Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak,
When hitherward we journeyed, side by
side,
Through burst of sunshine and through
flying showers, 5
Paced the long vales, how long they were,
and yet
How fast that length of way was left
behind,
Wensley's rich vale and Sedbergh's naked 10
heights.
The frosty wind, as if to make amends
For its keen breath, was aiding to our steps,
And drove us onward like two ships at sea;
Or, like two birds, companions in mid-air, 15
Parted and reunited by the blast.
Stern was the face of nature; we rejoiced
In that stern countenance; for our souls
thence drew

A feeling of their strength. The naked trees,
The icy brooks, as on we passed, appeared
To question us, "Whence come ye? To what
end?"

Note
Contents

Footnote A: This is a fragment of The Recluse, ll. 152-167; but it was
originally published in the Memoirs of Wordsworth by his nephew (1851).
—Ed.
return to footnote mark

Note: This poem refers to a winter journey on foot, which Wordsworth and
his sister took from Sockburn to Grasmere, by Wensleydale and Askrigg;
and, since he has left us an account of this journey, in a letter to Coleridge,
written a few days after their arrival at Grasmere—a letter in which his
characterisation of Nature is almost as happy as it is in his best poems—
some extracts from it may here be appended.

"We left Sockburn last Tuesday morning. We crossed the Tees by
moonlight in the Sockburn fields, and after ten good miles riding came
in sight of the Swale. It is there a beautiful river, with its green banks
and flat holms scattered over with trees. Four miles further brought us
to Richmond, with its huge ivied castle, its friarage steeple, its castle

tower resembling a huge steeple.... We were now in Wensleydale, and
D. and I set off side by side to foot it as far as Kendal.... We reached
Askrigg, twelve miles, before six in the evening, having been obliged
to walk the last two miles over hard frozen roads.... Next morning the
earth was thinly covered with snow, enough to make the road soft and
prevent its being slippery. On leaving Askrigg we turned aside to see
another waterfall. It was a beautiful morning, with driving snow
showers, which disappeared by fits, and unveiled the east, which was
all one delicious pale orange colour. After walking through two small
fields we came to a mill, which we passed, and in a moment a sweet
little valley opened before us, with an area of grassy ground, and a
stream dashing over various laminæ of black rocks close under a bank
covered with firs; the bank and stream on our left, another woody bank
on our right, and the flat meadow in front, from which, as at
Buttermere, the stream had retired, as it were, to hide itself under the
shade. As we walked up this delightful valley we were tempted to look
back perpetually on the stream, which reflected the orange lights of the
morning among the gloomy rocks, with a brightness varying with the
agitation of the current. The steeple of Askrigg was between us and the
east, at the bottom of the valley; it was not a quarter of a mile distant....
The two banks seemed to join before us with a facing of rock common
to them both. When we reached this bottom the valley opened out
again; two rocky banks on each side, which, hung with ivy and moss,
and fringed luxuriantly with brushwood, ran directly parallel to each
other, and then approaching with a gentle curve at their point of union,
presented a lofty waterfall, the termination of the valley. It was a keen
frosty morning, showers of snow threatening us, but the sun bright and
active. We had a task of twenty-one miles to perform in a short winter's
day.... On a nearer approach the waters seemed to fall down a tall arch
or niche that had shaped itself by insensible moulderings in the wall of
an old castle. We left this spot with reluctance, but highly
exhilarated.... It was bitter cold, the wind driving the snow behind us in
the best style of a mountain storm. We soon reached an inn at a place
called Hardrane, and descending from our vehicles, after warming
ourselves by the cottage fire, we walked up the brook-side to take a
view of a third waterfall. We had not walked above a few hundred
yards between two winding rocky banks before we came full upon the

waterfall, which seemed to throw itself in a narrow line from a lofty
wall of rock, the water, which shot manifestly to some distance from
the rock, seeming to be dispersed into a thin shower scarcely visible
before it reached the bason. We were disappointed in the cascade itself,
though the introductory and accompanying banks were an exquisite
mixture of grandeur and beauty.... After cautiously sounding our way
over stones of all colours and sizes, encased in the clearest water
formed by the spray of the fall, we found the rock, which before had
appeared like a wall, extending itself over our heads, like the ceiling of
a huge cave, from the summit of which the waters shot directly over
our heads into a bason, and among fragments wrinkled over with
masses of ice as white as snow, or rather, as Dorothy says, like
congealed froth. The water fell at least ten yards from us, and we stood
directly behind it, the excavation not so deep in the rock as to impress
any feeling of darkness, but lofty and magnificent; but in connection
with the adjoining banks excluding as much of the sky as could well be
spared from a scene so exquisitely beautiful. The spot where we stood
was as dry as the chamber in which I am now sitting, and the
incumbent rock, of which the groundwork was limestone, veined and
dappled with colours which melted into each other with every possible
variety of colour. On the summit of the cave were three festoons, or
rather wrinkles, in the rock, run up parallel like the folds of a curtain
when it is drawn up. Each of these was hung with icicles of various
length, and nearly in the middle of the festoon, in the deepest valley of
the waves that ran parallel to each other, the stream shot from the rows
of icicles in irregular fits of strength, and with a body of water that
varied every moment. Sometimes the stream shot into the bason in one
continued current; sometimes it was interrupted almost in the midst of
its fall, and was blown towards part of the waterfall at no great
distance from our feet like the heaviest thunder shower. In such a
situation you have at every moment a feeling of the presence of the
sky. Large fleecy clouds drove over our heads above the rush of the
water, and the sky appeared of a blue more than usually brilliant. The
rocks on each side, which, joining with the side of this cave, formed
the vista of the brook, were chequered with three diminutive
waterfalls, or rather courses of water. Each of these was a miniature of
all that summer and winter can produce of delicate beauty. The rock in

the centre of the falls, where the water was most abundant, a deep
black, the adjoining parts yellow, white, purple, and dove colour,
covered with water—plants of the most vivid green, and hung with
streaming icicles, that in some places seem to conceal the verdure of
the plants and the violet and yellow variegation of the rocks; and in
some places render the colours more brilliant. I cannot express to you
the enchanting effect produced by this Arabian scene of colour as the
wind blew aside the great waterfall behind which we stood, and
alternately hid and revealed each of these fairy cataracts in irregular
succession, or displayed them with various gradations of distinctness
as the intervening spray was thickened or dispersed. What a scene too
in summer! In the luxury of our imagination we could not help feeding
upon the pleasure which this cave, in the heat of a July noon, would
spread through a frame exquisitely sensible. That huge rock on the
right, the bank winding round on the left with all its living foliage, and
the breeze stealing up the valley, and bedewing the cavern with the
freshest imaginable spray. And then the murmur of the water, the quiet,
the seclusion, and a long summer day."

Ed.

Contents 1800
Main Contents

Ellen Irwin; or, The Braes of KirtleA
Composed 1800.—Published 1800

The Poem

[It may be worth while to observe that as there are Scotch Poems on this
subject in simple ballad strain, I thought it would be both presumptuous and
superfluous to attempt treating it in the same way; and, accordingly, I chose
a construction of stanza quite new in our language; in fact, the same as that
of Bürger's Leonora, except that the first and third lines do not, in my
stanzas, rhyme. At the outset I threw out a classical image to prepare the
reader for the style in which I meant to treat the story, and so to preclude all
comparison.—I. F.]

In the editions of 1815 and 1820 this was included among the "Poems
founded on the Affections." In 1827 it was placed in the "Memorials of a
Tour in Scotland, 1803."—Ed.

The Poem

text variant footnote line number
Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate
Upon the braes of Kirtle,
Was lovely as a Grecian maid
Adorned with wreaths of myrtle;
Young Adam Bruce beside her lay, 5

And there did they beguile the day
With love and gentle speeches,
Beneath the budding beeches.

From many knights and many squires
The Bruce had been selected; 10
And Gordon, fairest of them all,
By Ellen was rejected.
Sad tidings to that noble Youth!
For it may be proclaimed with truth,
If Bruce hath loved sincerely, 15
That Gordon loves as dearly. 1

But what are Gordon's form and face,
His shattered hopes and crosses,
To them, 'mid Kirtle's pleasant braes,
Reclined on flowers and mosses? 2 20
Alas that ever he was born!
The Gordon, couched behind a thorn,
Sees them and their caressing;
Beholds them blest and blessing.

Proud Gordon, maddened by the thoughts 3 25
That through his brain are travelling,
Rushed forth, and at the heart of Bruce 4
He launched a deadly javelin!
Fair Ellen saw it as it came,
And, starting up to meet the same, 5 30
Did with her body cover
The Youth, her chosen lover.

And, falling into Bruce's arms,
Thus died the beauteous Ellen,
Thus, from the heart of her True-love, 35
The mortal spear repelling.
And Bruce, as soon as he had slain
The Gordon, sailed away to Spain;

And fought with rage incessant
Against the Moorish crescent. 40

But many days, and many months,
And many years ensuing,
This wretched Knight did vainly seek
The death that he was wooing.
So, coming his last help to crave, 45
Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave 6
His body he extended,
And there his sorrow ended.

Now ye, who willingly have heard
The tale I have been telling, 50
May in Kirkonnel churchyard view
The grave of lovely Ellen:
By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid;
And, for the stone upon his head,
May no rude hand deface it, 55
And its forlorn Hic jacet.

Note
Contents

Variant 1:
1815
1800
The Gordon ...

return

Variant 2:
1837

But what is Gordon's beauteous face?
And what are Gordon's crosses
To them who sit by Kirtle's Braes 1800
Upon the verdant mosses?

return

Variant 3:
1837
1800
Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts

return

Variant 4:
1837
1800
And, starting up, to Bruce's heart

return

Variant 5:
1837

Fair Ellen saw it when it came, 1800
And, stepping forth ...

return

Variant 6:
1827

So coming back across the wave, 1800
Without a groan on Ellen's grave

1802
And coming back ...

return

Footnote A: The Kirtle is a River in the Southern part of Scotland, on
whose banks the events here related took place.—W. W. 1800.
return to footnote mark

Note: No Scottish ballad is superior in pathos to Helen of Kirkconnell. It is
based on a traditionary tale—the date of the event being lost—but the
locality, in the parish of Kirkpatrick-Fleming in Dumfriesshire, is known;
and there the graves of "Burd Helen" and her lover are still pointed out.

The following is Sir Walter Scott's account of the story:

"A lady of the name of Helen Irving, or Bell (for this is disputed by the
two clans), daughter of the laird of Kirkconnell in Dumfriesshire, and
celebrated for her beauty, was beloved by two gentlemen in the
neighbourhood. The name of the favoured suitor was Adam Fleming of

Kirkpatrick: that of the other has escaped tradition, although it has
been alleged he was a Bell of Blackel-house. The addresses of the
latter were, however, favoured by the friends of the lady, and the lovers
were therefore obliged to meet in secret, and by night, in the
Churchyard of Kirkconnell, a romantic spot, surrounded by the river
Kirtle. During one of their private interviews, the jealous and despised
lover suddenly appeared on the opposite bank of the stream, and
levelled his carbine at the breast of his rival. Helen threw herself
before her lover, received in her bosom the bullet, and died in his arms.
A desperate and mortal combat ensued between Fleming and the
murderer, in which the latter was cut to pieces."

See Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, vol. ii. p. 317.

The original ballad—well known though it is—may be quoted as an
admirable illustration of the different types of poetic genius in dealing with
the same, or a kindred, theme.

I wish I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries;
O that I were where Helen lies,
On fair Kirkconnell lee!

Cursed be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
And died to succour me!

Oh think ye na my heart was sair,
When my love dropt down and spake nae mair!
There did she swoon wi' meikle care,
On fair Kirkconnell lee.

As I went down the water side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide,
On fair Kirkconnell lee—

I lighted down, my sword did draw,
I hacked him in pieces sma',
I hacked him in pieces sma',
For her sake that died for me.

Oh, Helen fair, beyond compare!
I'll weave a garland of thy hair
Shall bind my heart for evermair,
Until the day I dee!

Oh that I were where Helen lies!
Day and night on me she cries;
Out of my bed she bids me rise,
Says, "Haste, and come to me!"

O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
Were I with thee I would be blest,
Where thou lies low and takes thy rest,
On fair Kirkconnell lee.

I wish my grave were growing green,
A winding sheet drawn o'er my e'en,
And I in Helen's arms lying
On fair Kirkconnell lee.

I wish I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries,
And I am weary of the skies,
For her sake that died for me!

Ed.

Contents 1800
Main Contents

Hart-Leap Well
Composed 1800.—Published 1800

The Poem

Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles from Richmond
in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road which leads from Richmond to
Askrigg. Its name is derived from a remarkable chace, the memory of
which is preserved by the monuments spoken of in the second Part of the
following Poem, which monuments do now exist as I have there described
them.—W. W. 1800.

[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The first eight stanzas were composed
extempore one winter evening in the cottage, when, after having tired
myself with labouring at an awkward passage in The Brothers, I started
with a sudden impulse to this to get rid of the other, and finished it in a day
or two. My sister and I had passed the place a few weeks before in our wild
winter journey from Sockburn on the banks of the Tees to Grasmere. A
peasant whom we met near the spot told us the story so far as concerned the
name of the Well, and the Hart, and pointed out the Stones. Both the stones
and the well are objects that may easily be missed. The tradition by this
time may be extinct in the neighbourhood. The man who related it to us was
very old.—I. F.]

Included among the "Poems of the Imagination,"—Ed.

The Poem

Part the First
Part Second

Part the First

text variant footnoteline
number
The Knight had ridden down from Wensley
Moor
With the slow motion of a summer's cloud
And now, as he approached a vassal's door, 1
"Bring forth another horse!" he cried aloud.
5
"Another horse!"—That shout the vassal heard
And saddled his best Steed, a comely grey;
Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third
Which he had mounted on that glorious day.

Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes; 10
The horse and horseman are a happy pair;
But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies,
There is a doleful silence in the air.

A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall,
That as they galloped made the echoes roar; 15
But horse and man are vanished, one and all;
Such race, I think, was never seen before.

Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,
Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain: 2
Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their 20
kind,

Follow, and up the weary mountain strain. 3
4
The Knight hallooed, he cheered and chid
them on
With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern;
But breath and eyesight fail; and, one by one, 5 25
The dogs are stretched among the mountain
fern. 6

Where is the throng, the tumult of the race?
The bugles that so joyfully were blown?
—This chase it looks not like an earthly chase; 30
Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.

The poor Hart toils along the mountain-side;
I will not stop to tell how far he fled,
Nor will I mention by what death he died;
But now the Knight beholds him lying dead. 7 35

Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn;
He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy:
He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his 8
horn,
But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy. 9 40

Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned,
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat; 10
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned;
And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet.

Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched: 45
His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill, 11
And with the last deep groan his breath had
fetched 12
The waters of the spring were trembling still.
13
And now, too happy for repose or rest, 14 50

(Never had living man such joyful lot!) 15
Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and 16
west,
And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot.
17
And climbing up the hill—(it was at least 55
Four roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found
Three several hoof-marks which the hunted
Beast
Had left imprinted on the grassy ground.

Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, "Till now 60
Such sight was never seen by human eyes:
Three leaps have borne him from this lofty
brow,
Down to the very fountain where he lies.

"I'll build a pleasure-house upon this spot,
And a small arbour, made for rural joy; 18 65
'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot,
A place of love for damsels that are coy.

"A cunning artist will I have to frame
A basin for that fountain in the dell!
And they who do make mention of the same, 70
From this day forth, shall call it Hart-Leap
Well.

"And, gallant Stag! to make thy praises
known,
Another monument shall here be raised; 75
Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn stone,
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have
grazed.

"And, in the summer-time when days are long,
I will come hither with my Paramour; 19 80

And with the dancers and the minstrel's song
We will make merry in that pleasant bower.

"Till the foundations of the mountains fail
My mansion with its arbour shall endure;—
The joy of them who till the fields of Swale,
And them who dwell among the woods of 85
Ure!"

Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-
dead,
With breathless nostrils stretched above the
spring. 20 90
—Soon did the Knight perform what he had
said;
And far and wide the fame thereof did ring.

Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steered,
A cup of stone received the living well; 95
Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared,
And built a house of pleasure in the dell.

And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall
With trailing plants and trees were intertwined,
—
Which soon composed a little sylvan hall,
A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.

And thither, when the summer days were long
Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour;
And with the dancers and the minstrel's song
Made merriment within that pleasant bower.

The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time,
And his bones lie in his paternal vale.—
But there is matter for a second rhyme,
And I to this would add another tale.

Part the Second

text variant footnoteline
number
The moving accident is not my trade; A
To freeze the blood I have no ready arts:
'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade,
To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. 21 100

As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair,
It chanced that I saw standing in a dell
Three aspens at three corners of a square;
And one, not four yards distant, near a well.

What this imported I could ill divine: 105
And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop,
I saw three pillars standing in a line,—
The last stone-pillar on a dark hill-top.

The trees were grey, with neither arms nor
head: 110
Half wasted the square mound of tawny green;
So that you just might say, as then I said, 22
"Here in old time the hand of man hath been."
23
I looked upon the hill both far and near,
More doleful place did never eye survey; 115
It seemed as if the spring-time came not here,
And Nature here were willing to decay.
B
I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost,

When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired,
Came up the hollow:—him did I accost, 120
And what this place might be I then inquired.

The Shepherd stopped, and that same story
told
Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed.
"A jolly place," said he, "in times of old!
But something ails it now: the spot is curst. 125

"You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood
—
Some say that they are beeches, others elms—
These were the bower; and here a mansion
stood, 130
The finest palace of a hundred realms!

"The arbour does its own condition tell;
You see the stones, the fountain, and the
stream;
But as to the great Lodge! you might as well 135
Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.

"There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor
sheep,
Will wet his lips within that cup of stone;
And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep, 140
This water doth send forth a dolorous groan.

"Some say that here a murder has been done, 24
And blood cries out for blood: but, for my part,
I've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun,
That it was all for that unhappy Hart.
145
"What thoughts must through the creature's
brain have past!
Even from the topmost stone, upon the steep,