book v
. ll. 518-686.--Ed.]
[Footnote B:
"Chaucer's text is:
'And therwithalle his meynye for to blende A cause he fonde in toune for to go.'
'His meynye for to blende,' i. e. to keep his household or his domestics in the dark. But Wordsworth writes:
'And therewithal to cover his _intent_,'
possibly mistaking 'meynye' for 'meaning'."
(Professor Dowden, in the 'Transactions of the Wordsworth Society', No. III.)--Ed.]
[Footnote C:
"When Troilus sees the shut windows and desolate aspect of his lady's house, his face grows blanched, and he rides past in haste, so fast, says Wordsworth,
'That no wight his continuance espied.'
But in Chaucer he rides fast that his white face may not be noticed:
'And as God wolde he gan so faste ride That no wight of his countenance espied.'"
(Professor Dowden, in the 'Transactions of the Wordsworth Society', No. III.)--Ed.]
[Footnote D: In Chaucer "werreyed" = warred on = fought against.--Ed.]
[Footnote E:
"'Toward my death with wind I steer and sail.'
This is Urry's version, but Chaucer's text is,
'Toward my death, with wind _in stern_ I sail,'
Troilus' bark careering towards death, with all sails set, before a fierce stern-wind."
(Professor Dowden, in the 'Transactions of the Wordsworth Society', No. III.)--Ed.]
[Footnote F: In Chaucer "aboute" = around.--Ed.]
* * * * *
1802
The Lyrical Ballads and Sonnets which follow were written in 1802; but during that year Wordsworth continued mainly to work at 'The Excursion', as the following extracts from his sister's Journal indicate:
"Feb. 1, 1802.--William worked hard at 'The Pedlar,' and tired himself.
2nd Feb.--Wm. worked at 'The Pedlar.' I read aloud the 11th book of 'Paradise Lost'.
Thursday, 4th.--William thought a little about 'The Pedlar.'
5th.--Wm. sate up late at 'The Pedlar.'
7th.--W. was working at his poem. Wm. read 'The Pedlar,' thinking it was done. But lo! ... it was uninteresting, and must be altered."
Similar records occur each day in the Journal from the 10th to the 14th Feb. 1802.--Ed.
* * * * *
THE SAILOR'S MOTHER
Composed March 11th and 12th, 1802.--Published 1807
[Written in Town-end, Grasmere. I met this woman near the Wishing-gate, on the high road that then led from Grasmere to Ambleside. Her appearance was exactly as here described, and such was her account, nearly to the letter.--I.F.]
One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed.
One morning (raw it was and wet-- A foggy day in winter time) A Woman on [1] the road I met, Not old, though something past her prime: Majestic in her person, tall and straight; 5 And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.
The ancient spirit is not dead; Old times, thought I, are breathing there; Proud was I that my country bred Such strength, a dignity so fair: 10 She begged an alms, like one in poor estate; I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.
When from these lofty thoughts I woke, "What is it," said I, "that you bear, Beneath the covert of your Cloak, 15 Protected from this cold damp air?" [2] She answered, soon as she the question heard, "A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird."
And, thus continuing, she said, "I had a Son, who many a day 20 Sailed on the seas, but he is dead; [3] In Denmark he was cast away: And I have travelled weary miles to see If aught which he had owned might still remain for me. [4]
"The bird and cage they both were his: 25 'Twas my Son's bird; and neat and trim He kept it: many voyages The singing-bird had gone [5] with him; When last he sailed, he left the bird behind; From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind. [6] 30
"He to a fellow-lodger's care Had left it, to be watched and fed, And pipe its song in safety;--there [7] I found it when my Son was dead; And now, God help me for my little wit! 35 I bear [8] it with me, Sir;--he took so much delight in it."
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1815.
... in ... 1807.]
[Variant 2:
1836.
... I woke, With the first word I had to spare I said to her, "Beneath your Cloak What's that which on your arm you bear?" 1807.
"What treasure," said I,"do you bear, Beneath the covert of your Cloak Protected from the cold damp air?" 1820.]
[Variant 3:
1807.
"I had a Son,--the waves might roar, He feared them not, a Sailor gay! But he will cross the waves no more: 1820.
... cross the deep ... 1827.
The text of 1832 returns to that of 1807. [a]]
[Variant 4:
1827.
And I have been as far as Hull, to see What clothes he might have left, or other property. 1807.
And I have travelled far as Hull, to see 1815.
And I have travelled many miles to see If aught which he had owned might still remain for me. 1820.]
[Variant 5:
1845.
This Singing-bird hath gone ... 1807.
... had gone ... 1820.]
[Variant 6:
1827.
As it might be, perhaps, from bodings of his mind. 1807.]
[Variant 7:
1827.
Till he came back again; and there 1807.]
[Variant 8:
1827.
I trail ... 1807.]
* * * * *
SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Sub-Footnote a: This return, in 1832, to the original text of the poem was due to Barren Field's criticism, the justice of which Wordsworth admitted.--Ed.]
In the Wordsworth household this poem went by the name of "The Singing Bird" as well as 'The Sailor's Mother'.
"Thursday (March 11th).--A fine morning. William worked at the poem of 'The Singing Bird.' ..."
"Friday (March 12th).--William finished his poem of 'The Singing Bird.'"
(Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal.)--Ed.
* * * * *
ALICE FELL; OR, POVERTY [A]
Composed March 12th and 13th, 1802.--Published 1807
[Written to gratify Mr. Graham of Glasgow, brother of the author of 'The Sabbath'. He was a zealous coadjutor of Mr. Clarkson, and a man of ardent humanity. The incident had happened to himself, and he urged me to put it into verse, for humanity's sake. The humbleness, meanness if you like, of the subject, together with the homely mode of treating it, brought upon me a world of ridicule by the small critics, so that in policy I excluded it from many editions of my poems, till it was restored at the request of some of my friends, in particular my son-in-law, Edward Quillinan.--I.F.]
It was only excluded from the editions of 1820, 1827, and 1832. In the edition of 1807 it was placed amongst a group of "Poems composed during a Tour, chiefly on foot." In 1815, in 1836, and afterwards, it was included in the group "referring to the Period of Childhood."
In Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal, the following reference to this poem occurs:
"Feb. 16, 1802.--Mr. Graham said he wished William had been with him the other day. He was riding in a post-chaise, and he heard a strange cry that he could not understand. The sound continued, and he called to the chaise-driver to stop. It was a little girl that was crying as if her heart would burst. She had got up behind the chaise, and her cloak had been caught by the wheel, and was jammed in, and it hung there. She was crying after it, poor thing. Mr. Graham took her into the chaise, and her cloak was released from the wheel, but the child's misery did not cease, for her cloak was torn to rags. It had been a miserable cloak before; but she had no other, and it was the greatest sorrow that could befall her. Her name was Alice Fell. She had no parents, and belonged to the next town. At the next town Mr. G. left money to buy her a new cloak."
"Friday (March 12).--In the evening after tea William wrote 'Alice Fell'."
"Saturday Morning (13th March).--William finished 'Alice Fell'...."
Ed.
The post-boy drove with fierce career, For threatening clouds the moon had drowned; When, as we hurried on, my ear Was smitten with a startling sound. [1]
As if the wind blew many ways, 5 I heard the sound,--and more and more; It seemed to follow with the chaise, And still I heard it as before.
At length I to the boy called out; He stopped his horses at the word, 10 But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout, Nor aught else like it, could be heard.
The boy then smacked his whip, and fast The horses scampered through the rain; But, hearing soon upon the blast 15 The cry, I bade him halt again. [2]
Forthwith alighting on the ground, "Whence comes," said I, "this piteous moan?" [3] And there a little Girl I found, Sitting behind the chaise, alone. 20
"My cloak!" no other word she spake, But loud and bitterly she wept, As if her innocent heart would break; [4] And down from off her seat [5] she leapt.
"What ails you, child?"--she sobbed "Look here!" 25 I saw it in the wheel entangled, A weather-beaten rag as e'er From any garden scare-crow dangled.
There, twisted between nave and spoke, It hung, nor could at once be freed; 30 But our joint pains unloosed the cloak, [6] A miserable rag indeed! [7]
"And whither are you going, child, To-night along these lonesome ways?" "To Durham," answered she, half wild--35 "Then come with me into the chaise."
Insensible to all relief Sat the poor girl, and forth did send Sob after sob, as if her grief [8] Could never, never have an end. 40
"My child, in Durham do you dwell?" She checked herself in her distress, And said, "My name is Alice Fell; I'm fatherless and motherless.
"And I to Durham, Sir, belong." 45 Again, [9] as if the thought would choke Her very heart, her grief grew strong; And all was for her tattered cloak!
The chaise drove on; our journey's end Was nigh; and, sitting by my side, 50 As if she had lost [10] her only friend She wept, nor would be pacified.
Up to the tavern-door we post; Of Alice and her grief I told; And I gave money to the host, 55 To buy a new cloak for the old.
"And let it be of duffil grey, As warm a cloak as man can sell!" Proud creature was she the next day, The little orphan, Alice Fell! 60
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1845.
When suddenly I seem'd to hear A moan, a lamentable sound. 1807.]
[Variant 2:
1845.
And soon I heard upon the blast The voice, and bade .... 1807.]
[Variant 3:
1845.
Said I, alighting on the ground, "What can it be, this piteous moan?" 1807.
Forthwith alighted on the ground To learn what voice the piteous moan Had made, a little girl I found, C.]
[Variant 4:
1836.
"My Cloak!" the word was last and first, And loud and bitterly she wept, As if her very heart would burst; 1807.
"My cloak, my cloak" she cried, and spake No other word, but loudly wept, C.]
[Variant 5:
1815.
... off the Chaise ... 1807.]
[Variant 6:
1845.
'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke; Her help she lent, and with good heed Together we released the Cloak; 1807.
... between ... 1840.]
[Variant 7:
1836.
A wretched, wretched rag indeed! 1807.]
[Variant 8:
1845.
She sate like one past all relief; Sob after sob she forth did send In wretchedness, as if her grief 1807.]
[Variant 9:
1836.
And then, ... 1807.]
[Variant 10:
1836.
... she'd lost ... 1807.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: There was no sub-title in the edition of 1807.--Ed.]
Charles Lamb wrote to Wordsworth in 1815, referring to the revisions of this and other poems:
"I am glad that you have not sacrificed a verse to those scoundrels. I would not have had you offer up the poorest rag that lingered upon the stript shoulders of little Alice Fell, to have atoned all their malice; I would not have given 'em a red cloak to save their souls."
See 'Letters of Charles Lamb' (Ainger), vol. i. p. 283.--Ed.
* * * * *
BEGGARS
Composed March 13th and 14th, 1802.--Published 1807
[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Met, and described to me by my sister, near the quarry at the head of Rydal Lake, [A] a place still a chosen resort of vagrants travelling with their families.--I.F.]
The following are Dorothy Wordsworth's references to this poem in her Grasmere Journal. They justify the remark of the late Bishop of Lincoln,
"his poems are sometimes little more than poetical versions of her descriptions of the objects which she had seen, _and he treated them as seen by himself_."
(See 'Memoirs of Wordsworth', vol. i. pp. 180-1.)
"Saturday (March 13, 1802).--William wrote the poem of the Beggar Woman, taken from a woman whom I had seen in May (now nearly two years ago), when John and he were at Gallow Hill. I sat with him at intervals all the morning, and took down his stanzas. After tea I read W. the account I had written of the little boy belonging to the tall woman: and an unlucky thing it was, for he could not escape from those very words, and so he could not write the poem. He left it unfinished, and went tired to bed. In our walk from Rydal he had got warmed with the subject, and had half cast the poem."
"Sunday Morning (March 14).--William had slept badly. He got up at 9 o'clock, but before he rose he had finished the Beggar Boy."
The following is the "account" written in her Journal on Tuesday, May 23, 1800:
"A very tall woman, tall much beyond the measure of tall women, called at the door. She had on a very long brown cloak, and a very white cap, without bonnet. Her face was brown, but it had plainly once been fair. She led a little barefooted child about two years old by the hand, and said her husband, who was a tinker, was gone before with the other children. I gave her a piece of bread. Afterwards, on my road to Ambleside, beside the bridge at Rydal, I saw her husband sitting at the roadside, his two asses standing beside him, and the two young children at play upon the grass. The man did not beg. I passed on, and about a quarter of a mile farther I saw two boys before me, one about ten, the other about eight years old, at play, chasing a butterfly. They were wild figures, not very ragged, but without shoes and stockings. The hat of the elder was wreathed round with yellow flowers; the younger, whose hat was only a rimless crown, had stuck it round with laurel leaves. They continued at play till I drew very near, and then they addressed me with the begging cant and the whining voice of sorrow. I said, 'I served your mother this morning' (the boys were so like the woman who had called at our door that I could not be mistaken). 'O,' says the elder, 'you could not serve my mother, for she's dead, and my father's in at the next town; he's a potter.' I persisted in my assertion, and that I would give them nothing. Says the elder, 'Come, let's away,' and away they flew like lightning. They had, however, sauntered so long in their road that they did not reach Ambleside before me, and I saw them go up to Mathew Harrison's house with their wallet upon the elder's shoulder, and creeping with a beggar's complaining foot. On my return through Ambleside I met, in the street, the mother driving her asses, in the two panniers of one of which were the two little children, whom she was chiding and threatening with a wand with which she used to drive on her asses, while the little things hung in wantonness over the pannier's edge. The woman had told me in the morning that she was of Scotland, which her accent fully proved, and that she had lived (I think at Wigtown); that they could not keep a house, and so they travelled."
This was one of the "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed.
She had a tall man's height or more; Her face from summer's noontide heat No bonnet shaded, but she wore A mantle, to her very feet Descending with a graceful flow, 5 And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen snow. [1]
Her skin was of Egyptian brown: Haughty, as if her eye had seen Its own light to a distance thrown, She towered, fit person for a Queen [2] 10 To lead [3] those ancient Amazonian files; Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian isles.
Advancing, forth she stretched her hand And begged an alms with doleful plea That ceased not; on our English land 15 Such woes, I knew, could never be; [4] And yet a boon I gave her, for the creature Was beautiful to see--a weed of glorious feature. [B]
I left her, and pursued my way; And soon before me did espy 20 A pair of little Boys at play, Chasing a crimson butterfly; The taller followed with his hat in hand, Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land. [5]
The other wore a rimless crown 25 With leaves of laurel stuck about; And, while both [6] followed up and down, Each whooping with a merry shout, In their fraternal features I could trace Unquestionable lines of that wild Suppliant's face. [7] 30
Yet _they_, so blithe of heart, seemed fit [8] For finest tasks of earth or air: Wings let them have, and they might flit Precursors to [9] Aurora's car, Scattering fresh flowers; though happier far, I ween, 35 To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock and level green.
They dart across my path--but lo, [10] Each ready with a plaintive whine! Said I, "not half an hour ago Your Mother has had alms of mine." 40 "That cannot be," one answered--"she is dead:"-- I looked reproof--they saw--but neither hung his head. [11]
"She has been dead, Sir, many a day."-- "Hush, boys! you're telling me a lie; [12] It was your Mother, as I say!" 45 And, in the twinkling of an eye, "Come! come!" cried one, and without more ado, Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew! [13] [C]
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1845.
She had a tall Man's height, or more; No bonnet screen'd her from the heat; A long drab-colour'd Cloak she wore, A Mantle reaching to her feet: What other dress she had I could not know; Only she wore a Cap that was as white as snow. 1807.
Before me as the Wanderer stood, No bonnet screened her from the heat; Nor claimed she service from the hood Of a blue mantle, to her feet Depending with a graceful flow; Only she wore a cap pure as unsullied snow. 1827.
Before my eyes a Wanderer stood; Her face from summer's noon-day heat Nor bonnet shaded, nor the hood Of that blue cloak which to her feet Depended with a graceful flow; Only she wore a cap as white as new-fallen snow. 1832.
No bonnet shaded, nor the hood Of the blue cloak ... 1836.
She had a tall man's height or more; And while, 'mid April's noontide heat, A long blue cloak the vagrant wore, A mantle reaching to her feet, No bonnet screened her lofty brow, Only she wore a cap as white as new-fallen snow. C.
She had a tall man's height or more; A garment for her stature meet, And for a vagrant life, she wore A mantle reaching to her feet. Nor hood, nor bonnet screened her lofty brow, C.]
[Variant 2:
1827.
In all my walks, through field or town, Such Figure had I never seen: Her face was of Egyptian brown: Fit person was she for a Queen, 1807.
Such figure had I never seen In all my walks through field or town, Fit person seemed she for a Queen, C.]
[Variant 3:
1836.
To head ... 1807.]
[Variant 4:
1845.
Before me begging did she stand, Pouring out sorrows like a sea; Grief after grief:--on English Land Such woes I knew could never be; 1807.
Her suit no faltering scruples checked; Forth did she pour, in current free, Tales that could challenge no respect But from a blind credulity; 1827.
She begged an alms; no scruple checked The current of her ready plea, Words that could challenge ... 1832.
Before me begging did she stand And boldly urged a doleful plea, Grief after grief, on English land Such woes I knew could never be. C.]
[Variant 5:
1807.
With yellow flowers around, as with a golden band. C.]
[Variant 6:
1827.
And they both ... 1807.]
[Variant 7:
1820.
Two Brothers seem'd they, eight and ten years old; And like that Woman's face as gold is like to gold. 1807.]
[Variant 8: This stanza was added in the edition of 1827.]
[Variant 9:
1836.
Precursors of ... 1827.]
[Variant 10:
1827.
They bolted on me thus, and lo! 1807.]
[Variant 11:
1827.
"Nay but I gave her pence, and she will buy you bread." 1807.]
[Variant 12:
1845.
"Sweet Boys, you're telling me a lie; 1807.
... Heaven hears that rash reply; 1827.
The text of 1807 was resumed in 1836.]
[Variant 13:
1827.
... they both together flew. 1807.
... the thoughtless vagrants flew. C.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: The spot is easily identified, as the quarry still exists.--Ed.]
[Footnote B: In the MS. of this poem (1807) the words, "a weed of glorious feature," are placed within inverted commas. The quotation is from Spenser's 'Muiopotmos' ('The Fate of the Butterflie'), stanza 27; and is important, as it affects the meaning of the phrase. It is curious that Wordsworth dropped the commas in his subsequent editions.--Ed.]
[Footnote C: In Wordsworth's letter to Barron Field, of 24th October 1828 (see the volumes containing his correspondence), a detailed account is given of the reasons which had led him to alter the text of this poem.--Ed.]
* * * * *
SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING,
COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER
Composed 1817.--Published 1827
In the edition of 1840 the year assigned to this Sequel is 1817. It does not occur in the edition of 1820, but was first published in 1827. It was one of the "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed.
Where are they now, those wanton Boys? For whose free range the dædal earth Was filled with animated toys, And implements of frolic mirth; With tools for ready wit to guide; 5 And ornaments of seemlier pride, More fresh, more bright, than princes wear; For what one moment flung aside, Another could repair; What good or evil have they seen 10 Since I their pastime witnessed here, Their daring wiles, their sportive cheer? I ask--but all is dark between! [1]
They met me in a genial hour, When universal nature breathed 15 As with the breath of one sweet flower,-- A time to overrule the power Of discontent, and check the birth Of thoughts with better thoughts at strife, The most familiar bane of life 20 Since parting Innocence bequeathed Mortality to Earth! Soft clouds, the whitest of the year, Sailed through the sky--the brooks ran clear; The lambs from rock to rock were bounding; 25 With songs the budded groves resounding; And to my heart are still endeared The thoughts with which it then was cheered; [2] The faith which saw that gladsome pair Walk through the fire with unsinged hair. 30 Or, if such faith [3] must needs deceive-- Then, Spirits of beauty and of grace, [A] Associates in that eager chase; Ye, who within the blameless mind Your favourite seat of empire find--35 Kind Spirits! may we not believe That they, so happy and so fair Through your sweet influence, and the care Of pitying Heaven, at least were free From touch of _deadly_ injury? 40 Destined, whate'er their earthly doom, For mercy and immortal bloom?
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
Spirits of beauty and of grace! Associates in that eager chase; Ye, by a course to nature true, The sterner judgment can subdue; And waken a relenting smile When she encounters fraud or guile; And sometimes ye can charm away The inward mischief, or allay, Ye, who within the blameless mind Your favourite seat of empire find!
The above is a separate stanza in the editions of 1827 and 1832. Only the first two and the last two lines of this stanza were retained in the edition of 1836, and were then transferred to the place they occupy in the final text.--Ed.]
[Variant 2:
1836.
And to my heart is still endeared The faith with which ... 1827.]
[Variant 3:
1836.
... such thoughts ... 1827.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: This and the three following lines were placed here in the edition of 1836. See note to the previous page.--Ed.]
* * * * *
TO A BUTTERFLY (#1)
Composed March 14, 1802.--Published 1807
[Written in the Orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. My sister and I were parted immediately after the death of our mother, who died in 1778, both being very young.--I. F.]
One of the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."--Ed.
Stay near me--do not take thy flight! A little longer stay in sight! Much converse do I find in thee, Historian of my infancy! Float near me; do not yet depart! 5 Dead times revive in thee: Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art! A solemn image to my heart, My father's family!
Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days, 10 The time, when, in our childish plays, My sister Emmeline [A] and I Together chased the butterfly! A very hunter did I rush Upon the prey:--with leaps and springs 15 I followed on from brake to bush; But she, God love her! feared to brush The dust from off its wings.
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: In the MS. for the edition of 1807 the transcriber (not W. W.) wrote "Dorothy." This, Wordsworth erased, putting in "Emmeline."--Ed.]
The text of this poem was never changed. It refers to days of childhood spent at Cockermouth before 1778. "My sister Emmeline" is Dorothy Wordsworth. In her Grasmere Journal, of Sunday, March 14, 1802, the following occurs:
"While we were at breakfast he" (William) "wrote the poem 'To a Butterfly'. He ate not a morsel, but sate with his shirt neck unbuttoned, and his waistcoat open when he did it. The thought first came upon him as we were talking about the pleasure we both always felt at the sight of a butterfly. I told him that I used to chase them a little, but that I was afraid of brushing the dust off their wings, and did not catch them. He told me how he used to kill all the white ones when he went to school, because they were Frenchmen. Mr. Simpson came in just as he was finishing the poem. After he was gone, I wrote it down, and the other poems, and I read them all over to him.... William began to try to alter 'The Butterfly', and tired himself."
Compare the later poem 'To a Butterfly' (#2) (April 20), p. 297.--Ed.
* * * * *
THE EMIGRANT MOTHER
Composed March 16th and 17th, 1802.--Published 1807
[Suggested by what I have noticed in more than one French fugitive during the time of the French Revolution. If I am not mistaken the lines were composed at Sockburn when I was on a visit to Mary and her brothers.--I. F.]
In the editions of 1807 and 1815, this poem had no distinctive title; but in the Wordsworth circle, it was known from the year 1802 as 'The Emigrant Mother', and at least one copy was transcribed with this title in 1802. It was first published under that name in 1820. It was revised and altered in 1820, 1827, 1832, 1836, and more especially in 1845.
In Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal the following entries occur:
"Tuesday (March 16).--William went up into the orchard, and wrote a part of 'The Emigrant Mother'."
"Wednesday.--William went up into the orchard, and finished the poem.... I went and sate with W., and walked backwards and forwards in the orchard till dinner-time. He read me his poem."
This poem was included among those "founded on the Affections."--Ed.
Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned In which a Lady driven from France did dwell; The big and lesser griefs with which she mourned, In friendship she to me would often tell.
This Lady, [1] dwelling upon British [2] ground, 5 Where she was childless, daily would [3] repair To a poor neighbouring cottage; as I found, For sake of a young Child whose home was there.
Once having seen her clasp with fond embrace This Child, I chanted to myself a lay, 10 Endeavouring, in our English tongue, to trace Such things as she unto the Babe might say: [4] And thus, from what I heard and knew, or guessed, [5] My song the workings of her heart expressed.
I "Dear Babe, thou daughter of another, 15 One moment let me be thy mother! An infant's face and looks are thine And sure a mother's heart is mine: Thy own dear mother's far away, At labour in the harvest field: 20 Thy little sister is at play;-- What warmth, what comfort would it yield To my poor heart, if thou wouldst be One little hour a child to me!
II "Across the waters I am come, 25 And I have left a babe at home: A long, long way of land and sea! Come to me--I'm no enemy: I am the same who at thy side Sate yesterday, and made a nest 30 For thee, sweet Baby!--thou hast tried, Thou know'st the pillow of my breast; Good, good art thou:--alas! to me Far more than I can be to thee.
III "Here, little Darling, dost thou lie; 35 An infant thou, a mother I! Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears; Mine art thou--spite of these my tears. Alas! before I left the spot, My baby and its dwelling-place; 40 The nurse said to me, 'Tears should not Be shed upon an infant's face, It was unlucky'--no, no, no; No truth is in them who say so!
IV "My own dear Little-one will sigh, 45 Sweet Babe! and they will let him die. 'He pines,' they'll say, 'it is his doom, And you may see his hour is come.' Oh! had he but thy cheerful smiles, Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay, 50 Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles, And countenance like a summer's day, They would have hopes of him;--and then I should behold his face again!
V "'Tis gone--like dreams that we forget; 55 There was a smile or two--yet--yet [6] I can remember them, I see The smiles, worth all the world to me. Dear Baby! I must lay thee down; Thou troublest me with strange alarms; 60 Smiles hast thou, bright [7] ones of thy own; I cannot keep thee in my arms; For they confound me;--where--where is That last, that sweetest smile of his? [8]
VI "Oh! how I love thee!--we will stay 65 Together here this one half day. My sister's child, who bears my name, From France to sheltering England came; [9] She with her mother crossed the sea; The babe and mother near me dwell: 70 Yet does my yearning heart to thee Turn rather, though I love her well: [10] Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here! Never was any child more dear!
VII "--I cannot help it; ill intent 75 I've none, my pretty Innocent! I weep--I know they do thee wrong, These tears--and my poor idle tongue. Oh, what a kiss was that! my cheek How cold it is! but thou art good; So 80 Thine eyes are on me--they would speak, I think, to help me if they could. [11] Blessings upon that soft, warm face, [12] My heart again is in its place!
VIII
"While thou art mine, my little Love, 85 This cannot be a sorrowful grove; Contentment, hope, and mother's glee, [13] I seem to find them all in thee: [14] Here's grass to play with, here are flowers; I'll call thee by my darling's name; 90 Thou hast, I think, a look of ours, Thy features seem to me the same; His little sister thou shalt be; And, when once more my home I see, I'll tell him many tales of Thee." 95
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1807.
This Mother ... MS.]
[Variant 2:
1845.
... English ... 1807.]
[Variant 3:
1827.
... did ... 1807.]
[Variant 4:
1845.
Once did I see her clasp the Child about, And take it to herself; and I, next day, Wish'd in my native tongue to fashion out Such things as she unto this Child might say: 1807.
Once did I see her take with fond embrace This Infant to herself; and I, next day, Endeavoured in my native tongue to trace Such things as she unto the Child might say: 1820.
Once, having seen her take with fond embrace This Infant to herself, I framed a lay, Endeavouring, in my native tongue, to trace 1827.]
[Variant 5:
1845.
And thus, from what I knew, had heard, and guess'd, 1807.]
[Variant 6:
1820.
'Tis gone--forgotten--let me do My best--there was a smile or two, 1807.]
[Variant 7:
1827.
... sweet ... 1807.]
[Variant 8:
1836.
For they confound me: as it is, I have forgot those smiles of his. 1807.
For they bewilder me--even now _His_ smiles are lost,--I know not how! 1820.
By those bewildering glances crost In which the light of his is lost. [a] 1827.]
[Variant 9:
1827.
From France across the Ocean came; 1807.]
[Variant 10:
1845.
My Darling, she is not to me What thou art! though I love her well: 1807.
But to my heart she cannot be 1836.]
[Variant 11:
1807.
And I grow happy while I speak, Kiss, kiss me, Baby, thou art good. MS.]
[Variant 12:
1820.
... that quiet face, 1807.]
[Variant 13:
1807.
A Joy, a Comforter thou art; Sunshine and pleasure to my heart; And love and hope and mother's glee, MS.]
[Variant 14:
1807.
My yearnings are allayed by thee, My heaviness is turned to glee. MS.]
* * * * *
SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Sub-Footnote a: In a letter to Barron Field (24th Oct. 1828), Wordsworth says that his substitution of the text of 1827 for that of 1807, was due to the objections of Coleridge.--Ed.]
* * * * *
TO THE CUCKOO
Composed 1802.--Published 1807
[Composed in the Orchard at Town-end, 1804.--I.F.]
One of the "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed.
O blithe New-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice? [A]
While I am lying on the grass 5 Thy twofold shout I hear, From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off, and near. [1]
Though babbling only to the Vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, 10 Thou bringest unto me a tale [2] Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, [3] 15 A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. 20
To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen.
And I can listen to thee yet; 25 Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again.
O blessed Bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be 30 An unsubstantial, faery place; That is fit home for Thee!
* * * * *
VARIANTS ON THE TEXT
[Variant 1:
1845.
While I am lying on the grass, I hear thy restless shout: From hill to hill it seems to pass, About, and all about! 1807.
Thy loud note smites my ear!-- From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off and near! 1815.
Thy loud note smites my ear! It seems to fill the whole air's space, At once far off and near! 1820.
Thy twofold shout I hear, That seems to fill the whole air's space, As loud far off as near. [a] 1827.]
[Variant 2:
1827.
To me, no Babbler with a tale Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou tellest, Cuckoo! in the vale 1807.
I hear thee babbling to the Vale Of sunshine and of flowers; And unto me thou bring'st a tale 1815.
But unto me .... 1820.]
[Variant 3:
1836.
No Bird; but an invisible Thing, 1807.]
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A:
"_Vox et praterea nihil_. See Lipsius 'of the Nightingale.'"
Barron Field.--Ed.
* * * * *
SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Sub-Footnote a: Barron Field remonstrated with Wordsworth about this reading, and he agreed to restore that of 1820; saying, at the same time, that he had "made the change to record a fact observed by himself."--Ed.]
In the chronological lists of his poems, published in 1815 and 1820, Wordsworth left a blank opposite this one, in the column containing the year of composition. From 1836 to 1849, the date assigned by him was 1804. But in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal the following occurs under date Tuesday, 22nd March 1802:
"A mild morning. William worked at the Cuckoo poem.... At the closing in of day, went to sit in the orchard. William came to me, and walked backwards and forwards. W. repeated the poem to me. I left him there; and in 20 minutes he came in, rather tired with attempting to write."
"Friday (March 25).--A beautiful morning. William worked at 'The Cuckoo'."
It is therefore evident that it belongs to the year 1802; although it may have been altered and readjusted in 1804. The connection of the seventh stanza of this poem with the first of that which follows it, "My heart leaps up," etc., and of both with the 'Ode, Intimations of Immortality' (vol. viii.), is obvious.--Ed.
* * * * *
"MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I BEHOLD"
Composed March 26, 1802.--Published 1807
[Written at Town-end, Grasmere.--I.F.]
One of the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood." In 1807 it was No. 4 of the series called "Moods of my own Mind."--Ed.
My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, 5 Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man; [A] And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
* * * * *
FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: Compare Milton's phrase in 'Paradise Regained' (